While Oskar travelled south, the wider defence of East Prussia remained in the hands of Hindenburg and Ludendorff.
The two generals stayed at the Black Legion headquarters in Königsberg, surrounded by maps, telephones, wireless stations and a constant stream of reports from across the province. They had spent their lives studying war, and Oskar had entrusted them with the authority to turn his strategy into reality.
Oskar, meanwhile, went to the one part of the coming battlefield where he believed his own presence might make the greatest difference.
Shortly before midday on 26 July, his train began slowing as it approached Soldau.
He sat beside the window in full black armour, his enormous sword resting within easy reach while the skull-faced helmet lay across his lap. Beyond the glass, the East Prussian countryside rolled steadily past beneath the summer sun: broad fields, green pasture, scattered farmhouses and long belts of dark woodland broken here and there by narrow roads and railway sidings.
It was a peaceful landscape, but Oskar knew it would not remain that way much longer.
The brakes began to squeal. Steam drifted past the windows as the locomotive lost speed, and the first buildings of Soldau appeared ahead.
Oskar regarded them without enthusiasm.
He had never seen the town with his own eyes before, yet he knew it remarkably well. Its history, roads, railway and surrounding terrain had passed beneath his gaze countless times while he and his generals had been deciding where the southern defensive line of the Black Legion should stand.
Now the place existed before him rather than upon a map.
Soldau was home to fewer than five thousand people in peacetime, a quiet East Prussian border town built upon a modest rise amid fields and woodland. It possessed a railway station, a church and, above them, the old Teutonic castle overlooking the surrounding country from the highest ground.
There was nothing truly grand about Soldau, which was part of what made its fate seem so tragic. Its importance came almost entirely from where history had chosen to place it.
Centuries earlier, the Teutonic Order had established a stronghold there upon the frontier, and a settlement had gradually grown around the castle. Since then Soldau had repeatedly found itself standing between competing states, armies and peoples. Wars changed. Borders shifted. Kingdoms disappeared and empires replaced them, but Soldau still remained. And sooner or later, soldiers always seemed to return.
Even the railway carried something of the same contradiction. In peace it connected East Prussia with Russian Poland and the routes running south toward Warsaw. Grain, timber, machinery, letters and travellers crossed the frontier upon it, binding Germany and Russia together through commerce rather than blood.
Now that same railway made Soldau worth fighting over.
Samsonov's Second Army needed the roads and railways leading north if it was to advance efficiently into East Prussia. Leaving a fortified German town sitting astride one of those arteries would threaten the movement of men, ammunition and supplies behind the Russian front. If the Russians wanted secure use of the railway, Soldau would eventually have to be taken.
And so, after all those centuries, the little border town would become a battlefield again.
The train finally came to a halt.
Oskar rose, secured the great sword diagonally across his back beneath the heavy fall of his blood-red cape and tucked the skull-faced helmet beneath one arm. He pushed open the carriage door and stepped down onto the platform.
Then he stopped.
The Soldau before him bore little resemblance to the quiet town of fewer than five thousand souls he had been reading about for years.
Military traffic filled the streets around the station. Nearly ten thousand soldiers occupied the immediate sector, manning the prepared positions around the town or carrying ammunition, food, fuel and equipment between them. Black Legion infantry moved between freight wagons while ammunition crates disappeared onto waiting trucks. Dispatch riders threaded motorcycles through the congestion, engineers hauled tools and coils of wire toward the defensive line, and field kitchens smoked between buildings already crowded with troops.
Yet the civilians had not disappeared.
Oskar had ordered the evacuation of settlements lying beyond the Black Legion's defensive belt where the army could not realistically protect them. Isolated farms, exposed hamlets and villages too far forward to defend had been emptied before the Russian advance reached them, their inhabitants brought back behind the prepared positions with whatever possessions they could carry.
Soldau itself had been offered no compulsory evacuation, for it was meant to be held.
Many families had chosen to remain in their homes and trust the Black Legion to keep the Russians from reaching them. Others now shared those homes with soldiers or refugees from farther south. Townspeople moved through the military traffic carrying bread, water and whatever else they could spare, while children watched dark-armoured soldiers fill streets that only weeks earlier had belonged to carts, bicycles and the quiet rhythms of ordinary town life.
Oskar looked beyond them toward the rooftops rising above the station and the summer sun climbing steadily toward midday. He had chosen not to abandon these people because he intended to stop the Russians here.
Now he owed them the result.
And as he stood there, Oskar silently made himself a promise.
He would do everything within his power to ensure that the battle coming toward Soldau would be the last this little town ever had to endure. After centuries of armies crossing the same ground, of borders changing and wars returning generation after generation, perhaps this could finally be the battle that ended the pattern rather than merely adding another chapter to it.
If victory gave him any influence over the peace that followed, he intended to make certain that peace lasted.
Oskar had scarcely finished taking in the scene when hoofbeats approached from the road.
General Hermann von François came toward him on horseback.
At fifty-eight, the commander of I Corps possessed none of Oskar's unnatural size, yet there was nothing fragile about him. François was lean and weathered, his narrow face marked by long service and a clipped greying moustache. Sharp eyes watched everything from beneath the brim of a black Black Legion officer's cap bearing the eagle-and-death's-head insignia.
His field uniform was equally severe: a dark high-collared tunic beneath a long charcoal coat, polished boots, black gloves and a leather cross-strap running toward the holstered pistol at his hip. Gold detailing upon his insignia marked his senior rank without turning the uniform into parade dress.
He looked exactly like what he was: a professional soldier who had spent most of his life preparing for days such as this one.
François brought his horse to a halt and struck a fist against his chest.
"Your Highness."
Oskar returned the salute.
"General."
François's eyes travelled briefly across the black armour, the enormous sword rising behind Oskar's shoulder and the skull helmet held beneath his arm. And for a brief moment, something resembling concern passed through them, but he said nothing about it, not yet.
Shadowmane was unloaded soon afterward, followed by the horses of the Third Company of the Eternal Guard. Within minutes Oskar was mounted and riding through Soldau with François beside him, while Captain Carter and two hundred black-armoured guards followed behind.
François gave him the military inspection as they rode.
There was little ceremony to it. Oskar had not come south to admire straight formations or polished boots. He wanted to see whether the defensive system he had helped designing still made sense now that men would soon have to fight and die inside it.
Soldau itself formed the natural centre of the position. The town occupied a modest rise above the country to the south, with the old Teutonic castle standing upon the highest ground behind it. From there the land sloped gently downward before flattening into broad fields that stretched for a little over a kilometre toward a distant belt of woodland.
Two principal dirt roads emerged from those trees and approached the town from the south, with the railway running through the same general corridor. In peacetime they had carried farmers, carts and freight. In war they offered Samsonov's army the most practical routes by which large bodies of men, guns and supplies could reach Soldau.
The Black Legion had prepared accordingly.
Almost everything capable of sheltering an attacker had been removed from the ground immediately before the town. Bushes had been cut away, fences torn down and isolated sheds, barns and other small structures demolished wherever practical. What remained was a broad stretch of exposed farmland beneath the July sun, deliberately opened so that any Russian formation emerging from the distant tree line would have little choice but to cross it in full view of the defenders.
Across the upper edge of that killing ground waited three successive trench lines.
The foremost position lay behind several belts of barbed wire, while mines had been buried farther out beneath selected sections of the fields and along the most likely approaches from the roads. Behind the first trench came a second and then a third, each climbing gradually toward Soldau and each positioned to support the one before it.
The trenches themselves had been packed with firepower. Rifle squads occupied prepared firing bays beside light machine guns and grenadiers, while heavier machine guns covered the most obvious roads and stretches of wire. Communication trenches connected the lines and allowed ammunition and wounded men to move without unnecessarily exposing themselves above ground.
Behind them stood the town.
Mortar teams had been dispersed among courtyards, gardens and protected positions between buildings, close enough to answer calls from the forward trenches while remaining largely hidden from direct Russian observation. Sniper and marksman pairs occupied rooftops and other elevated firing positions from which they could watch the open approaches and pick out officers, machine-gun crews or anyone else foolish enough to expose himself for too long.
Still farther north, behind Soldau itself, concealed artillery batteries waited among the woods. Their positions had been prepared in advance, their ranges already measured across the southern approaches and their telephone connections tested. The Russians would not need to reach the wire before shells began falling among them.
Against that arrangement, taking even the first trench would be expensive. Taking all three would be considerably worse. And even then the Russians would still have Soldau itself to fight through.
Yet Soldau was only one of the larger anchors in a defensive line stretching far beyond anything Oskar could see from horseback.
East and west of the town, the familiar checkerboard positions disappeared into woods, shrubland and folds in the countryside, with trees and undergrowth cleared in front of the individual strongpoints wherever possible to give their defenders open fields of fire. Gaps remained between them by design, but that mattered less than it might appear. Small Russian detachments could attempt to work their way through, yet the true weight of Samsonov's army—its artillery, ammunition wagons, medical columns and supplies—would remain dependent upon the roads.
Those roads naturally carried the Russians toward Soldau and the other major settlements along the southern line, each of which had been transformed into a fortified anchor much as Soldau had. Neidenburg stood farther east, with Ortelsburg beyond it, while the checkerboard positions filled much of the countryside between them.
Altogether, the southern defensive front stretched for more than a hundred kilometres—nearly as great a distance as that separating Soldau from Königsberg itself. The coming battle would therefore unfold across a front far larger than any one man could hope to see, and this was only the southern struggle against Samsonov's Second Army. Farther east, Rennenkampf's First Army was approaching East Prussia as well.
Soldau was simply the place Oskar had chosen for himself, and what the Russians could see there represented only part of its true strength.
Elements of the 1st Armoured Division had been dispersed throughout the southern sector rather than gathered into one conspicuous mass. Soldau alone concealed twenty-five Panzers inside barns and warehouses, with armoured trucks hidden among buildings or beneath camouflage farther behind the town. Additional vehicles, fuel, ammunition and supporting formations waited in the woods to the north, ready to move the moment the order came.
From the air, the Russians were meant to see infantry, trenches, wire and an ordinary fortified border town.
They were not meant to see the armoured fist waiting behind it.
Nor were they meant to see the wider strength of the Black Legion's air arm, held farther behind the front and ready to strike once the invasion properly began. While the armour concentrated in the south would help break Samsonov's Second Army, the aircraft could be thrown first against Rennenkampf's First Army in the east, where their sudden appearance was intended to come as an equally unpleasant surprise.
François appeared satisfied with what his men had accomplished in little more than a week. There had been no miracle involved—only folding shovels, axes, wire, timber, tools and an extraordinary amount of labour beneath the summer sun.
Oskar was proud of them as well.
A Russian reconnaissance aircraft had reportedly passed over Soldau only hours earlier. According to François, its crew had seen the trenches, the visible infantry and a handful of ordinary military trucks, but little else. The tanks, armoured vehicles and principal artillery positions had remained hidden beneath roofs, trees and camouflage.
Exactly as intended.
Oskar glanced once toward the southern sky.
The period of complete concealment was nearly over. The Russians already knew Soldau was defended. There was little value now in allowing their pilots to circle overhead without consequence. Oskar therefore gave François permission to engage any reconnaissance aircraft that returned close enough to threaten the preparations, whether with ground fire or whatever air cover could be brought against it.
After that, there was little reason to prolong the inspection.
What Oskar had seen was enough. François had carried out the defensive plan properly, and Oskar trusted the officers and men beneath him to have done the same. There was little value in spending the remainder of the afternoon personally examining every ammunition box, machine-gun belt and mortar pit simply so the Crown Prince could claim to have inspected them himself.
By the time they rode back through Soldau, the sun stood high overhead.
Oskar turned Shadowmane toward the old Teutonic castle rising above the rooftops.
The building had long since ceased to be a true fortress, but its thick walls and elevated position remained useful. In peacetime portions of it had served local administrative purposes; now it had been adapted into the headquarters of the Soldau sector and would provide Oskar with temporary quarters as well. From its upper windows and walls, observers could look south across much of the countryside upon which the coming battle would be fought.
Seven centuries earlier, armoured men had prepared there for war.
Now Oskar rode through its gate wearing armour of his own.
He dismounted in the courtyard and handed Shadowmane over to one of the Eternal Guards, who led the enormous stallion toward the stables while the rest of the Third Company spread through the castle and surrounding grounds. Captain Carter immediately began seeing to its security as Oskar entered beside François.
Several local servants met them inside and guided the Crown Prince through corridors built for men considerably smaller than himself. More than once Oskar had to duck beneath an old doorway, the great sword rising above one shoulder passing dangerously close to beams that had survived centuries of war only to find themselves threatened by one oversized Hohenzollern.
As he followed the servants toward the dining hall, Oskar glanced through a high window toward the fields south of Soldau.
The battlefield had settled clearly in his mind.
Soldau at the centre.
Three trench lines before it.
The checkerboard stretching away on either flank.
Artillery and mobile reserves waiting behind.
And somewhere beyond the distant tree line, Samsonov's army coming north along the roads.
A town where Germany and Russia had once exchanged goods would soon become a place where they exchanged death.
Oskar pushed the thought aside.
There would be time enough for philosophy after the Russians arrived.
The doorway into the dining hall proved no more accommodating than the others. Oskar ducked beneath it, the pommel of his sword missing the old frame by only a few centimetres, and entered the room.
A great chair had already been prepared beside the long table, broad and reinforced enough to support both his enormous frame and the weight of his armour. Oskar removed the skull-faced helmet and placed it upon the table, then unhooked the sword and leaned it against the heavy wood within easy reach.
Only then did he lower himself into the chair.
"Bring me something to eat."
The servants moved immediately.
They were not court maids from Berlin or palace women accustomed to the appetites and peculiarities of the Crown Prince, but local women attached to the castle household, dressed in plain gowns and aprons and visibly uncertain what exactly one was supposed to feed a man built on Oskar's scale.
Fortunately, someone had prepared generously.
Bread arrived first, followed by fruit, roasted vegetables, pitchers of milk and apple juice and, eventually, an entire roasted pig steaming beneath its own juices.
Oskar wasted no time.
He drew a knife, carved deeply into the meat and began eating with the steady concentration of a man replenishing machinery rather than indulging himself. Thick slices disappeared onto his plate. Grapes followed by the handful. Bread vanished almost as quickly, while milk and apple juice went down in heavy drafts.
It was neither vanity nor gluttony.
His body was enormous. His armour alone weighed more than most men could comfortably carry, and before long Oskar intended to do considerably more than walk around Soldau wearing it.
Whatever came next would demand strength, and he intended to enter the battle with every reserve of energy his body could hold.
François did not sit.
The general remained near the table with several reports tucked beneath one arm, allowing Oskar to eat while quietly summarising the state of the sector. Captain Carter stood farther back near the doorway, watchful, while the Third Company continued securing the castle grounds.
Oskar carved another slice from the roast without looking up.
"Well," he said. "You've shown me the immediate defences. How stands the situation overall?"
Command rested in his voice as naturally as breath.
François answered without hesitation.
"Soldau is ready, Your Highness. The trench lines are complete, the wire is laid and the minefields prepared. Machine-gun crews are supplied, mortar positions concealed and the artillery farther north stands ready to answer. The armour remains hidden, communications with the neighbouring sectors have been tested, and every formation knows its orders."
A trace of pride entered the older general's expression.
"The preparations have been carried out according to your design. Where improvements could be made, we made them. I see no serious weakness in the position."
Oskar nodded and continued eating.
François went on.
"The neighbouring sectors report much the same. The larger strongpoints are prepared and the checkerboard between them is manned. Mortar crews and sniper teams are in position, ammunition has been distributed, and communications are functioning. Not every squad received everything you originally wanted, but the forward formations have enough wireless sets to call for artillery support quickly when required."
"And the eastern front?"
"Ready as well. The river crossings are guarded and the infantry positions prepared. The air arm remains on high alert. Since most of the armour has been concentrated here against Samsonov, the aircraft can be committed heavily against Rennenkampf when the First Army begins its advance, then shifted southward as circumstances require."
Oskar reached for his cup.
"And what news of the western end of the line?"
François's expression grew slightly more cautious.
"More difficult terrain, as expected. Marshes, rivers and woodland will make movement awkward for both sides, but they favour the defender. So long as the men hold their nerve and the supporting fire arrives when called, I believe the line will hold."
Oskar drank, set the cup down and nodded.
"Very good."
For several seconds the only sounds in the hall were the scrape of his knife against the plate and the quiet crackle of the hearth.
François remained where he was.
Oskar noticed.
The general had finished his report, yet made no move toward the door. His face carried the look of a man with one more duty to perform and very little enthusiasm for performing it.
Oskar finally glanced up.
"What is it?"
François hesitated.
"Your Highness..."
His eyes travelled briefly toward the skull-faced helmet resting upon the table, then toward the enormous sword leaning beside it.
"Are you truly resolved to remain here once the battle begins?"
Oskar gave him a flat look.
"Remain where?"
"Here. At Soldau. At the front."
The older man's mouth tightened.
"And more importantly, do you truly intend to fight personally?"
There was no point pretending either of them misunderstood the question.
François continued before Oskar could answer.
"Your armour is extraordinary, but it is not invincibility. It may stop rifle fire. It may save you from fragments that would kill another man. But artillery is artillery. A mortar shell does not care who your father is, nor does a field gun. A sniper needs only one fortunate angle."
His voice lowered.
"If we lose a corps commander, another officer assumes command. If Germany loses you..."
François stopped for a moment before finishing plainly.
"The consequences would reach far beyond this battlefield. Beyond this army. I do not know how the Empire would bear such a blow."
Oskar slowly set down his knife.
"Enough."
The word cracked through the room.
The servants along the walls stiffened. Captain Carter remained perfectly still.
Oskar rose.
The movement alone changed the character of the hall. More than a hundred kilograms of black steel rose with him until the old room seemed suddenly too small for the figure standing beside the table. One gauntleted hand rested near the skull helmet while the enormous sword leaned beside him like an oath made solid.
"Yes," Oskar said quietly. "I know the risk."
His pale eyes settled upon François.
"But this is not a war in which we are permitted half-measures. We do not have the luxury of standing safely behind everyone else, doing almost enough and hoping events arrange themselves in our favour."
His fist slowly closed.
"This war demands everything."
The final word hung in the hall.
"Not stupidity. Not pointless death. I have no interest in wasting men merely so someone can call them brave afterward. But wherever duty places us, we give everything we reasonably can."
His voice grew firmer.
"There is no comfortable middle ground. Either we do what is required of us, or we do not."
François said nothing.
Oskar continued.
"I cannot personally stand upon every front. I cannot fight here, command the armies in the west, sail with the fleet and fly above Rennenkampf at the same time. That is why Germany has generals. That is why I have spent years building an army whose officers are expected to think and act without waiting for me to hold their hands."
His gaze sharpened.
"Hindenburg and Ludendorff have the wider operation. You have I Corps. Every commander knows his task."
He struck one gauntleted fist lightly against the armour covering his chest.
"And I will do mine."
The steel rang.
François watched him carefully.
Oskar's voice became quieter.
"Each man in this army must act as though his part matters. The infantryman holds his position. The machine gunner keeps firing. The gun crew loads another shell. The messenger gets through. The medic brings back the wounded. The pilot flies when the order comes. The commander commands."
He paused.
"And none of them should believe that somebody else will carry the burden for him."
Something in the room shifted.
Even the servants seemed to stand a little straighter.
Oskar looked southward, though the castle walls concealed everything beyond them.
"And this battle matters far beyond Soldau. Nearly two million Russians are gathering against Austria-Hungary. Our allies may be fighting hundreds of kilometres away, but we face the same enemy."
His expression hardened.
"If we break Russia here, Saint Petersburg will have to look north. Men, guns, trains and attention that might otherwise fall upon Galicia will have to answer what happens in East Prussia."
He looked back toward François.
"If we fail, Russia advances deeper into Germany while our allies are crushed beneath its weight."
A pause followed.
"So I do not intend merely to hold."
Oskar's voice became colder.
"I intend to hurt them badly enough that Russia remembers coming here."
François remained silent.
"So yes, General. I will remain."
Oskar's hand settled beside his helmet.
"And when the time comes, I will fight."
The older general released a slow breath through his nose.
He clearly disliked the answer.
He also understood there would be no changing it.
François straightened and struck his fist against his chest.
"Our dedication has never been in question, Your Highness. Only your safety."
His gaze shifted briefly toward Carter.
"But if this is your decision, then I suppose we shall entrust you to Captain Carter, two hundred Eternal Guards, that armour of yours..."
The faintest trace of dry humour appeared beneath his moustache.
"...and Almighty God."
Captain Carter finally spoke from beside the door.
"I would appreciate God's cooperation."
For the first time since the conversation began, Oskar laughed.
Even François permitted himself a small smile.
Then Oskar raised his fist to his heart.
"For God and Fatherland."
François answered immediately.
"Until death."
Carter's fist joined his.
Then, almost instinctively, several of the servants along the walls did the same.
"For God and Fatherland—until death."
For a brief moment Oskar simply looked at them.
Then he struck his own armoured chest once.
"For God and Fatherland," he answered. "Until death."
The moment passed.
Oskar returned immediately to business.
"Now go."
His voice had become that of a commander again.
"See that everything proceeds according to plan. I want more than a successful defence. I want a decisive victory. The armies in the west are counting on us. Austria-Hungary is counting on us. Germany is counting on us."
His eyes fixed upon François.
"And I am counting on you."
The general bowed his head.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Then he turned and left the hall.
Soon Oskar sat again, with only Captain Carter remaining nearby while the servants withdrew toward the edges of the room.
He picked up his knife.
The skull helmet remained upon the table before him. The sword rested against its edge. The platters were already considerably emptier than when he had entered.
Oskar ordered more food.
Then he continued eating.
Not out of indulgence, but preparation.
Feeding the enormous engine of his body for what was coming.
For while Oskar sat beneath the old Teutonic roof, the south was already moving toward him.
Throughout the day, Samsonov's Second Army had been marching north.
Not in one magnificent column and not in some single dramatic rush, but steadily, relentlessly, hour after hour, across a front far wider than any one man could see.
Dust rose along the roads of Russian Poland.
At first it was little more than a pale haze hanging over the fields.
Then it thickened.
Beneath it came men.
Battalion after battalion moved north in long grey-green columns, rifles slung across tired shoulders and bayonets flashing whenever the afternoon sun caught them. Officers rode beside the marching ranks while sergeants shouted men back into place whenever exhaustion opened gaps between companies.
Ahead of the infantry rode cavalry.
Cossack patrols ranged outward across fields and along narrow tracks, long lances rising above their saddles while carbines rested within easy reach. They crossed shallow streams, searched villages and pushed north in loose formations, hunting for the German positions somewhere ahead.
The border was getting close.
Behind them came the infantry in numbers that seemed almost without end.
Russians marched beside Ukrainians, Poles, Lithuanians and men from provinces scattered across an empire spanning half a continent. Some understood why Russia had gone to war. Others knew little more than that the Tsar had called them and Germany lay ahead.
Khaki tunics darkened beneath sweat. Boots grew heavy with dust. Packs dragged against shoulders already sore from days of marching, while the long Mosin rifles seemed to gain weight with every kilometre.
Still they came.
Farther back rolled the artillery.
Field guns moved behind teams of sweating horses, iron-rimmed wheels grinding into the dirt roads while caissons and ammunition wagons followed. Behind those came supply carts, medical wagons, field kitchens, engineer trains and the countless other vehicles required to sustain hundreds of thousands of men once the shooting began.
The roads seemed unable to contain them all.
From time to time, songs rose from the columns.
Old marching songs.
Patriotic hymns.
Crude barracks tunes shouted by thousands of tired voices simply because singing made the road feel shorter.
Trumpets sounded somewhere within the dust, their notes briefly rising above the rhythm of boots, wheels and hooves.
And the Second Army was only one part of the Russian movement.
Other columns advanced farther east.
Others farther west.
Men flowed through villages, across bridges and over rolling countryside toward the East Prussian frontier.
Toward Soldau.
Toward battle.
Toward men waiting behind trenches who had spent days preparing to kill them.
As evening approached, the shadows lengthened and the great movement gradually began to slow.
The leading formations were close now.
Close enough that German observers along the southern frontier could see distant dust hanging above the roads.
But the main assault would not come that night.
The Russian columns began halting wherever space allowed. Regiments spread into fields. Horses were watered and fed. Guns were parked beside roads while their crews settled nearby. Some soldiers raised tents; many simply dropped their packs, stacked their rifles and lay down beneath trees, beside wagons or directly upon the summer earth.
Campfires appeared one after another.
Soon the countryside south of East Prussia seemed filled with fallen stars.
Men ate from mess tins. Officers bent over maps beneath lantern light. Priests murmured prayers. Soldiers wrote letters, smoked cigarettes, complained about their feet and wondered what Germany looked like beyond the darkness.
Most would discover soon enough.
For although the great army had stopped, its eyes continued moving.
Cossack patrols rode ahead beneath the darkness.
Cavalry scouts followed narrow roads and woodland tracks toward the frontier. Smaller advance parties slipped north with rifles ready, searching for German sentries, wire, trenches and whatever else waited beyond the tree line.
The great assault would come with morning.
But the first small clashes would begin before dawn.
And beneath the ancient walls of Soldau, the Iron Prince waited.