Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 765: Honors in the Aftermath of Victory
Chapter 765: Honors in the Aftermath of Victory
Erich sat there smoking his cigarette in the tropical rain that threatened to wash away the flames of the battle that continued to wage on.
And though the intensity of the fighting continued, it would have to do so without his men. And the men who fought by his side.
Stretched brought men barely old enough to be considered as such out of the rubble. Some still breathing, others zipped up in body bags.
Nobody wanted to say it, but the operation had been Pyrrhic at best. They had opened a path for the 5TH Combined Arms division to push straight into Manilla, preventing reinforcements from arriving to the front.
And they had done so at great cost. Over half of the Battalion’s 800 men were Wounded, Killed, or Missing in Action. And while the majority of that half would survive, many of them would never be able to lift another rifle, or march to the beat of cadence again in their lives.
Erich however wasn’t angry, he was utterly incapable of feeling anything at this moment as he watched man after man be dragged out of the combat zone, and evacuated. Either to be buried, or hopefully saved.
It was not just Germany’s sons who were being pulled out of rubble, and evacuated, Thailand had sent their own airborne forces in support of Germany’s.
And though they had no armor to aid in the battle, each man had proven a lion fighting against jackals.
However, there was one face that caught Erich’s notice, forcing his forlorn gaze back into reality.
The medics checked the pulse of the man on the stretcher, and sighed.
“Mark it, 03:52 Time of Death, what do his tags say?”
Erich stood up and approached the two medics carrying the Thai soldier who was so badly wounded he could barely be recognized.
“Major Kiet… I didn’t know his full name, but without him and his men none of us would be here to identify him… Put my name down as giving him a recommendation for an Iron Cross.”
The medics were shocked that a German OberstLeutnant would recommend such a thing for a foreign ally. But they did not question it, instead the higher ranked among the two.
“Right… and what is your name, Oberstleutnant? The coroner will need it for the paperwork….”
Erich flicked his spent cigarette into the muddy street, taking one last look at the fallen Thai Officer, and turned about face.
“Erich von Zehntner….”
The Medics damn near froze on their spot when they realized the man was the Reichsmarschall’s grandson, and a Prince.
By the time Erich vanished into the rain, swallowed by stretcher teams and the pale glow of burning buildings, the shape of the battle had already hardened into inevitability.
Manila was lost.
Word spread through the districts like a cold wind:
the 5th Combined Arms Division had broken through the American defensive belt at the Quezon outskirts.
E-50s pushed in wedge formation, crushing barricades beneath their tracks, while E-25 tank destroyers hunted surviving Liberty tanks like wolves tracking wounded elk.
By 03:30, the German advance met Erich’s battered airborne perimeter.
By 04:30, the Americans at the river crossings collapsed under converging fire.
By dawn, white flags and burning wrecks marked every major boulevard.
The Americans didn’t retreat, they fled. Toward the ferries, the remaining landing craft, and any beach not yet under German guns.
Filipino auxiliaries broke first, half surrendered outright, while others abandoned uniforms entirely, melting into the countryside, weapons hidden under church floorboards and empty rice sacks.
By 06:20, Manila, America’s proud centerpiece of its Pacific ambitions, was back in foreign hands, this time not under a colonial flag but under the shadow of an empire that did not want the city.
It only wanted the Americans gone, and it had gotten what it wanted.
When the sun finally rose above the Pacific horizon, it shone not on triumphant banners, but on medevac lines stretching hundreds of meters, broken buildings sagging like exhausted men, and battalions so mauled that even their victories tasted like grave-soil.
The Battle of Manila was over.
But the war in the islands was only beginning.
—-
Far from the smoke of Manila, snow-dusted peaks framed the capital of the Grand Principality of Tyrol, Innsbruck’s air was knife-cold, clean, indifferent to the world’s violence.
Inside his private office, Reichsmarschall sat alone.
Bruno von Zehntner stared at the stack of casualty lists, commendation requests, and award proposals spread across his desk.
The room was quiet save for the scratch of his fountain pen and the faint ticking of the ornate Tyrolean clock on the wall.
He had not slept, nor would he until the paperwork was finished. After all, his grandson’s battalion was listed in the fourth folder.
Bruno’s eyes lingered on it longer than the others, but only by seconds. Duty permitted no more indulgence than that.
A knock at the door.
“Enter.”
Kaiser Wilhelm II stepped inside, not with pomp, not with ceremony, but with the slow, deliberate tread of an old lion whose bones had begun to protest the weight of empire. He dismissed his attendants and closed the door himself.
“Bruno.”
Bruno forced himself to stand, and welcome the sovereign into his home.
“Your Majesty.”
“No need for titles at this hour,” the Kaiser muttered. “I suspect neither of us has slept.”
Bruno collapsed into his seat, set his pen down and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Manila is ours,” he said simply.
“I heard. And the cost?”
“Acceptable,” Bruno answered, though his jaw tightened. “The strategic objective is met. The Americans are forced to withdraw to the other islands. Their logistics are fractured. We maintain momentum.”
He was silent for a few seconds, staring at the folder on his desk that included the full casualty reports.
” But the cost to our Airborne units were excessive. I have my men working overtime to fix the flaws in our doctrine and equipment that revealed themselves in the battle. The Americans adapted quicker than we expected. I won’t allow them to catch me off guard a second time….”
Wilhelm nodded once, then his eyes drifted to the stack of award recommendations.
“I assume Erich’s name appears somewhere in there.”
Bruno remained silent.
Wilhelm sighed.
“Things were so much simpler before your reforms, when monarchs could grant their children any number of awards simply by the position of their birth. Believe me, I do not envy you my friend.”
Bruno slid a folder across the desk.
Inside:
House Order of Hohenzollern, Knight’s Cross, with Swords, Recommended by His Imperial Majesty Wilhelm II, for exemplary leadership under catastrophic conditions, for the preservation of German airborne integrity, and for actions decisively enabling the retaking of Manila.
Wilhelm spoke first.
“I believe he deserves this.”
Bruno’s answer was cool, measured, almost surgical.
“He does.”
“Yet you hesitate.”
Bruno opened another folder, this one bearing the sigil of Tyrol: St. Michael the Archangel, sword raised, wings spread.
Order of Saint Michael the Archangel, Knight’s Cross, with Swords. Awarded for valor in command while facing overwhelming odds, Awarded for personal heroism above and beyond rank obligation.
Bruno tapped the page.
“This,” he said quietly, “is what I believe Erich should receive.”
Wilhelm raised a brow.
“A house order? Your own?”
Bruno shook his head.
“I understand that I myself was awarded the same honor by you years ago during the Great War. And that in many cases this very honor is used to distinguish the jump from the Iron Cross First Class to Pour le Merite. However… Erich’s reputation until now has largely been shadowed by my own infamy…. If you were to grant him your House Order, many would say the boy is being fast tracked because he shares my name….”
Wilhelm leaned back in his chair.
“Whereas if you present him with your order, an honor you refused to award yourself, no man can accuse you of favoritism.”
“Precisely,” Bruno said.
“And Erich will understand the distinction?”
Bruno’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly.
“He already does. The Order of St. Michael is not a trinket. It is worn by a select few from within Tyrol’s borders, and by even fewer whose blood runs with mine.”
Wilhelm nodded slowly, accepting the logic, and stood up as he headed for the doorway.
“I will approve your decision,” he said. “Let the world see that the Reich honors its heroes without turning families into dynasties of privilege.”
Bruno inclined his head.
“Thank you, Majesty.”
Wilhelm turned toward the door, then paused.
“And Bruno?”
“Yes, Majesty?”
“Your grandson fought like a Lion of Tyrol.”
Bruno’s expression did not change, but something in his shoulders eased, just barely. After the Kaiser departed, Bruno sat back down and gathered both folders.
The Royal House of Hohenzollern.
The Order of Saint Michael the Archangel.
He placed one atop the other.
Then he stamped the Tyrolean seal and slid the signed document into the pile awaiting dispatch.
Outside his window, snow began to fall… quiet, relentless, indifferent.
Half a world away, Erich lit another cigarette in the ruins of Manila, unaware of the honor that now waited for him. He would continue to the hold the line, and his grandfather would do the same.
