May 3, 1941 Paris, Occupied France.
Field Marshal Erwin von Witzleben paced the floor in his office. He was deep in contemplation. He had been doing that a lot lately. The plan had been prepared meticulously, like an axe waiting to fall upon those who would doom The Fatherland to servitude to the likes of the Russian savages and the incompetent British and Americans. On the headsman block were most of the high command. Hitler, Goebbels, Himmler, Goering. Those loyal to Germany had set it up well enough. Hitler would arrive in 3 days, and within roughly 2 hours of his death the lot of the Command would be dead, if the plan held true. His throat and mouth were dry, he had looked over the plans for Operation Barbarossa, it was madness, though he could never say so out loud. The axe had been placed and the replacements picked carefully whether they knew it or not. Speer was a good man, he would make a good leader, he was more moderate then most. Witzleben had been considered as the new Fuhrer, as had Admiral Donitz. He wanted no part of the new regime personally, but then again he didn’t expect to survive the attempt on Hitler’s life. Three days until it happened, three days until the world would change forever. He reached for a glass of water to ease his mouth’s dryness. He had a feeling it wouldn’t help.
May 6, 1941: Paris.
Adolf Hitler watched with a forced smile as the troops below paraded on one of Paris’s wide streets. He cared for all of Germany’s soldiers of course but his mind was on other things. Off to the east the massive army he had gathered was still building and preparing. The Russian untermesh would be conquered and subjugated as the French, Belgians, Danes and so on had been. They would make good hewers of wood and fetchers of water. Beyond his notice the Field Marshal Witzleben walked to the review stand, a good enough man but…. He noticed something was off. Events seemed to happened almost instantly, Witzleben raised a sub-machine gun and fired a burst at him. Hitler fell to the ground, his hand resting on his chest. He lifted it weakly, so much blood….was it his? His hand fell heavily. Witzleben was shot as well falling boneless to the ground. Hitler also noted by his guards but some guards seemed to fight the ones helping him. Betrayal, could it be. A coup? Hitler wanted to be angry, wanted to speak…He could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Was this to be how the great Adolf Hitler died? Gunned down by a cowardly turncoat. No, impossible. There was so much yet to do….So much…His eyes were so heavy….he closed them…just for a moment…just a…..
Field Marshal Erwin von Witzleben paced the floor in his office. He was deep in contemplation. He had been doing that a lot lately. The plan had been prepared meticulously, like an axe waiting to fall upon those who would doom The Fatherland to servitude to the likes of the Russian savages and the incompetent British and Americans. On the headsman block were most of the high command. Hitler, Goebbels, Himmler, Goering. Those loyal to Germany had set it up well enough. Hitler would arrive in 3 days, and within roughly 2 hours of his death the lot of the Command would be dead, if the plan held true. His throat and mouth were dry, he had looked over the plans for Operation Barbarossa, it was madness, though he could never say so out loud. The axe had been placed and the replacements picked carefully whether they knew it or not. Speer was a good man, he would make a good leader, he was more moderate then most. Witzleben had been considered as the new Fuhrer, as had Admiral Donitz. He wanted no part of the new regime personally, but then again he didn’t expect to survive the attempt on Hitler’s life. Three days until it happened, three days until the world would change forever. He reached for a glass of water to ease his mouth’s dryness. He had a feeling it wouldn’t help.
May 6, 1941: Paris.
Adolf Hitler watched with a forced smile as the troops below paraded on one of Paris’s wide streets. He cared for all of Germany’s soldiers of course but his mind was on other things. Off to the east the massive army he had gathered was still building and preparing. The Russian untermesh would be conquered and subjugated as the French, Belgians, Danes and so on had been. They would make good hewers of wood and fetchers of water. Beyond his notice the Field Marshal Witzleben walked to the review stand, a good enough man but…. He noticed something was off. Events seemed to happened almost instantly, Witzleben raised a sub-machine gun and fired a burst at him. Hitler fell to the ground, his hand resting on his chest. He lifted it weakly, so much blood….was it his? His hand fell heavily. Witzleben was shot as well falling boneless to the ground. Hitler also noted by his guards but some guards seemed to fight the ones helping him. Betrayal, could it be. A coup? Hitler wanted to be angry, wanted to speak…He could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Was this to be how the great Adolf Hitler died? Gunned down by a cowardly turncoat. No, impossible. There was so much yet to do….So much…His eyes were so heavy….he closed them…just for a moment…just a…..