Erich stood before his brigade commander. A colonel who had fought in three wars: the Great War, the German–Japanese War, and the Spanish Civil War.

Normally, Erich had no need to stand before his direct commander. Most information passed through other channels.

But today he was not alone. Every battalion commander within the brigade stood before the man, each as anxious as the last.

There was really only one reason they would all be summoned like this, and anyone who had climbed this high within the German Army understood exactly what that meant.

Nobody requested permission to speak. They stood in perfect silence, waiting for the announcement they all knew was coming.

The colonel, dressed in full parade uniform rather than the field BDUs the others wore, took a long drag from his cigarette.

Deathly silence followed each plume until the cigarette was gone, its filter crushed beneath his boot.

His voice pierced the quiet like a knife through the heart.

"We're being redeployed to Asia. Orders from the top. The Americans have landed a large force of Marines in the Philippines, under agreement with the so-called transitionary council."

A heavy sigh escaped his lips as his gaze drifted toward the ceiling, or perhaps beyond it, toward some absent heaven and its fatherly figure.

"Our intelligence suggests the Allies are preparing to strike into Southeast Asia. An attack on our colonies and those of our allies. We have seventy-two hours to pack up all men and equipment, then it's off to Siam."

He paused, waiting for his junior officers to protest, but none did. So he continued, voice hard and even.

" Like I said…. The order comes from the top. And I mean the very top…"

Every eye turned toward Erich. They knew immediately whose authority that implied, but no one spoke, because the colonel's next words reclaimed the room.

"We are one of three airborne brigades being deployed to Asia, along with the entirety of the Marine Corps. Further orders remain classified, but from my understanding its starting to look like the plan is to invade the Philippines in full force before the Americans can launch their own operation. Make no mistake: these will be the last seventy-two hours of peace you'll have, so enjoy them while they last."

He finished his briefing with a few logistical orders, then dismissed them.

The officers lingered after dismissal, the stale air heavy with cigarette smoke and uncertainty.

Boots scuffed faintly against the tile; a single chair creaked as someone shifted their weight. The faint hum of the overhead light seemed louder than it should have been.

It was a strange kind of quiet, the silence before history rearranges itself.

Eventually, one of the older men, nearly old enough to be Erich's father, broke it with a dry chuckle.

"Welcome to the jungle, eh boys? How bad can it be?"

Erich didn't laugh. His mind was already elsewhere, tracing memories burned deep into him.

He thought of the long nights spent in Berlin, learning beneath his grandfather within his strategic office.

Of lessons delivered in dim light with coffee in hand.

Bruno had taken him under his wing the moment he declared he wanted to be a soldier.

From that day forward, the old Patriarch had trained him personally, not merely in command or discipline, but in thought.

It was during that time that the Second Philippine Insurrection had been at its fiercest.

German intelligence had monitored the staggering losses the Americans suffered then.

The film reels, the photographs, bloody, chaotic, merciless, flooded back into Erich's mind as he took another drag from his cigarette.

Around him, his peers spoke idly, boasting of how easily they had crushed France, how defeating Americans and "colonial irregulars" would be an afterthought.

Their arrogance sounded like a marching song.

Erich's trembling voice broke through it.

He quoted his grandfather's words… the same ones spoken years ago, as a beheading film flickered on an old projector.

"The industrial revolution and its consequences have been disastrous for mankind. With the age of fire and steel, we have democratized violence at a scale that makes traditional power structures obsolete. As a result, every religion, race, and creed now has the ability to assert itself sovereign."

The others looked at him as if he'd gone mad, scoffing at the grim poetry of it.

"You seriously think the Americans will be a threat to us?" one asked, laughing through his smoke.

Erich exhaled slowly, the ember of his cigarette flaring against the dark.

"Not at all. The Americans don't stand a chance. But when every villager has a Garand beneath his bed and a 1911 in his pocket…"

His voice trailed off. His eyes stared past them… seeing something none of them could.

The laughter died. His silence spread like contagion.

Even those who'd dismissed him seconds ago began to feel the chill behind his words.

Finally, he spoke again, his tone low and final.

"If you haven't put your affairs in order, do it now. Mark my words… this won't be the march to Paris. In the jungle, we will all bleed. I wish the best of luck to you gentlemen."

He flicked his cigarette to the floor, crushing it beneath his heel.

Without another word, he turned and walked out, boots echoing across the stone corridor.

Outside, the evening light had shifted to gray.

The sky was swollen with cloud, the kind that promised rain before dawn.

The distant hum of engines rolled through the airfield beyond the walls, transports being fueled, cargo crates sealed, orders shouted through the wind.

Erich paused at the doorway and looked back once, just long enough to see the smoke still hanging in the war room like a ghost unwilling to leave.

He thought of his grandfather's words again, about industry, consequence, and the weight of civilization.

About how the march of progress never stopped until it found another battlefield to crawl across.

The first drops of rain fell as he stepped outside.

They smelled faintly of salt and oil, carried on a humid wind from the south.

Somewhere beyond that horizon, another world was waiting, a world of jungle and blood and consequence.

Within three days, they would be on the transports.

And when the wheels left the ground, Europe would grow smaller behind them, and the Pacific would open its arms like an unmarked grave.

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