18 May 1918 – Versailles, France
Dungerman was glad for the sunny Sunday as he remembered the aircraft touching down on the large fields just outside the French palace. Coming to the ground and realizing that he and the Romanovs travelled almost 3500 miles in barely a week, it had to be some sort of record. He truly wondered how fast someone might travel around the world with the new technologies, maybe someday travel by air would be as common as that by train. For now the exhilaration of flight was replaced by the solidity of ground – he was happy to be back on terra firma, as were the other passengers. Truly impressive was the multinational honor guard to welcome Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, Nicholas II Romanov, and his three daughters. Tatiana and Maria were already present and hugged their sister then their father. A picture snapped at the moment they all embraced would make headlines the world over, Dungerman noted to himself that he should like a copy someday. His own role in the war was enough to make him one of the ‘Twelve Apostles’ to be specially awarded Prussia’s highest medal in person by the Kaiser himself. Of all of the recipients only twelve would win it as non-noblemen, and the Oberst’s uniform found for him was promptly shoved his way. Surprisingly it fit rather well, perhaps senior officers got tailors and measurements, he mused, but the hat was somewhat too small. A familiar face stepped into the opposite side of the quickly-erected shack for the use of dress uniforms. He recognized the step, height, gruff voice, and demeanor of his commanding officer Prince Ruprecht of Bavaria, now his noble senior, as he approached. “It fits rather well, except for the hat. Apparently your head is bigger than I thought”.
“Should the metaphor become true remind me quickly that I can make amends”.
Ruprecht laughed. “Oh you know I will, Herzog, you know I will. Somehow I doubt it will be a problem for you though, if anything I wonder about you being too humble and setting a bad example for the rest of us. Where is your pin”?
“My pin”?
Ruprecht swiveled to his left and showed a trumpet with a bulge in the center, slightly sticking out of the collar and very easily mistaken for a particular medal of a minor German state if one did not know *exactly* what to look for. “I believe you got a chance to visit the salt church so deep underground”?
It was not a dream after all. “I’m not sure what cocktail you gave me afterwards but the headache was truly atrocious. I’d love the recipe in the future as to know what to serve people I do not like”.
“Easy, the main ingredients are absinthe, dendrotoxin, a smidgen of fugu poison, a small amount of ether, with a splash of tequila and champagne. But you can sample it again later if you wish, for now you are expected before the Kaiser himself”.
“Yes, sir”.
“And you get the final place as well, apparently you are being given medals from France and the Russian government-in-exile as well”.
“Yes, sir”.
“Remember that you reflect on your family, your state, me, and your country. Given where we are I am giving you a pair of ‘slap gloves’ laden with powdered lead and hard bakelite pads at the knuckles, they might come in handy if you run into any more rogue bodyguards”, as he chuckled.
“Yes, sir”. The crisp white gloves easily weighed five times that of the cotton ones he traded for them. They also fit…well, like gloves…
A page came into the area and waved his arm for the men to walk forward, “Your Kaiser awaits”!
The bright sunny fields were in stark contrast to the dark shack with electric lighting that made details somewhat difficult to see. By peering into the distance Dungerman watched trucks arrive and fill out the back of the enormous crowd – easily forty thousand people from Germany, France, Britain, and Austria at least – but too many were sneezing and coughing for the situation to be mere coincidence. He kept his eyes forward as his peripheral vision watched a few dozen walking amongst the crowd sneezing almost continually, hacking and coughing in the interim under the noise of the military bands playing various pieces of music from the American Battle Hymn of the Republic to La Marseilles (Ironically written by a man who, if born today, would be German, he thought) to Watch Over the Rhine. He also saw a scarred man walking among the crowd looking at various people in his front and rear as though they were steaks or targets, upon stopping for field inspection he mumbled something to the field guard who shook his head, ‘no’ as did the second one Dungerman tried to signal. His own men were mixed among the crowd and got the messages, disappearing and not reemerging visibly but blending in among the tourists, witnesses, and even the dignitaries. After completion of the third marching song by the brass section, the Imperial court began to play Mozart as Kaiser Wilhelm II emerged from a building behind and north of the large raised conference table in the center of the field. Dungerman had faced away from it when he walked into the field, seeing it only as he turned to face Wilhelm upon his approach. Already seated were the representatives of France, Britain, Italy, Sweden, Spain, Bulgaria, the various Commonwealth states, and the United States. Germany would be seated last as the Emperors and Presidents themselves emerged one by one, decorating the various heroes of their nations for all to see. It was an attempt at a propaganda coup, though in typical megalomaniacal fashion one that threatened to backlash as arrogance and grandstanding more than its intended purpose, Dungerman thought.
One by one, the ‘Twelve Apostles’ were awarded the Pour le Merite, ending with Dungerman himself. He stood as straight as a board as the ribbon was placed over his neck. A round of applause, hearty and louder with every breath, continued and drowned out any other audible noise. Kaiser Wilhelm raised his arms and hands, calling the crowd to silence. Dungerman could see Anastasia near the front of the crowd barricaded by guards carrying pump-action shotguns. As the crowd grew silent, the Kaiser lowered his arms. He looked Dungerman in the eye, saying simply, “Kneel”. As his left knee touched the ground, the Kaiser continued, “Some of you have heard of the recent actions of this young man, delving deeply into Russia against Communists, militias, and brigands of untold numbers. Against all odds, he masterminded the daring rescue of the Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, bringing to bear the strategic planning, coordination, staging, execution, and successful retrieval of a state leader against all possible odds with barely forty men. Assaulting a fortified headquarters and successfully liberating four members of the Romanov family, who are with us here today…”, the applause and cheering evident and uninterrupted for about a quarter-minute, then dying down once again, “…you show us what one man can truly do, or as it is said in Latin Suum Cirque. In doing so you brought my cousin and his children home to his family, and in doing so display the virtue and bravery we so often speak of but only see occasionally in our lifetimes. Oberst Augustus Dungerman of Saxony, Herzog of the Palatinate, it is my honor to welcome you to a circle of your peers – I hereby award you the Order of the Black Eagle and all responsibilities, rights, and privileges therein. Stand and be recognized”! As the Kaiser lifted his left arm into the air, his hand passing about the level of Dungerman’s shoulder, the glint of metal appeared in the crowd from the right side. Dungerman looked over, straining his eyes to see the short-barreled Fusil Automatique Rifle and watching the man’s hand begin to tighten. The distance might have been 100 meters, maybe 75, and the first guard had only caught sight of the man hiding behind two others when the shot began to cycle.
Instinctively, Dungerman pressed his one leg forward and tackled the Kaiser into the field ahead, drawing three guards to bring shotguns to bear as one found his head somewhat ventilated with the second shot. The others rapidly drug the Emperor away, blood pouring from the top of his arm indicating a bullet meant his neck that had only just missed. A sensation began to emerge, the world around him slowed down first only a little then somewhat more, to perhaps a quarter or fifth the speed he would normally perceive. ‘Here we go’, he thought, ‘Time slows down. The world gets sharp. And I become strong’. He looked over at the two bruisers guarding the shooter, running so fast the assassin believed he simply teleported. Tackling the entire trio, he proceeded to take his fist and fracture the assassin’s jaw in one blow forcing him to see double. One bruiser began to rise only to fall as the assassin pulled the trigger on his rifle, thinking he hit Dungerman but instead hitting the ‘double’ and killing his own man. As the second bruiser began to rise he reached into his coat as Dungerman put one foot forward and gave him a punch square in the sternum. It knocked the ogre back – the man had to weigh no less than 120kg – but only seemed to anger him. He pulled a Mannlicher pistol from his pocket as Dungerman used ‘a trick from the Turk’, swiveling his hips and roundhouse kicking the man square in the end of the volar bone in the nose and tip of his jaw, breaking the end third of his nose almost clean away from his face and causing the man to howl in pain. Blood poured from his teeth as he spit four of them out only to turn as a fist found its way into his remaining nasal socket. The unearthly ‘crunch’ was followed by copious sanguine liberation, the pain enough to subdue the large man as he crumpled to the ground like a wet bag of onions. Dungerman noted his own vision beginning to tunnel when a pain like that of being hit by a small log swing in the chest came to the upper part of his back and rear of his head, knocking him to the ground.
A large man with a Glascow smile stood over Dungerman and put one foot atop his chest. He held an American Colt pistol as he leveled it to Dungerman’s head. The French accent of German was unmistakable though the words were intelligible. “Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name”. Dungerman nodded no. “Then what’s confusing you may be the nature of this game”. Dungerman nodded yes. “We will always have Paris, asshole”. It was the smile – one of the brothers who tried to rape the daughter of the Chief of Police. “We will kill the Czar and his daughters”. Anastasia screamed in vain. “And bring liberation to Europe. Russia was the first, soon enough the Commune in the center will spread, eventually engulfing Germany. I will personally find and extinguish –your– family for two generations in every direction, we have already begun with your nephew and sister”. Now he was just trying to provoke a reaction, and doing a damn good job of it. “We managed to switch her anaesthetic for childbirth with formaldehyde, if nothing else it was a fairly quick death. Your remaining family members will die a bit more slowly, and if I’m in a good mood you’ll get to watch as a cripple. Pray I miss…”
“KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY MAN”! Rapid blasts from a pump action shotgun turned the man’s head into hamburger along with the torso of the bruiser next to him and another Dungerman had not even seen. Another man in the back of the crowd went down as well, Anastasia reached down and helped pull Dungerman to his feet. She pulled him into her face and kissed him, the adrenaline making the kiss far warmer and thicker than otherwise expected. She leaned into his ear, whispering, “I love you and have no intention of waiting five years or five days, this time next year I want you holding our first child. We start trying tonight, understand”? Dungerman blushed and nodded, speechless, as she kissed him again, pulling away with a devilish smile. She reloaded the shotgun round by round, he guessed she was emulating one of the guards, and began hunting the remaining terrorists down. An explosion in the background was followed by a second then a third, apparently using people as both triggers and explosive devices themselves. Anastasia began looking around, then screamed, “Look for black wires just under the collars and bulges in the side of the chest! Stop the maniacs before…”
A single gunshot rang out from the hand of a man in a tuxedo who looked more like a diplomat than a soldier, Anastasia fell as the bullet went through her back and out her chest opposite the heart. Dungerman turned and saw her father build quickly into a homicidal rage, clasping his hand around something semi-transparent and probably about 2/3 the size of a chicken egg. He held the smooth end, the sharp edges jutting out at the palm as the ‘diplomat’s’ face repeatedly crunched under the berserker strength and Viking rage of a father mourning the death of two children and now likely about to do the same for a third. He hit the man so hard and so fast that his screams rapidly deteriorated from loud sharp wails to moaning to…gurgling…and the leftovers of the man’s face emerged as more of a work of Cubist art than a recognizable human face. Eight men ran up to Nicholas, four on each side and all facing his front as he pocketed the object in question. Nicholas drew two loaded Luger pistols, aimed ahead, shot twice and killed two men, flanked his arms out slightly and shot twice more to kill two more men, began to kneel as he shot twice more and killed another two before they could clear their pistols from their pockets, and knelt into a roll as he shot the final two before they could fire accurately. Nicholas looked at the ground and pointed a gun at Dungerman, recognizing friend from foe at only the very last second, and moving to Anastasia’s side. Dungerman looked over and ran to her too.
“Alexei and Victoria...I would have named our first son Alexei and our first daughter Victoria...”, she said, growing cold as the bleeding continued unabated. Her sister Tatania came over wailing and in tears, her father moving somewhere between mourning and completely homicidal. Anastasia looked Dungerman in the eye. “I do. Please, say it”.
With tears in his eyes he found the love for her she had not known nor could he confirm. “I do”.
She peckishly kissed him briefly. “Three things, then”. She groaned and knew her time was short. “Look after my family as you would your own, including my father”?
“Yes, my love”.
“My love…why oh why could you not have said it before this…”, she groaned again, now starting to grow visibly pale, “Mind the children and innocents whenever you can, the unfortunates have suffered enough and another war looms…you are a fighter, a precision instrument, and your war...is not over...”, her groaning louder and longer as her complexion began to fade, as did the light in her previously starry eyes.
Dungerman nodded as Anastasia took Tatania’s hand and put it into Dungerman’s. She looked at her sister, “If in five years you do not find someone to make you happy, or before that if you can, make each other happy. Maybe you will find…what it means to love…as I did…kiss me, Augustus…”. Anastasia Romanov died with her lips around those of the one man who captured her heart as her sister cried and crumpled into Dungerman’s arms. Tatiana and Augustus held each other tightly as they wept in unison, her makeup washing away on his shoulder just as Anastasia's blood soaked his trousers. Nicholas II wept, became solemn, then unexpectedly screamed in unholy rage. Dungerman saw one remaining armed man in a partial mask look up, shake his head ‘no’, drop his weapon, and quickly disappear.
Less than ten minutes later, the Kaiser appeared with his arm in a sling, looking straight at Dungerman. “You saved my life and perhaps that of the entire leadership here. How can I…”, he looked over at the dead Grand Duchess, “Mein Gott…”, he exclaimed, “Nicholas, I am so sorry…”. Nicholas balled his fists and acted as though he were ready to pummel the Kaiser – a surely suicidal move as the guards around him carefully moved their hands to the triggers of their shotguns – but then Nicholas simply broke down and cried with his head in his hands. Kaiser Wilhelm paused, walked over and embraced his cousin with his good/right arm still in full dress regalia, an exceptional sign of warmth from an otherwise emotionally cold man.
It was a photograph taken at that moment with Kaiser Wilhelm in full dress regalia holding a mourning Tsar Nicholas in his finest clothes would come to signify the birth of this post-war Europe for generations.