Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 727: No Longer Untouchable
Chapter 727: No Longer Untouchable
The chamber of the Canadian House of Commons had never sounded so hollow.
Outside, the winter rain swept down in gray sheets over Parliament Hill, drowning out the usual clatter of reporters and lobbyists.
Inside, every word hung too heavy to be spoken.
The Prime Minister sat at the head of the long mahogany table, flanked by ministers who looked less like leaders and more like men waiting for the verdict of their own trial.
The first reports from Newfoundland had arrived before dawn, scrambled, contradictory, half-coded messages intercepted by naval listening posts in Halifax.
By sunrise, the full truth had reached Ottawa.
The naval base at St. John’s was gone.
The Avalon Fleet, gone.
Thousands of sailors… gone.
No one wanted to say the word, but it was already etched in the air: annihilation.
The Minister of Defense, his tie crooked and his eyes bloodshot, slammed a folder shut.
“Gentlemen, we are not talking about an isolated raid. The Luftstreitkräfte didn’t just test our defenses… they erased them. This was a deliberate strike on our homeland.”
Across the table, the Foreign Minister muttered bitterly, “Homeland. You mean the newest front line.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Maps were unrolled across the table, grainy aerial photos, reconnaissance sketches from surviving patrol aircraft, and one blurry image taken from the periphery of the storm: the smoldering carcass of the Naval Base once known as HMCS Avalon.
The Prime Minister leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Washington assured us this was impossible. They said the Reich’s reach ended at the Atlantic.”
“And Washington,” the Defense Minister snapped, “lied.”
The words dropped like lead.
Around him, aides froze, unsure if they should record the statement or pretend it hadn’t been said.
He continued, voice low.
“We were told American air supremacy, radar coverage, and the Atlantic fleet would shield us. That any German attempt to cross the ocean would die in the water. And yet here we are… our fleet burning in its own harbor.”
One of the Quebec ministers, the liaison to the French government-in-exile, rose abruptly.
“Then perhaps you should not have relied on American promises,” he hissed. “Paris relied on them once, and look what became of them.”
The room turned.
The man’s accent was thick with resentment, his tone the brittle hauteur of a government that had fled its own ashes.
He adjusted his gloves and continued. “We told you the Germans would strike beyond their sphere the moment they could. And now they have proved it. They can cross the ocean, bomb our cities, and burn our fleets whenever they please.”
The Prime Minister’s patience snapped. “Enough, Henri. The Republic fell in a week. You are here because we gave its survivors refuge, and you are their liaison, not because you’re in any position to lecture us.”
The Quebec minister gave a cold, humorless smile. “And yet it would appear we are all about to burn together.”
Silence. Rain drummed against the windows.
A young aide entered and whispered something to the communications director.
He paled, then approached the table. “Sir… our liaison to United States command just confirmed…Roosevelt has issued a statement from Washington.”
“Play it.”
The man turned the wireless receiver on. A thin crackle filled the air before the President’s voice emerged, measured, confident, the kind of tone that had once inspired calm.
“To our Canadian brothers and allies: the attack upon Newfoundland was a grave and cowardly act. The United States stands with Canada in its defense. Reinforcements have already been dispatched to Halifax and Ottawa. Together, we will ensure that freedom never falters.”
When the broadcast ended, no one spoke for a full minute. Then the Minister of Finance let out a hollow laugh. “Freedom never falters,” he muttered. “Tell that to the sailors at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
The Prime Minister rubbed his temples. “How many divisions can Washington actually send?”
“Three, maybe four,” said the Defense Minister. “All reserve infantry. Their main army’s tied down in North Africa. They’re fighting for control over sand while we burn.”
The Quebec minister stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t understand. This was not a tactical strike. It was a message. The Reich is demonstrating reach… psychological dominance. They could have hit Halifax, or even here, but they chose St. John’s to prove they can pick a target on our own soil and destroy it at will.”
He turned toward the windows, watching the gray spires of the capital blur through the rain.
“France thought that the Rhine and the low countries would protect her once. Distance is no defense anymore.”
The Defense Minister shifted in his chair, trying to keep his voice steady. “We still have allies. Britain’s government-in-exile, the Americans…”
“Britain’s shadow,” the Quebec minister interrupted. “And an America too frightened to admit it cannot protect its own hemisphere. They dig trenches in Morocco while preparing to stage an invasion into Europe that will only result in their utter annihilation away from home.”
He gestured to the map. “Berlin knows the truth already: the Atlantic is no longer an ocean, it’s a highway. And we’ve built no barricades.”
The Prime Minister looked around the table, faces pale, eyes hollow. “What are our options?”
The Chief of the Naval Staff, still in his wet coat, answered grimly. “We can rebuild… slowly. But we’ll need American shipyards, American engineers, American money. And if the Germans invade North Africa, there won’t be much left to spare.”
“And if we refuse to rely on them?”
“Then we stand alone.”
Outside, a thunderclap rolled over the city, rattling the windows.
For a fleeting instant, every man in the room imagined it wasn’t thunder, but the echo of distant bombs.
—
That evening, the lights of Ottawa burned late.
In a smaller, quieter office, the Prime Minister and his deputy stood before a map of the North Atlantic, the smudge of Newfoundland marked by a black cross.
“They said the Germans couldn’t cross the sea,” the deputy whispered.
“They’ve crossed worse,” the Prime Minister replied.
He moved to the window, looking out over the city.
The rain-slicked streets, the anxious crowds clutching newspapers that screamed ST. JOHN’S DESTROYED! GERMAN RAID ON CANADA!
The words looked surreal in print, like a prophecy made flesh.
In the distance, the clock tower struck ten.
“We can’t win this,” the deputy said quietly. “Not like this. Not with their reach and our dependence on Washington.”
The Prime Minister didn’t answer immediately. He was thinking of Roosevelt’s confident voice over the radio, soothing, paternal, hollow. Thinking of all the promises made across the ocean.
Finally, he said, “Then perhaps we stop pretending this is our war to win. Canada cannot be the shield of another empire’s pride.”
The deputy frowned. “You’re suggesting?”
“Nothing yet. But if Berlin can strike us at will, and Washington can only offer condolences, we may have to decide whether dying for another nation’s cause is worth the honor it costs.”
Outside, the rain eased into mist.
But the air in Ottawa felt colder than ever… thinner, more fragile, as if the Atlantic winds themselves were whispering a truth the politicians dared not speak:
The New World was no longer untouchable.
And every man in Parliament knew, before the night was out, that this war had finally come home.
