Taking a Duce (A Benito Mussolini SI)

[Alenco98]

Excerpt from Sisu: Finland's Peril During the Second World War and Early Cold War
By Carl Gustav Mannerheim, 1957

The period of uneasy peace that followed the end of the Winter War in early 1940 was, to most Finns, never regarded as anything more than an intermission. Though the Moscow Peace Treaty had formally ended hostilities, the harsh territorial concessions imposed on Finland—chiefly the cession of Karelia—left a bitter taste, and the sudden appearance of Italian peacekeepers on Finnish soil brought more confusion than clarity. Peace may have been declared, but in the hearts of the Finnish people, war still lingered just beyond the pines.

In Helsinki, a flurry of diplomatic activity followed the armistice. The government of President Risto Ryti, led by a fragile coalition of centrist and conservative forces, worked feverishly to rebuild the economy and rearm the nation without provoking the Soviet bear. The loss of the Karelian Isthmus had displaced over 400,000 Finns and placed enormous strain on the already modest economy. Yet amid these hardships, Finland refused to kneel.

Italy's sudden emergence as a peacekeeping guarantor had, at first, been welcomed. Mussolini, ever the opportunist, presented Italy as a neutral arbiter—one who could shield Finland from German encroachment while simultaneously discouraging further Soviet aggression. Italian military engineers helped repair war-damaged railways and ports, and Italian trade credits flowed into Finnish industry, sparking a minor postwar recovery. A sense of wary optimism pervaded the political class. But the Finnish people, and more sober voices in the military, viewed this alliance with suspicion.

Germany, meanwhile, maintained a cold but watchful distance. Despite several back-channel overtures, including economic offers from German firms and political whispers from Berlin, Finland resisted entanglement. Italian pressure—discreet yet unyielding—was instrumental in this restraint. The Italian ambassador in Helsinki, Count Giulio Vivaldi, worked closely with Marshal Mannerheim to steer Finland along a neutral course. It was a marriage of convenience, but one that bought Finland time.

Yet beneath the surface, cracks were beginning to show. The National Coalition Party, rooted in staunch anti-communism, and the Agrarian League, driven by the desire to reclaim lost farmland, both began calling for a renewed war against the Soviet Union as early as late 1940. They were emboldened by the continued deterioration of German-Soviet relations, and when Operation Barbarossa began in May 1941, many in Parliament argued that the time had come to reclaim Karelia and strike back.

The pressure mounted, but Mannerheim and Vivaldi—once adversaries in temperament—united in purpose. Their joint lobbying, conducted with a mixture of dignity and realpolitik, slowly sapped the momentum of the pro-German factions. Finland would not join the Reich. Not now, not ever.

Time would prove them right. By December 1941, the German army was bleeding in the East. Though Kiev had fallen after a brutal campaign, the Wehrmacht stalled at the gates of Minsk and was mired in a bloodbath outside Leningrad. Then came the thunderbolt: on December 16, Pope Pius XII excommunicated both the Nazi Party and all Catholic members of the Wehrmacht. On December 17, news of Italian radio broadcasts condemning the Holocaust and Germany's war crimes spread like wildfire across Europe. German morale fractured. On the Finnish streets, newsboys shouted the impossible: "Duce Condemns Hitler!"—but it was too late to heal the cracks forming in Finnish-Italian relations.

Because on January 26, 1942, everything changed.

The Treaty of Yalta, announced in a flurry of cables and foreign ministry leaks, redrew the political map of Europe—and placed Finland squarely within the Soviet sphere of influence. It was a betrayal more bitter than the Moscow Peace. Italy, which had pledged to defend Finland's neutrality, had acquiesced. Mussolini's signature, fresh in ink, confirmed the worst fears of Helsinki's cabinet. Overnight, the Italian flag that had flown over peacekeeping barracks became a symbol of shame. Finnish civilians jeered and booed the Italian soldiers as they boarded trains out of Tampere and Vaasa. Young boys threw pebbles; old men turned their backs. "Traitors!" was scrawled in red on the walls of the Italian embassy.

With the specter of Soviet domination once again looming, Ryti ordered the immediate mobilization of the Finnish military. By February 1942, Finnish troops were redeployed along the eastern border in full wartime posture. Mannerheim, aging but resolute, oversaw the reorganization personally, ensuring that every available rifle and artillery piece was brought to bear.

Finland's next step came swiftly. Inspired by the Netherlands, which signed a defense pact with the United States and United Kingdom on February 1, followed by Norway on February 3 and Sweden on February 5, Finland cast aside its fears of Soviet reprisal and turned to the Atlantic powers. On February 7, 1942, Finland became the fourth northern nation to enter the now Atlantic pact officially allying with both Washington and London.

Less than ten days later, on February 15, the first British and American troops landed in Helsinki to cheering crowds. The mood had shifted. Flags waved. Bands played. The last vestiges of the Italian alliance were swept away in a tide of Western banners and English accents.

And thus began the Karelia Crisis, Finland's final reckoning with the traumas of the Winter War and the broken promises of continental Europe. It came not with a declaration of war, but with the quiet arrival of Allied boots on Nordic snow.

Finland, battered but unbroken, had found its place in the new world order.

-

February 14, 1942
Helsinki, Finland

They came through the station like ghosts—heads down, boots dragging, their olive-drab uniforms no longer crisp but weather-worn and soured with shame. I was only a few steps from the platform, near the black iron railing where a crowd had already gathered. Men, women, children. Not organized, not like a protest—just raw emotion spilling out onto the snow-caked cobblestones.

I wasn't even sure what brought me there at first. Maybe habit. Maybe anger. But when I saw them—those so-called peacekeepers, those Italian liars—I felt it boil up.

"You bastards sold us!" someone shouted.

A woman next to me, old enough to remember the Tsar, spat at the ground and muttered, "Better the Soviets than cowards who smile as they stab us in the back."

One of the soldiers, maybe twenty, met my eyes. He looked young. Too young to be carrying that rifle. He had a trembling cigarette in his mouth and eyes like wet glass. I wanted to feel sorry for him, but I couldn't. Not after Yalta. Not after Mussolini signed us over to Stalin like we were cattle.

So I raised my voice. "Menette kotiin, petturit!" Go home, traitors.

The words caught like fire. Others took it up. Some shouted in Finnish. Others in broken Italian. I heard "Viva Stalin" once—probably sarcastic. Maybe not.

Children started throwing snowballs. A few had small rocks tucked inside. One hit a soldier in the shoulder. He flinched but kept walking.

They didn't retaliate. Of course not. What could they do now? Their orders were to withdraw. To vanish. To wash their hands of us and disappear into the south like nothing ever happened.

I saw an officer, tall, mustached, trying to maintain dignity. He was mouthing something to himself—"Non ascoltarli... non ascoltarli…" Don't listen to them. I almost laughed. Imagine being the one betrayed and having to console the betrayer.

As the train pulled up, hissing and groaning, the soldiers began to board. Some looked relieved. Some looked ashamed. None looked proud.

And we kept yelling. Not because we thought it would change anything. Not because they deserved to suffer.

But because we had to. Because it was the only power we had left.

And as the train pulled away, one boy beside me, maybe sixteen, saluted mockingly and whispered, "Good riddance."

I didn't say a word after that. I just stood there, fists clenched in my coat pockets, listening to the whistle fade into the distance.

The Italians were gone. And we were alone again.

But this time, we were ready.

-

February 14, 1942
Helsinki Station, Finland
Private Vittorio Ferrante, 2nd Alpini Division

The snow was falling again—slow, steady, like ash. I watched it melt on the windowpane of the train as it waited at the platform. It was too quiet inside the cabin, except for the low murmur of boots scraping the floor and the occasional cough. Nobody wanted to speak. No one wanted to admit what we all knew.

We weren't peacekeepers anymore. We were ghosts.

Outside, the crowd was already swelling. At first, I thought maybe it was a farewell, some last polite gesture from the Finns. But then the shouting started. A woman's voice cracked like a whip through the air. Then came a snowball—then another, and another, each one harder than the last.

I turned to look. There must have been a hundred of them. Old men in coats too thin for the weather, young mothers with babies strapped to their chests, children glaring like we'd stolen their toys. I caught the eye of a boy—no older than my brother back home in Naples. He was yelling something in Finnish, his face twisted into something I didn't recognize. He threw a rock. It missed me, but I flinched anyway.

"Don't look at them," our sergeant said. "Just keep your head down. Get on the train."

But I couldn't help it.

This was not how it was supposed to go. When we arrived in 1940, they looked at us with suspicion, yes—but also with a kind of cautious hope. We helped rebuild bridges, cleared roads, brought in supplies. We drank with their officers, traded cigarettes with their boys. Hell, one of them taught me how to skate. He laughed when I fell on my ass and called me "Romeo" because I'd smiled at his sister.

And now?

Now they were calling me petturi. Traitor.

I wanted to shout back. We didn't know about Yalta! We weren't in the room with Mussolini and Stalin and the diplomats in their leather chairs. We were just soldiers. We were just following orders. Just like they were, two years ago, when the Soviets came.

But I didn't shout. I couldn't. My throat felt like it was wrapped in wire.

The train jerked forward, slow at first. Through the steam and smoke, I saw a group of schoolgirls turn their backs to us in perfect silence. Behind them, someone had painted over the Italian flag on the side of the station wall. Just a smear of white now.

I slumped into my seat. My rifle rattled on the rack above me. The man across from me, Corporal D'Angelo, was staring at his boots like they might fall apart any second. No one said a word for a long time.

I used to think this war would make me a man. That maybe I'd come home with a medal. A story. A legacy.

But I knew now—I'd only come home with silence.

-

February 16, 1942
Helsinki Docks, Finland
Corporal Arthur "Archie" Langley, Royal Marines

The cold hit like a punch in the lungs the moment the ramp dropped.

Even with the greatcoat wrapped tight and my gloves doubled up, I felt like the Baltic itself had reached up and grabbed my bones. God help anyone who tried to fight a war in this frozen hell. But still—Helsinki.

We'd heard stories on the ship from Stockholm. That the Finns were hostile. Bitter. That the Italians had slinked out only days before to the jeers of crowds and a few well-aimed bricks. My unit, forty-odd Royal Marines and a few lads from the Welsh Fusiliers, stood in parade formation anyway, like it was Portsmouth pier, not the edge of a political earthquake.

I looked around as we stepped off the landing craft. The port was busy, but it wasn't cheerful. No flags, no cheering crowds. Just workers in grey coats and knit hats unloading crates of American rifles, petrol drums, and canned beans like it was any other day. A few civilians had gathered behind the barriers. They didn't wave. They just watched. Cold-eyed. Guarded.

One little girl held a Finnish flag. She wasn't waving it. Just clutching it like a teddy bear.

As we marched up the quay, I caught the eye of an older man—civilian, stiff coat, fur hat. Might've been someone's grandfather. His eyes swept over us like he was weighing us. Not with hate. Not even resentment. Just… weariness. Like he'd seen too many boots land on his soil in too short a time.

"Think they like us?" Private Baines muttered next to me, breath fogging in the air.

I gave a half-smile. "I think they like us better than the last lot."

We passed the Italian barracks on the way to the staging ground—already half-abandoned, a few Red Cross crates still piled up. Some graffiti on the side in Finnish, scrawled in haste. One of the interpreters later told me it said "Better no friends than false ones."

We reached the staging point near the city square, where a few Finnish soldiers stood waiting, rifles slung casually, their faces as hard and unreadable as the ice. Their officer, young, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth set in stone, stepped forward and gave a crisp nod to our major.

No smiles. No handshakes.

Just nods and orders.

This wasn't Oslo. This wasn't liberation. It was something else.

A holding action. A warning.

By nightfall, we were billeted in a former schoolhouse. The radioman got the BBC signal for a few minutes. The news? Tokyo had struck Guam. American forces were being pushed in the Philippines. The world felt like it was cracking in half and freezing over.

I lay on my cot, staring at the frost gathering on the window. Somewhere outside, a church bell rang once, then stopped. No one spoke.

And I thought to myself—not for the first time—

We've arrived too late. Or just in time. And God only knows which.

 

[Alenco98]

An Excerpt from Peter H. Tveskov's Between the World War and the Cold War: Denmark in the 1940s

The morning of April 9, 1940, dawned without warning or preparation for Denmark. At approximately 5:00 AM, the Nazi war machine surged across the border in a coordinated blitzkrieg offensive that would reshape the course of Danish history for the next five years. The operation, Weserübung, was a broader German initiative to secure its control over Scandinavia, particularly Denmark and Norway, in order to maintain vital access to the resources of neutral Sweden, especially the iron ore that fueled Germany's war effort.

Denmark, a small kingdom sitting precariously between Germany and Sweden, had long prided itself on a foreign policy of neutrality. Throughout the interwar years, it had successfully navigated the shifting tides of European politics, avoiding entanglements that might bring it into conflict with the great powers. But with the rapid advance of Nazi expansion, it became painfully clear that Denmark's neutral stance would no longer suffice.

The invasion itself was swift, almost clinical. Denmark, with its relatively modest military forces, had little hope of resisting the onslaught. Copenhagen, Denmark's capital, fell within hours, and German forces quickly secured key infrastructure, including vital ports and airfields that would soon be used to launch operations in neighboring Norway. But what distinguished Denmark from other occupied countries was its government's decision to surrender almost immediately, avoiding unnecessary destruction of the country.

In stark contrast to the devastation in Poland, Denmark's political leadership—led by King Christian X and Prime Minister Thorvald Stauning—chose not to resist. The King famously rode through the streets of Copenhagen on horseback in the days following the invasion, projecting an image of calm and unity, despite the occupation. The Danish government, keen on maintaining some semblance of autonomy, negotiated with the Germans, agreeing to a policy of "cooperation" that would preserve Denmark's political independence while ensuring German control over key strategic sectors.

Unlike many other countries in Europe under Nazi rule, Denmark retained a functioning democratic system. While the country was technically under occupation, the Danish parliament (Folketing) continued to operate, and the government retained control over domestic affairs, with the exception of military and foreign policy. This was a pragmatic, if deeply compromised, arrangement, one that allowed Denmark to maintain some degree of sovereignty while avoiding direct confrontation with the Nazi regime.

In the months following the invasion, Denmark's position as a key strategic asset to Nazi Germany became clearer. Denmark's role was not merely as a passive collaborator; it was an active player in Germany's broader strategy in Scandinavia. The Danish government permitted the German military to establish airbases and naval ports along its coastline, facilitating German operations in Norway and ensuring a secure route for transporting Swedish iron ore through Danish-controlled waters. The collaboration was not one-sided—Denmark also benefited economically from its alliance with Germany. The Nazis made significant demands on Denmark's agricultural output, which was crucial to feeding the German population and military, and the Danes supplied large quantities of foodstuffs, notably bacon and butter.

This symbiotic relationship between Denmark and Germany was a delicate balancing act. Denmark's political leaders, particularly Stauning, sought to maintain the country's sovereignty as much as possible. However, the Germans were not content with a passive partner. In time, they began to pressure the Danish government to adopt more directly pro-German policies. Economic cooperation evolved into more intrusive forms of collaboration, and Denmark's political landscape began to shift in subtle ways. While Denmark was not formally aligned with the Axis powers, its economic and strategic contributions to the German war effort were undeniable.

By the summer of 1941, however, the Danish government found itself caught in a more difficult position. The nature of Nazi demands began to shift from strategic and economic cooperation to more direct control over social and cultural matters. One of the most pressing issues was the Nazi regime's "Jewish question." While Denmark's Jewish population was relatively small, around 7,000 individuals, it had been largely unscathed by Nazi anti-Semitic policies in the early years of the occupation. Jews in Denmark had enjoyed a degree of protection due to the country's comparatively mild occupation conditions. Danish Jews had been largely left alone, able to live relatively freely while other European Jews suffered under the boot of Nazi tyranny.

This leniency would not last.

In 1941, with the invasion of the Soviet Union and the escalating demands of the Nazi regime, Denmark found itself increasingly at odds with German policies, particularly regarding the Jews. Early in the year, the German authorities began to press Denmark to adopt the same measures that had been implemented in other occupied countries, including the forced relocation and deportation of Jews to concentration camps.

For the first time, Denmark's leadership found itself faced with an impossible choice. Cooperation with the Nazis had ensured the preservation of Danish sovereignty, but now it seemed that the Germans were demanding more than Denmark could give. Faced with growing German pressure, the Danish government began to prepare for the possibility of direct resistance, even as it continued to walk the fine line between collaboration and defiance.

By November 1941, Denmark's cooperative model was beginning to unravel. Despite initial successes in maintaining a relatively high degree of independence, it was clear that the balance was becoming unsustainable. Danish political leaders, while still largely aligned with Germany, were increasingly confronted with the ethical and moral dilemmas posed by the occupation. The pressure to conform to Nazi policies, particularly the persecution of Jews, was growing stronger, and the first cracks in the façade of cooperation were beginning to show.

Denmark's experience in the years of the occupation stands as a complex and often contradictory chapter in the history of World War II. On the one hand, Denmark's ability to maintain some form of sovereignty under occupation is a testament to the skillful diplomacy of its leaders. On the other hand, the ethical compromises that came with this cooperation—particularly the treatment of the Jewish population—would later become one of the most poignant and defining aspects of Denmark's wartime history.

The brittle scaffolding of Danish cooperation with Nazi Germany finally collapsed under the weight of conscience and catastrophe on December 16, 1941. That morning, the world awoke to a shattering broadcast from Vatican Radio: Pope Pius XII, in an unprecedented act of moral defiance, revealed detailed evidence of the ongoing mass extermination of Jews in Nazi-occupied Poland and Ukraine. Drawing from secret communications delivered by Polish clergy and Italian intelligence, the Pope's address was unequivocal. The slaughter of the Jewish people, he declared in an enciclycal after his speech, was "an affront not merely to the dignity of mankind, but to the sanctity of life itself as ordained by God."

The Pope called for a crusade on Nazi Germany. Then subsequently threatened to excommunicate all members of the nazi party who didn't step down by the new year. The next day on the 17th this extended to the Werhmacht. That same day, Italy, which had remained neutral throughout the war, declared war on Nazi Germany, as Mussolini delivered his declaration on top of the Palazzo Venezia, Italian bombers raided the Ploesti oil fields.

In Denmark, the Pope's call struck like lightning. The Danish church, long passive under occupation, issued a bold and immediate response: a general strike across the nation, calling on workers, students, clergy, and civil servants to paralyze the country. Trains stopped running. Factories stood silent. Danish flags hung in shop windows. Copenhagen's streets were filled not with protestors, but with a solemn, disciplined stillness—a quiet defiance more powerful than violence.

That evening, King Christian X appeared in full military dress outside Amalienborg Palace, flanked by members of the cabinet and army officers. In a short but fiery address broadcast by Danish radio, the King declared:

"We are no longer bound to silence. The truth has burned away the fog. Our loyalty was bought with peace, but the cost has become the soul of our nation. I call now on all Danes—rise as one, and let the light of Denmark shine again."

The speech electrified the country. Resistance cells sprang to life overnight. Arms were smuggled in from Sweden, sabotage squads began targeting German communication lines, and German troops found themselves increasingly isolated in a land they had once controlled without a fight.

On Christmas morning, 1941, British troops from the 1st Airborne Division landed at Copenhagen Harbor, having coordinated secretly with the Danish government-in-place. The landings were largely unopposed, as the Danish Resistance had already secured key strongpoints throughout the city and German soldiers through Europe mostly laid down their arms or deserted their posts. By nightfall, Copenhagen was in Allied hands, and the Union Flag flew over Christiansborg Palace beside the Danish Dannebrog.

The British push did not stop there. In a bold move that defied the still-uncertain state of the Eastern Front, Allied command ordered an advance through Schleswig-Holstein, targeting the northern German port of Kiel. The German Wehrmacht, stunned by defections among occupied forces and the sudden southern betrayal by Italy, struggled to contain the assault. Within one week, British and Danish forces were entering northern Germany.

But as the guns thundered in the west, a quieter, colder chess game began to unfold in the east. On January 26, 1942, Italy and the Soviet Union signed the Treaty of Yalta—a landmark agreement that reshaped the postwar world even before the war itself had ended. The 1942 treaty was pivotal: the Soviet union and Italy divided Europe into their own spheres of influence.

This clause sent shockwaves through the Danish cabinet. Despite the shared hatred of Nazism, few Danes were eager to fall under Moscow's shadow. Memories of the Winter War and Soviet expansionism were still fresh, and whispers of communist infiltration within the Resistance were enough to alarm even the most left-leaning members of government.

A resolution came quickly. Following brief negotiations with London and Washington, and watching nervously as their neighbors aligned with the West, Denmark officially signed the Atlantic Pact on February 11, 1942. Already joined by the Netherlands, Norway, Sweden, and Finland, the nascent Atlantic Pact was emerging as a new defensive coalition—one rooted not only in anti-Nazi resolve, but in shared democratic values and a desire to chart an independent course between Italy and the Soviet union.

Denmark thus became the fifth nation to join what would later evolve into the Free Nation's alliance as the cold war went on. The signing was broadcast across the Atlantic and greeted with thunderous applause in Allied parliaments. In Copenhagen, tens of thousands took to the streets waving British and Danish flags side by side, cheering the end of occupation and the rebirth of the Danish nation.

The winter of 1941–42 marked Denmark's transformation from reluctant collaborator to proud liberator. The country that had surrendered in six hours in April 1940 now stood, arms in hand, beside the great powers of the world. It had endured the shame of passivity, the moral strain of compromise, and the terror of looming genocide—and had, at last, found its voice.

It would never be silenced again.

 

[Alenco98]

An excerpt from Jean-Michel Veranneman De Watervliet's 2014 novel, The Death of Belgium

By the end of May 1940, Belgium had ceased to exist as a sovereign nation. The Wehrmacht's lightning thrust through the Ardennes—blunt, brutal, and wholly unexpected—shattered not only the fragile Maginot illusions of the Allies but obliterated the thin membrane of Belgian neutrality that had clung desperately to the illusion of peace.

On May 10, 1940, Germany invaded Belgium for the second time in a generation. The plan was cold and efficient: bypass France's strongest defenses by driving through the Low Countries. Belgian soldiers, despite their bravery, were overwhelmed. Their commanders, constrained by decades of political indecision and underinvestment, found themselves outmaneuvered at every turn. Within three weeks, the collapse was total.

On May 28th, King Leopold III—without consulting his government, which had already fled to France—surrendered unconditionally to Adolf Hitler. To some, he was a tragic figure, a monarch isolated and abandoned, forced into capitulation to spare his people further suffering. To others, he was a traitor, placing the crown above the constitution, compromising the unity of the nation in its darkest hour. The government-in-exile would never forgive him. From London, Prime Minister Hubert Pierlot issued a damning condemnation. A rupture had occurred at the very heart of Belgium: between king and people, between home and exile.

The German occupation began under a heavy, silent fog. The military administration, headed by General Alexander von Falkenhausen and SS advisor Eggert Reeder, projected a thin illusion of pragmatism. Von Falkenhausen, an aristocrat and career soldier, was careful, even courtly in manner. But make no mistake: his purpose was exploitation. The Nazis had learned from the resentment of their 1914–1918 occupation. This time, they sought to cloak tyranny in procedure, to present brutality as bureaucratic inevitability.

They began by stripping Belgium's economy for parts. The Belgian franc was artificially pegged to the Reichsmark, making German purchases absurdly cheap and draining the country's resources. Factories were converted to produce for the Wehrmacht. Food was rationed, coal was seized, and entire industries were subordinated to German needs. As early as the summer of 1940, Belgians were already going hungry.

Censorship was swift and absolute. Newspapers were muzzled, radios confiscated or monitored. The press that remained was heavily controlled, peppered with collaborationist propaganda and bland communiqués from Berlin. Cultural life narrowed to a whisper. Curfews were imposed, movement restricted, public dissent stifled.

Social division became a central tool of control. The Nazis pursued a policy of Flamenpolitik—an effort to divide Belgium along linguistic lines. They granted administrative privileges to certain Flemish civil servants and supported elements of the Flemish nationalist movement, hoping to reshape Flanders into a satellite of a future Germanic empire. In contrast, Wallonia, perceived as more Latin and less "racially Germanic," was marginalized. The SS courted collaborators—offering positions of power to opportunists willing to serve. The most notorious among them was Léon Degrelle, the charismatic leader of the Rexist Party. Once a Catholic populist, Degrelle transformed himself into an eager fascist, pledging allegiance to Hitler and dispatching volunteers to fight on the Eastern Front in 1941 under the banner of the Walloon Legion.

But collaboration was never total. From the earliest days of the occupation, resistance began to take shape—not in bold declarations, but in gestures. Hidden newspapers were mimeographed in cellars and passed hand to hand. Teachers quietly refused to use Nazi textbooks. Rail workers sabotaged trains, subtly at first, then with increasing boldness. Catholic clergy offered comfort and coded warnings from their pulpits. And Jews—tens of thousands of whom had fled Germany and Eastern Europe in the 1930s—once again found themselves hunted. Though the Final Solution had not yet been formally announced, the Gestapo was already building its files. By the autumn of 1941, arrests had begun. Jewish men were seized in dawn raids. Synagogues were shuttered. The yellow star had not yet been imposed in Belgium, but the shadow had fallen.

By November, the first Belgian Jews were deported to forced labor camps in the East.

The resistance, fragmented but growing, consisted of monarchists, Communists, liberal democrats, and ordinary citizens. Their motives varied—some fought for patriotism, others for ideology, others simply for vengeance. Underground groups like the Front de l'Indépendance and the Groupe G began conducting acts of sabotage and intelligence gathering. They liaised with British SOE agents parachuted behind enemy lines, smuggled Allied airmen out through France and Spain, and maintained a steady current of defiance.

Still, the cost of resistance was high. Arrests, torture, and executions were commonplace. The Gestapo's Belgian section—ruthless and efficient—employed Belgian collaborators to infiltrate networks. Betrayals were inevitable. Entire families disappeared in the night.

And yet, something had changed by December 1941. The world, so long silent, had begun to stir. On December 7th, Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. Four days later, Hitler declared war on the United States. What had once been a European war had become global.

In London, the exiled Belgian government seized the moment. For the first time in over a year, there was hope of liberation backed by overwhelming force. Radio Londres broadcast messages to the resistance. British and American agents began increased operations on Belgian soil. And among the people—starved, humiliated, divided, yet unbroken—a quiet resolve hardened into something deeper.

Belgium had not been erased. She had been silenced. She had been wounded. But she endured. Until it's death blow came.

History has its hinges—moments when the entire edifice of the world creaks, tilts, and begins to fall. December 16, 1941, was one such hinge. The smoke of Babi Yar, of Ponary, of incinerated villages and bulldozed mass graves had risen for months, unseen by most, ignored by others. But now the world could no longer look away. On that cold Roman morning, as the bells of St. Peter's rang through the fog, Pope Pius XII finally broke his long and agonized silence.

From the pulpit of a special consistory, the Pope condemned the Nazi regime in the most direct terms yet uttered by the Church. He read aloud testimonies—letters smuggled from Poland, photographs from the East, transcripts intercepted by Italian intelligence. He declared the Holocaust a "crime against the order of God," and demanded that all Catholic members of the Nazi Party recant their allegiance before the close of the year—or face excommunication. But he did not stop there. With voice trembling yet resolute, he called for cruciata, a Crusade—not merely in word, but in arms. "Let those who have sinned in silence now find their redemption in resistance," he said. "Let the sword of righteousness rise." He said in an enciclycal released that same day.

That same day, as his words echoed across the world, Italy moved.

Benito Mussolini—who had remained conspicuously neutral since the fall of France while he built his own empire in the Mediterranean—broadcast a declaration of war against Nazi Germany. Simultaneously, Italian bombers struck the Romanian oil fields at Ploiești, hammering at the very lifeline of the German war machine. The skies over Eastern Europe turned black with smoke as the silence of Mussolini's regime gave way to flames.

But Belgium was not ready for what came next.

The following morning, December 17, the papal threat extended beyond the SS and Nazi Party to include all members of the Wehrmacht, the Gestapo, and even civilian administrators in collaborationist regimes. The message was clear: neutrality was no longer tenable. One must choose between conscience and complicity.

Belgium responded first with silence—and then with fury.

A spontaneous general strike erupted in Liège, Charleroi, and Ghent, spreading like wildfire to Brussels and Antwerp. Factories ground to a halt. Trams stopped mid-track. Offices were abandoned. Workers flooded the streets, holding signs scrawled with ancient words: "Non serviam." Resistance networks fanned the flames, smuggling radios to towns and villages, urging mass defiance. Even many collaborators faltered. The Reich's grip on Belgium was suddenly no longer iron—but paper.

It was in the midst of this maelstrom that an astonishing figure emerged from the shadows of captivity: King Leopold III.

Appearing for the first time since his 1940 surrender, he stood before a microphone at Laeken Castle, flanked by the remnants of his royal guard. His voice was hoarse, but unmistakable: "My people, our hour has come. Belgium must rise. Not for the crown. Not for vengeance. But for life itself."

The words spread across the airwaves, emboldening a nation—until Italy made its next move.

That same afternoon, the Kingdom of Italy declared the formation of the Kingdom of France—a new, monarchist state born from the carcass of Vichy. Its Prime Minister, André François-Poncet, once ambassador to Rome, offered the crown to Prince Louis Napoleon, a descendant of Bonaparte. But it was not simply France that was envisioned—it was an empire. Italy announced that this new realm would incorporate not just France, but also Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Rhineland, as a "Latin-Gallic Renaissance" against the German Reich.

Belgium exploded in rage.

Protests flooded the streets of every major city, even as German troops tried to suppress them. Flags were burned, statues toppled. Cries of "Belgium is not a province!" rang through Leuven and Namur. That evening, Italian paratroopers dropped over Brussels in an operation codenamed The Ides of March.

It was a bloodbath.

Laeken Castle, still housing the King, was besieged. Italian Arditi fought a fierce, room-to-room battle with the Royal Guard. Dozens were killed. The King narrowly escaped through an underground tunnel with the help of loyal servants, vanishing into the city's storm drains as the last defenders fell. Italian bombers roared over the capital by nightfall, sowing panic and chaos. The siege of Laeken began.

Over the next two weeks, Italy reinforced its foothold. More paratroopers were dropped into Brussels, and elements of the Italian Blackshirt divisions pushed up through northern France. Vichy defectors—angered by Hitler's failures and tempted by the promise of a Bourbon restoration and pardons—opened the border to Mussolini's columns and marched into Belgium with them.

On January 2, 1942, Italian and French monarchist troops broke the siege of Laeken. Tanks rolled down the Avenue de la Reine. Leaflets were dropped from planes proclaiming Belgium's "liberation" and "return to civilization." In the south, the Rexist leader Léon Degrelle—dragged from the shadows by Italian agents—was declared Governor-General of Wallonia, his smiling face plastered across posters while his eyes betrayed the panic of a man trapped by his own ambition.

Degrelle gave a stammering address welcoming the Kingdom of France and thanking "Latin Europe" for Belgium's salvation. The crowds did not cheer.

Leopold III, wounded and demoralized, had fled to London. There, reunited with his exiled government, he addressed his people once more—this time via BBC broadcast: "This invasion, masked in Latin rhetoric, is an occupation. I did not flee from one tyrant to kneel before another. Belgium shall never be a pawn."

But the damage was done.

The country stood carved—its skies filled with foreign planes, its soil soaked in blood, its people split between false liberation and true defiance.

Belgium, once again, had become a battlefield. Not merely of arms, but of souls.

And winter had only just begun.

In Ghent, where the streets still stank of tear gas and burnt paper, the sound of church bells rang not for Mass, but for Parliament. The Flemish Council, an emergency body hastily assembled from municipal leaders, university rectors, and exiled ministers, convened beneath the battered ceilings of the old City Hall. Outside, crowds gathered under the gold lion of Flanders, black flags and orange sashes waving defiantly in the smoke-choked wind.

At 11:17 a.m., Pieter De Clercq—once a minor bureaucrat, now a lionized voice of Flemish nationalism—took the podium and read aloud a single, stunning declaration:

"The Belgian state is dead. Flanders will not die with it. We hereby proclaim the independence of the Flemish Republic and request immediate annexation to the Kingdom of the Netherlands, under the protection of Queen Wilhelmina."

The crowd outside erupted—not in universal cheer, but with a volatile mix of jubilation, confusion, and fear. Some cried tears of joy. Others shouted accusations of treason. But the die had been cast.

Within hours, Dutch radio confirmed receipt of the Flemish request. The Queen remained silent—for now—but Prime Minister Gerbrandy addressed the nation with a carefully worded statement: "The fate of our southern brothers is entwined with our own. The Kingdom of the Netherlands shall not ignore a cry for unity born of war and sorrow." The message, broadcast in both Dutch and Flemish, lit the low countries aflame.

That same night, Dutch armored cars crossed the border at Essen, driving southward to "protect Flemish civilians from foreign occupation." Italian forces in Antwerp were caught off guard. A tense standoff began between Blackshirts and Dutch marines along the Scheldt. Not a shot was fired—but both sides knew this was only the beginning.

In Brussels, the Italian-backed Provisional Regency of Belgium condemned the Flemish secession as "an unfortunate misunderstanding," a laughable irony to most. Mussolini, furious that his dream of a Latin-Gallic satellite was unraveling by the hour, ordered reinforcements airlifted to Charleroi and Louvain. "hold the north," he barked at Graziani. " We will not lose half of Belgium."

The Vatican, for its part, offered only silence. Pope Pius XII's bold stand had unleashed a moral revolution—but even he now found himself overwhelmed by its tidal force.

And then, as if fate were mocking the collapsing unity of the kingdom, the Walloons followed suit.

On January 5, a hastily assembled congress in Namur, backed by trade unions and elements of the underground resistance, declared the creation of the Walloon Free Republic. They offered allegiance not to Italy, nor to France, nor to the Netherlands—but to Free France. A delegation was dispatched to Brazzaville, where Charles de Gaulle had set up his government-in-exile.

Belgium, once a single patch of defiant neutrality, had shattered into three pieces within seventy-two hours.

King Leopold, pacing furiously through the corridors of his London exile, saw the kingdom he had once surrendered to save now dissolving in front of his eyes. His voice broke as he dictated a letter to Churchill:

"If Belgium is to live again, it must be reborn—not as a construct of kings, but as a nation of conscience. And if I must die to preserve her soul, I will not hesitate."

The British Prime Minister, grim-faced and sleepless, wrote only two words in the margin: "Too late."

The Walloon dream lived precisely forty-two hours.

On January 5, in Namur, firebrands and factory workers declared the Walloon Free Republic—a desperate bid for dignity in a collapsing world. There were no flags, only armbands hastily sewn from red cloth and hammer-emblazoned pamphlets printed in candle-lit basements. Their government was little more than a committee of mayors, priests, union men, and a disillusioned French academic with a pipe and a pistol.

But their declaration had barely reached Brazzaville before it was answered with steel.

January 6, 1942 — 04:22 a.m.: Italian Savoia-Marchetti SM.82 transport planes roared above the Ardennes, silhouetted by the moon. Paratroopers—units from the elite Folgore Division, fresh from operations in Bulgaria and experienced in anti-partisan tactics—began descending onto the outskirts of Namur, Charleroi, and Liège.

Resistance was spirited. Factory militias fought back with Molotovs and old hunting rifles. Church bells rang wildly in Dinant. A rail worker in Huy derailed a train carrying Italian supplies, sacrificing himself in the blast. For a moment, it seemed the Walloon spirit might become a movement.

It did not.

By January 9, Namur had fallen. The Walloon Committee for Liberation was dragged out of the Palais de Congrès and thrown into a military prison hastily converted from a hotel. Several were shot without trial. The rest would be flown to Paris to stand before Italian tribunals. Resistance flags were burned in public squares. The black-and-white fasces of Italy and the golden imperial eagle of Napoleon were hoisted in their place.

Then came the farce of "democracy."

On January 12, Italian authorities announced a referendum on the "Reunification of Wallonia with Greater France." There was no campaign, no debate, no international observers. Just soldiers at polling stations, ballots pre-printed with Oui, and a tally that claimed 97.3% approval.

On January 13, André François-Poncet—Mussolini's puppet Prime Minister of the newly minted Kingdom of France—proclaimed the Annexation of Wallonia into the "new French heartland." Italian troops marched through the streets of Liège beneath banners reading Bienvenue à la Maison—Welcome Home.

In London, the exiled Belgian cabinet wept as the news reached them. Paul-Henri Spaak reportedly smashed a wine glass and shouted, "They have carved us like meat!" The King, silent for nearly two days, finally emerged with a hoarse voice and hollow eyes. He read from a sheet of trembling paper:

> "Belgium is not dead. It is bleeding, yes, torn—yes—but not dead. We call on the world not to recognize these false crowns and false votes. We shall return."



The Allies—Britain, Free France, and the United States—refused to recognize the annexation. But recognition, as the king bitterly noted, was not liberation.

On January 14, Mussolini declared Belgium to be "a failed idea… an artificial contraption of English diplomacy and German indifference." He boasted that the Latin Axis had restored "order and civilization" to the heart of Europe. Posters in Rome showed maps with the new "Kingdom of France" stretching from Marseille to Maastricht. The Kingdom of Belgium, meanwhile, vanished from Italian maps entirely.

That week, a journalist in exile asked Churchill if Belgium could be saved.

He paused, lit a cigar, and muttered, "Only if God Himself has paratroopers."

-

December 17, 1941
Laeken District
Brussels, Belgium

A thin, icy mist clung to the rooftops as our SM.82 lumbered over the freezing outskirts of Brussels. I tightened the straps on my Modello 38 parachute pack, breath turning to frost behind my mask. Around me, my squadmates huddled in the open hatch, rifles slung, helmets low. Above the din of engines and distant gunfire, Sergeant Romano barked our final orders: "Laeken keystone—capture the king or hold the castle until relief arrives!"

When the hatch swung open, a gust of wind nearly blew me back into the fuselage. I launched myself into the void, chest pounding like a drum. For a heartbeat there was only sky—stars blurred by speed—then the canopy above me snapped taut. I floated down toward the château's shadowed turrets, the lamps lining the moat like watchful eyes. Below, searchlights crisscrossed the courtyard, and I could just make out the crenellated walls of Laeken Castle, our objective perched atop them like a crown.

Landing hard on the cobbles, I rolled to absorb the shock and sprang upright. My boots skidded on frozen moss. To my left, Corporal Vitale's chute snagged on an ornamental finial; he yanked himself free and sprinted toward the gatehouse. I followed, rifle raised. The courtyard lay between two snarling groups: our men advancing in wedge formation, and a line of Royal Guard survivors—steel helmets glinting—bullets already accentuating the night air.

A sudden crack split the darkness. A Guardsman fell. We closed in. I lunged forward, firing three short bursts; his rifle clattered to the ground. Another thrust of my bayonet, and the gate stood ajar. We flooded inside, heartbeats thundering in my ears. Somewhere in the echoing corridors beyond, I heard distant shouts in Flemish, the anguished barking of orders.

Then came the staggered clang of a hidden portcullis—our path blocked. Sergeant Romano cursed under his breath. "They're sealing us in!" he growled. We rushed up the spiral staircase toward the throne room, hoping to intercept the king before he slipped away. But when we burst through the carved oak doors, the chamber was empty: dust stirred in shafts of lantern-light, and the royal crown lay fallen on the marble floor, blood droplets darkening its velvet lining.

A muffled rumble drew us to a side passage. Through a narrow slit window, I saw a small group—a priest, two servants, and the king himself—slipping into a hidden tunnel entrance beneath a tapestry. Leopold's face was ashen but resolute. He lifted a trembling hand in farewell before disappearing into the dank stone corridor. A servant dropped a lantern deliberately, flames licking the drapes and setting off a cascade of sparks. In the confusion, they vanished.

Behind us, the gates slammed. Through the narrow slit windows, flaming barricades sprouted in the courtyard—Belgian militiamen, armed with shotguns and hastily cast Molotovs, had surrounded us. Their shouts echoed off the castle walls: "Vive la Belgique ! " They lobbed bottles that shattered against our paratrooper steel. Corporal Vitale dove for cover behind an overturned carriage; I threw myself flat beside him, returning fire blindly into the gloom.

We were trapped. The tunnels the Guards had sealed against us now cut off our advance, and our radio crackled only static. Overhead, the SM.82s retreated, their engines fading into the mist. In the courtyard below, torches glowed like angry eyes. Sergeant Romano scanned our dwindling ammo clips and spat, "Hold fast, Folgore. We fight until relief—or death."

As dawn's first gray light seeped through the arrow slits, I crouched beside Vitale, fingers numb around my rifle. All around, the castle's ancient stones seemed to press in, echoing the siege drums of a nation risen against us. The chase for a fugitive king had become our own desperate flight, and in that silent, frozen dawn, I realized that here—beneath Belgium's broken crown—we were the ones besieged.

Note: I retconned a few things.

Check out the chapter flipping the table for context

 

[Alenco98]

An excerpt from Nicolae Ceaușescu's 1970 novel, Betrayed on All Sides: Romania During the Great War

Romania, my beloved yet beleaguered homeland, entered the maelstrom of the Second World War not as a willing combatant, but as a nation gripped by fear, suffocated by internal rot, and betrayed by the very alliances it once held sacred. The period from the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact in August 1939 to the dramatic turn of events in December 1941 was a time of humiliation, upheaval, and bitter lessons for our people—lessons forged in blood, cowardice, and opportunism.

In 1939, the Kingdom of Romania stood nominally sovereign under King Carol II, but its fate was already being bartered in foreign capitals. The country's foreign policy, for decades based on a tenuous alliance with France and Great Britain, crumbled overnight when Hitler and Stalin carved Eastern Europe between themselves. Romania, whose borders had been secured in the aftermath of the Great War through the blood of peasants and soldiers alike, now found itself a pawn on a vast chessboard, surrounded by predators.

The economy, despite attempts at modernization during the interwar years, remained heavily agrarian and underdeveloped. It was dependent on foreign capital, particularly British and French investments in the oil fields of Ploiești. The industrial sector was small and controlled by foreign interests. While Bucharest had become known as the "Paris of the East," this glittering veneer masked a deep rural poverty and growing social unrest. The Iron Guard—a fascist movement fueled by mystical nationalism and anti-Semitism—was rising, drawing the desperate and the dispossessed into its ranks.

When Poland was dismembered in September 1939, and the Western powers did nothing, the writing was on the wall. King Carol tried to maintain neutrality, but Romania's position was strategically untenable. In June 1940, the Soviet Union, emboldened by its pact with Hitler and engaged in the conquest of the Baltics, issued an ultimatum demanding the cession of Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina. There was no help from France, which had just fallen, nor from Britain, reeling from the evacuation of Dunkirk. Carol acquiesced—Romania surrendered its territory without firing a shot.

But the territorial rape did not end there. Sensing blood, Hungary and Bulgaria, with German and Italian blessing demanded Northern Transylvania and Drobuja, and Germany brokered the Second Vienna Award in August 1940, forcing Romania to cede them. In less than three months, Romania lost over a third of its territory and population. It was a national humiliation unprecedented in modern history, and it shattered what little confidence the Romanian people had in their monarchy.

King Carol's position became untenable. In September 1940, under pressure from the German-backed General Ion Antonescu and amidst mass demonstrations by the Iron Guard, he abdicated in favor of his 19-year-old son, Michael. Antonescu assumed the title of Conducător and formed a "National Legionary State" with the Iron Guard. It was a time of blood and steel. The Guard, intoxicated by its newfound power and hatred, launched pogroms and purges, targeting Jews, political opponents, and military officers. But their rule was short-lived.

By early 1941, Antonescu had tired of the Guard's fanaticism and chaos. With German support, he crushed them in the January Rebellion, consolidating power as a military dictator. Romania was now firmly in the Axis orbit. It had signed the Tripartite Pact in November 1940, granting Germany control over Romanian oil and resources. German troops flooded the country under the pretext of defending it against Soviet aggression, but in truth, Romania was an occupied satellite.

Antonescu, convinced that aligning with Hitler would restore Romania's lost provinces, prepared for war against the Soviet Union. On June 22, 1941, Romania joined Operation Barbarossa. The Army, numbering over 600,000 men, crossed the Prut River alongside the Wehrmacht, determined to reclaim Bessarabia and Bukovina. In the initial stages, Romanian forces achieved their objectives, but they were soon drawn deep into Ukraine, far beyond the goals of national interest.

By December 1941, Romanian troops were freezing outside Kiev and the shores of the black sea, having suffered horrific casualties. The economy had been completely militarized, and inflation soared. While Germany consumed our oil and food, Romanian civilians bore the brunt of shortages. Worse still, Antonescu's regime began the mass deportation and extermination of Jews in Bessarabia and Transnistria. Pogroms in Iași and other towns left tens of thousands dead, often at the hands of their neighbors. These crimes would stain our history forever.

Romania had become a prison with gilded bars—a nominal ally of the Reich, but in truth little more than a colony supplying cannon fodder, oil, and grain. Antonescu, always the soldier, had placed all hopes on a German victory. But the signs were already darkening. The Soviets had been prepared and Germany's planned lighting campaign stagnated. And by December 1941, the United States had entered the war.

Romania had bet everything—and as I would come to understand in the cold clarity of later years—it had done so not from strength or vision, but from fear, desperation, and the willful blindness of men who mistook Hitler's favor for salvation.

History rarely asks permission before changing course. It does not warn its victims. It does not coddle its heroes. It moves with the suddenness of lightning and the weight of avalanche. And on December 16, 1941, history moved.

First came the voice of the Pope—cracking through the Vatican airwaves like divine thunder—declaring not neutrality, nor peace, but a crusade. A holy war, no less, against the pagan horror of Hitler's Germany. The cardinals behind him wept. Radios across Europe shorted from shock. The Axis trembled. The Allies froze. And then came the unthinkable.

Mussolini, having used the war to carve an empire in the Mediterranean declared war on Germany. While he gave his speech, he had his aircraft bomb Ploiești. The Italians—Germany's supposed Axis ally—reduced the lifeblood of Romania's oil industry and Germany's war machine to a smoking ruin.

The government convulsed. Antonescu's cabinet turned pale. The phones rang endlessly in Bucharest. The Wehrmacht command demanded action. The streets filled with rumors—"The Duce has gone mad," "The Pope has declared war," "Italy and Bulgaria are attacking!"

King Michael, barely more than a boy, grasped the moment with a cunning none had expected. He summoned Antonescu to the royal palace the morning of December 17, as smoke from Ploiești still hung low over the countryside like a funeral shroud. "We will be next," the king said. "Do not be Hitler's fool. Declare war on Germany now. While there is still time." And against the instincts of his iron discipline, Antonescu did.

That same afternoon, Romania declared war on Nazi Germany.

The Iron Guard saw this as betrayal. They had always despised Antonescu's pragmatism and the king's feeble liberalism. On the night of December 18, the Guard struck. Armed with German money, weapons, and Blackshirt advisors, they stormed the royal palace. The king was arrested, his staff murdered. The tricolor was torn from the flagpoles, replaced with the Iron Guard's sigil of death and resurrection.

But even in death, the monarchy's shadow lingered.

Italy, Hungary, and Bulgaria all formally joined the war against Germany and its collaborators by December 20. Italy and Hungary poured troops into Transylvania and Bessarabia. But Bulgaria, bogged down due to resistance in Serbia and Drobuja chose a different path: vengeance from above. Day and night, their bombers pounded what was left of Ploiești, flattening depots, roads, refineries, and leaving thousands dead. The air reeked of fuel and fire.

Then, on Christmas Day, Romania launched its first offensive since World War I—into Dobrudja.

With the Iron Guard consumed by paranoia and purges in Bucharest, the Romanian Army—fractured but burning with vengeance—stormed across the Danube. Bulgarian units, under-equipped and out of position due to ongoing Romanian resistance, reeled under the pressure. Romanian partisans rose in the countryside. For a moment, it looked as though Dobrudja might be liberated.

But Italy had not bombed Ploiești for pleasure. Their agents and advisors had embedded themselves across their Rome pact allies, preparing for precisely this scenario. Armed with modern weapons, poison gas, and ruthless doctrine, Italian advisors, bombers and Paratroopers arrived to reinforce the Bulgarians. The skies turned green and yellow with chemical clouds. Romanian battalions died choking in fields of mud and ash. The peasantry was not spared. Thousands of ethnic Romanians were expelled from Dobrudja to Romania, many into the freezing Danube waters. In a cynical echo of the Byzantines, Serbs were resettled to take their place, carving out a Slavic buffer zone where Romanians once lived.

As the south burned, the north broke.

On the Hungarian border, the German 4th Army—already weakened by desertion and poor morale—collapsed outright by New Year's Eve. German officers defected. SS units retreated toward the Carpathians. Into this vacuum stormed the Hungarian Honvédség. They swept into northern Transylvania and met little resistance.

But the true storm was within. On January 2, 1942, as Hungarian forces advanced toward Bucharest, a counter-coup erupted. It was not royalist. Not military. It was organized. The OVRA—Mussolini's secret police—had spent weeks coordinating with underground royalists, old officers, and liberal students. The Iron Guard was caught mid-purge. By dawn, their barracks were on fire. Key leaders were arrested in their beds. Hundreds were executed by firing squad without trial.

The Hungarian advance was greeted not with resistance—but with relief. Bucharest was liberated without a shot. The king was freed, emaciated but alive. He re-entered the capital flanked by Hungarian and Romanian officers, the crowds cheering wildly. Antonescu, found hiding in a monastery near Sinaia, was arrested but spared—for now.

With the Iron Guard dead, the road east opened. By mid-January, Hungarian and Romanian units pressed into Northern Bukovina and Bessarabia, re-occupying towns long since abandoned by the Wehrmacht. Romanian flags flew again in Chișinău and Cernăuți. Old men wept. Children saluted the king's portrait. The dream of Greater Romania wasn't dead.

But dreams demand payment.

In Moscow, there was fury. Stalin had hoped to annex Bessarabia after the war. Now Romanian troops were planting their boots back into Soviet-claimed soil. A confrontation seemed inevitable. But fate, for once, was merciful. In Yalta later that month, the issue was raised. Mussolini, ever the pragmatist, proposed a compromise: Romania would keep Bukovina and Bessarabia—but the regions would be demilitarized, under Soviet monitoring. Stalin, eyeing eastern Europe and asia, agreed. For now.

Thus, in six weeks, Romania had fallen, risen, and transformed. From Axis satellite to crusading monarchy. From Nazi collaborator to liberator. From a divided, dying state to a fractured but defiant nation reborn. The scars of betrayal still ached. The smell of burning oil lingered. The Iron Guard's ghosts would haunt the cellars of Bucharest for decades.

But we had survived. And for the first time in many years—we had chosen our side.

 

[DarthLurtz]

Amazing new chapter! Outstanding job my friend!!! Can we please have more???

 

[Solar Mechanis]

Finally caught up. I'll say it's interesting. Do you actually reply on QQ or just AH?

Curious to see how many scientists, engineers and technology they can steal from the corpse of Germany. Italian Panthers and Jets would be interesting. Also maybe Nuclear research. Seeing as SI knows what the Americans have, he should make his own bombs before the US does a funny and nukes Rome.

 

[0zymandias]

This is really good, I like the fact that people actually recognise him as the insane mad man he is. And not just accept him as sacrosanct. Also your prose is really skillful and poetic and ways