"I have been a farmer's son my whole life."
That was what Tom always used to say when somebody asked him where he came from. His world had always been a small farm in Northern Wales. Mud, sheep, and rain.
"Where are you from, ginger?" a large, burly yet young soldier asked him. He sat opposite Tom inside the shaking military truck.
"I am from Wales," Tom answered, his body vibrating with the rumble of the engine. "Farmer's son."
"Great. I am Michael." The man stretched out a hand thick with calluses. "I was a carpenter before this. Worked at my father's shop."
Tom nodded and looked around. It was a strange group. Everything had started when the local police came to his village and called on the people to join the Home Guard. His father had decided to send his youngest son. Tom's three older brothers were already in the regular army. Even though he was only seventeen, they had accepted him.
"Ferguson," Michael said quietly and pointed at a middle-aged man holding an ancient-looking rifle. Only two fingers remained on his right hand. "I think he said he survived the Great War. He is a good commander I think."
"So this is what it means when an entire country mobilizes," Tom whispered.
The truck suddenly halted. The brakes screeched.
Ferguson climbed out of the truck with surprising agility. He checked the surroundings carefully, his old rifle held tight. They were in an old village.
Ferguson raised his hand. "Stay low and stay quiet. The enemy is just beyond that ridge."
Tom's heart hammered in his chest as he climbed out of the truck. He gripped his rifle tightly, the wood already slick with sweat. This was nothing like the drills back home.
They moved forward in a loose line together with other Home Guard units and a company of regular soldiers who had arrived earlier. The British numbers were overwhelming here. Thousands of men had answered the call. Farmers, shopkeepers, teachers, and factory workers stood shoulder to shoulder with what remained of the British Army.
A sudden burst of German machine-gun fire ripped through the hedgerow ahead.
"Contact!" Ferguson shouted. "Return fire!"
Tom dropped to one knee behind a stone wall and started shooting. The recoil slammed into his shoulder again and again. Next to him Michael was firing steadily, his carpenter's hands surprisingly calm.
For the first few minutes the Germans fought hard, but they were clearly exhausted. Their fire was sporadic. Their supplies were running low. Without secure sea routes, everything had to come by air, and the Luftwaffe could not deliver enough.
"Push forward!" Ferguson roared.
The British line surged. Regular soldiers and Home Guard members charged together. Tom ran with them, screaming without even realizing it. The Germans began to fall back. Some threw down their weapons and surrendered, too hungry and too tired to continue.
"We've got them!" Michael shouted, grinning wildly as he slapped Tom on the back. "They're retreating!"
Cheers erupted along the line. For the first time in weeks the British were pushing the Germans back. The sheer weight of numbers and the determination of a whole nation fighting on home soil was working.
But the victory felt short-lived.
A young lieutenant came running along the line, out of breath.
"Fall back to the next defensive line! New orders!"
"Why?" Ferguson asked. "We have them on the run!"
"The Royal Navy has fully assembled in the Channel. They've cut off the last supply routes. High Command says the Germans are preparing something big in response. We're expecting heavy air strikes within the hour."
Tom looked up at the sky. It was still quiet. But he could already feel it. Something was changing.
Soon the bombers would strike.
They did not.
British high command was wrong. At least partly. There was no revenge operation. Instead there was a direct response.
Far away in Germany, Kesselring had activated the next phase of his plan. The Royal Navy had done exactly what he wanted them to do. By concentrating their fleet in the Channel to starve the German troops, they had created the perfect target.
"Rise."
The single word echoed through dozens of airfields across occupied Europe.
"Rise into the sky."
Thousands of engines roared to life at once. Propellers spun into a deafening thunder. The greatest aerial armada this war and perhaps all of history, had ever seen began to lift off.
Row after row of planes rose from the runways like a black tide. Bombers, fighters, and heavy naval strike aircraft filled the air in perfect formation. The sky darkened as they climbed higher and higher, wingtip to wingtip, stretching across the horizon. The sound was beyond deafening. It was apocalyptic.
From the ground it looked like a second sun was rising, not from light, but from sheer mass. Wave after wave of aircraft climbed into the clouds, their shadows racing over ruined French villages and English fields alike.
This was Paul's answer.
While the Royal Navy proudly gathered in the Channel like a hunter closing in on its prey, they had unknowingly become the perfect target. Every battleship, every destroyer, every carrier was now concentrated in a single killing zone.
Hundreds upon hundreds of German naval bombers flew at the heart of the formation, escorted by swarms of fighters. The largest air operation of the war had begun.
Meanwhile, far from Berlin,
Paul sat in quiet contrast to the storm he had unleashed.
Beyond the window, the scenery shifted in a steady rhythm. Vast green fields stretched into the distance, broken only by some scattered farmhouses, all gliding past in an almost hypnotic motion.
Slowly, Paul leaned back before turning his gaze forward again, fixing it on the man seated opposite him.
The train rattled gently along the tracks, the vibrations running through the table as cutlery gave a faint clink. Unbothered, Paul lifted his glass of wine with calmness.
"To friendship. Not merely personal, but to the friendship of our countries," he said, his voice measured, his eyes locking onto the other man's.
"Thank you, Herr Führer," the man replied, his tone composed. He wore a sharply tailored suit, every detail precise, his unmistakable British accent cutting cleanly through the air.
"It is an honour to meet you," he added.
For a brief moment, silence lingered between them.
Then the glasses met.
Clink.
Paul's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly before a faint smile formed on his lips.
"The honour is mine, Your Highness, Prince Edward."
They held each other's gaze for a heartbeat longer, two men bound by diplomacy and deception alike.
Then they drank.
A quiet toast to friendship, spoken in a moment of stillness, while beyond these walls their nations waged one of the bloodiest wars in history.
"So tell me, is it your desire to become King once more?" Paul asked, leaning back as if the question were nothing more than a passing remark.
Edward swallowed hard. His gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the woman seated at the far end of the cabin, who seemed entirely absorbed in anything but their conversation.
That woman was the love of his life, and the reason for his shameful abdication.
Wallis Simpson.
A woman marked by two divorces and endless controversy, yet he had chosen her over power. Not simply out of desire, but because he had been left with no other choice. The government of the time had made sure of that.
Edward clenched his fists slightly, before composing himself once again.
"I have met your predecessor too," he said suddenly, almost catching Paul off guard.
"You did? How did you perceive him?" Paul asked, his tone measured.
"Hitler was unpredictable. Irrational at times, extremely rational at others. He boasted often. Sometimes I wondered how he ever reached his position, and at other times I wondered how he managed to lose it." Edward lowered his tone slightly toward the end, the implication lingering in the air. Officially, Paul had inherited the position, but it was no secret that his rise to power had been anything but smooth.
Paul let out a quiet chuckle, taking another sip of his wine.
"Why should I help you?" Edward asked.
"Help me?" Paul echoed, cutting into his steak, unhurriedly.
"Do not see it as helping me, but helping your country. They can choose between being ruled by a king with real authority, though not absolute… or being ruled by us. Cold. Ruthless."
"I would be nothing more than a puppet," Edward replied, shaking his head, his thoughts clearly in turmoil.
"Aren't you already?" Paul said calmly. "Weren't you, when someone placed that crown upon your head? And when someone took it away?" He paused briefly, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "With me, you would have more power, more jurisdiction, than under your own government."
They spoke for a long time, their words weaving diplomacy, ambition, and quiet threats into a fragile understanding.
Then at the very same moment far away the first torpedoes were released plunging down toward the sea with deadly precision.
Paul and Edward rose from their seats.
They faced each other composed and controlled.
Their hands met in a firm handshake a gesture of unity and agreement.
And as their grip tightened the battle began.
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