Patton nodded sharply. Hayes was right. The Germans had layered the château’s ground level with sandbag bulwarks thick enough to stop even American .30-06 rounds. The narrow medieval street leading up to the building was flanked by half-collapsed houses that the Germans had rigged into secondary firing positions. It was as if the entire neighborhood had been redesigned for a single purpose: to kill anyone foolish enough to cross it.

  The artillery had, of course, taken it as a prime target from the moment the gun park was set up five miles behind the main frontline, but the only thing the barrage achieved apart from damaging the structure was to create even more cover for the defenders. The Chateau would have to be taken the old-fashioned way, as had been seen at the battle of Verdun the year before. You could shell a position to oblivion; it never changed the fact that infantry had to come in and wrest it from the defender.

  “We go through the houses,” Patton said, pointing with his revolver toward a row of half-demolished stone dwellings hugging the château’s western wall. “Door to door, wall to wall, until we reach that window just above the timbered support. They didn’t block it fully; see the shadow? That’s our entry.”

  Hayes squinted. “Sir, that’s suicide.” Patton grinned in a quick, feral flash. “Lieutenant, if it were suicide, I’d send the British.” Abe Taylor snorted despite himself. Mortar shells whined overhead, detonating behind them. Dust sifted from the ruined rafters.

  Patton stood. “Fix bayonets! On my signal!” The Americans surged into motion. Hayes led the first squad across the rubble, diving into the blown-out husk of a baker’s house. Patton followed, squeezing through the ruined doorway, the building groaning under the weight of war. Broken ovens lay overturned, flour still drifting like ghostly smoke from the debris.

  German bullets shredded the doorway as the Americans disappeared inside. “Next room!” Hayes barked. They punched through a half-collapsed partition wall, entering what had once been a tailor’s shop. Mannequins lay scattered and riddled with holes. A German machine gun rattled from the château’s flank, tearing stone from the far wall.

  “Push up!” Patton shouted. The third building required climbing because its staircase was gone, and the Americans hauled themselves through a splintered upper window, emerging onto a tilted second floor that leaned dangerously toward the château. From here, the sandbag-filled lower embrasure was only twenty yards away.

  A German shouted from the château wall. Rifles cracked. “Down!” Hayes yelled, dragging a private aside as chips of stone flew across the room. Patton crawled to the edge and threw out a hand signal. Two men pulled up a Lewis gun. “Pour it in!” The Lewis gunner fired in a staccato roar, sweeping the embrasure. German helmets ducked behind the sandbags. “Hayes! On me!” Patton roared.

  They made their dash out the window, across a narrow beam bridging the gap between ruin and château wall. German rifles barked, splinters rained, and Patton’s coat tore as a bullet grazed past. He leapt onto the château’s outer ledge, landing hard. Hayes followed, scrambling up behind him. The embrasure loomed inches away. German shouts rang out from inside.

  Patton pulled the pin of a grenade with his teeth. “For God and the 2nd Division!” He shoved it through the sandbag slit. The blast tore through the embrasure, throwing sandbags and debris outward. Smoke rolled out of the hole. “Go!” Patton barked.

  Hayes scrambled through the smoking gap first, Springfield raised. Patton followed, revolver in hand, boots hitting stone as he entered the dim interior of the château—its last redoubt breached by sheer audacity. Behind them, the rest of the company poured forward.

  The assault on Chateaubriant had begun.

  (…) Infanterie-Regiment Graf Schwerin, 444 Section (…)

  “The fucking Yankees are inside the castle!” yelled a runner who had come in to warn crusty Sergeant Wilhelm, busy encouraging his men to fire at the approaching American soldiers. The room they were in had been a piano room (the thing was still there, but half-destroyed) at one point, but had been transformed into a redoubt with a firing position from the large window. “What the hell, those bastards in the 5th Section can’t defend properly or what? “I don’t know, Sergeant, but Lieutenant Hiller from the 5th said it’s urgent! They are inside, and he won’t be able to stop them without your help.” “Fine,” grumbled the NCO. “You,” he pointed to a soldier. “Go warn the Lieutenant we’re vacating our position to go help the 5th Section.” “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Dantz, get the new guys ready.” Private Soldier Oskar Dantz was the only remaining veteran, along with the crusty NCO, in the entire section. The battles of the last six months had thoroughly eviscerated the unit. The other soldiers in their section of ten men lifted themselves up, wide-eyed and eager. The new recruits were raw, but some of them looked steady enough, and Oskar felt confident about going into battle with them, compared to the last batch who had died at Nort-sur-Edre a month ago.

  “Move!” Sergeant Wilhelm barked, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and grabbing one of the recruits by the collar to get him going. The piano room shook as another American grenade detonated somewhere in the southern wing of the castle. Dust rained down. The recruits hesitated for half a second, glancing at the window where they had been firing. “Forget the window! The bastards are inside!” Wilhelm snarled, pushing them toward the door.

  Dantz led the way down the corridor, bayonet fixed, boots sliding on the polished wood floor now littered with plaster shards. The 444’s knew these hallways better than anyone; they had spent the last two days fortifying them, blocking doors, stacking sandbags, and turning salons into kill-boxes. But now the Americans had broken through the 5th Section’s defenses near the lower kitchens and were pushing up the servants’ staircase like a flood of angry ants.

  The landsers turned left at the portrait hall, past the torn canvas of some French aristocrat whose powdered face had been ripped by shrapnel. “Dantz, take point! And you idiots, keep your rifles up! I want fire ready!” Wilhelm shouted behind him.

  As Dantz reached the stairwell entrance, a panicked 5th Section soldier nearly crashed into him. “They’re inside! Lieutenant Hiller is down! There is a whole mess of them, and they broke our barricade!”

  Dantz didn’t hesitate. He pushed down the narrow staircase, the recruits behind him. Smoke stung his eyes. The lower level was chaos, with shots echoing from stone walls, English-yelled commands, and boots rushing over broken tiles.

  He reached the bottom, just in time to see three American soldiers dragging an injured comrade through a blown-open pantry doorway. Another two were firing wildly toward the remains of 5th Section’s position, where only three Graf Schwerin men still held on, crouched behind a shattered wine rack.

  Then he saw the officer leading them. Tall, angular, face streaked with dust, helmet dented. He was firing his ivory-handled revolver with terrifying precision, each shot forcing the remaining Germans to duck back. For a moment, he thought the man was a cowboy like in the movie reels.

  Sergeant Wilhelm pushed forward, aimed over Dantz’s shoulder, and fired two rounds. One American dropped instantly. Another stumbled. Patton spun around at the sound, eyes flaring with recognition, seeing he was flanked.

  (…) The brawl (…)

  “444’s!” Wilhelm roared. “Forward! Attack!” The new recruits, adrenaline boiling, surged after Dantz as he charged into the kitchen ruins. Bayonets flashed. The Americans reeled backward, trying to form a line, but the pressure from both sides was too much.

  Patton fired twice more, then Hayes grabbed his arm. “Sir! We need to go! They’re surrounding us!” Patton hesitated, glaring at Dantz across the rubble-strewn floor. For a heartbeat, neither man moved, two soldiers from opposite worlds locked in a silent dare.

  Then Patton’s jaw clenched. “Fall back! Go! Move!” Hayes pulled him toward the servants’ exit, two surviving Americans covering their retreat. Dantz lunged forward, nearly reaching Hayes’s coat, but a burst of American covering fire forced him to duck behind a toppled table.

  “They’re running!” Wilhelm shouted. “Keep pressure on them!” The 444 assault, along with forty more men from the reserve platoon, burst into the castle’s rear courtyard at that exact moment. Their boots thundered through the stone passageways, right behind Patton’s escape route. Rifle bolts snapped open. The Americans were caught dead-on in a perfect enfilade.

  But Patton, Hayes, and the last two soldiers sprinted through a shattered servant doorway, disappearing into the thick smoke outside as bullets smashed the plaster around them. Dantz fired one last shot after them, hitting the wall inches from Hayes's head. The bullets landed close, but not close enough.

  The courtyard fell silent except for the groans of the wounded and the crackle of small fires. Wilhelm lowered his rifle. “Dantz … next time, we finish the job.” Dantz nodded, chest heaving, sweat running down his temples. He stared at the doorway where the tall American officer had escaped. Next time, he thought. Definitely.

  Minsk

  11th Bavarian Division in the suburbs, May 16th, 1916

  “Yes, General. The 45th Battalion has moved into this sector here,” pointed Paul von Kneussl’s second-in-command, Colonel Eric Vanderheim. “What of Colonel Strobl’s artillery?” “Setting up as we speak, Sir; The guns should be ready to provide support within a few hours, although the shell supply situation is tenuous at best.”

  Von Kneussel grunted. His division had moved fast. Quicker, in fact, than most of the army. Thus, by default more than by intent, the 11th Bavarian was at the vanguard of the German advance. Not as part of a grouping of units. It was the very tip of the offensive. The Russian troops had been literally melting before his men as they advanced. They’d encountered several groups of deserters, or soldiers without weapons or ammo – all ripe for surrender, following a few firm demands.

  “What of the city itself in terms of defenders?” began the general. “Sir, the scouts have not yet returned. But we did have a fly-by by a fighter earlier, and it appears the Russians will be defending the city, Sir.” “Well, of course they are,” he answered, thinking it would have been too good to be true for a city of the size and importance of Minsk to be left without defenders. “The real question is, will they really fight?”

  Vanderheim shrugged his shoulders. “Well, Sir, we’ll only be able to assess that if we push in earnest inside the city and attack their prepared defenses.” Von Kneussl knew the Russians weren’t finished yet. Although they had units melting like snow under the summer sun, they still had many combat-capable troops, officers, and soldiers. The Tsarist military system was inherently uneven, in that some units were well supplied, while others went completely hungry and/or lacked ammunition or support.

  The only thing they could do was prepare to enter the city in earnest and test the enemy defenses. “Orders, General?” “Send the men in, we need to test the Yvans’ resolve and see what we’re up against. Also, make sure I get the scout reports as soon as they arrive.” “Yes, Sir.”

  In general, the German offensive in the Baltikum and Western Belarus was going quite well. The Reich had yet to encounter real resistance, although there were every indications that the Russians were heavily entrenched in Riga and in Minsk, which looked like they would be the linchpins of the Tsar’s defense.

  Summer in the area looked to be lively, and the outcome of the future fighting would decide the fate of the war in the western-most Russian Empire, and perhaps even the fate of the Empire itself if its forces could not turn the German tide threatening to engulf it.

  Spy Games

  Zurich, May 11th, 1916

  (…) 3 weeks before (…)

  Colonel Alexander Lavrov closed the heavy folder on his desk and let the silence stretch. Behind him, the weak Geneva sunlight filtered through lace curtains, painting his office in pale, fragile gold. The entire scene had a deceptive calm, given the storm gathering across Europe.

  Kornilov sat rigid in the chair opposite; Starsky leaned against the bookshelf, hands behind his back, expression tight. Lavrov finally spoke, his voice low, steady, and without ceremony. “Gentlemen, we are facing the gravest internal danger the Empire has seen since the Decembrists of 1825. And this time, it comes from a man far more dangerous than any officer-turned-reformer.” He paused, letting the name hang like a weight. “Lenin.” Kornilov’s jaw tightened. Starsky’s eyes flicked toward the map of Europe behind Lavrov’s shoulder. It showed the entire front, from Riga to Zhitomyr to Tarnopol near the Black Sea, marked by black pins showing German and Austro-Hungarian penetration into Russian territory. Lavrov rose, pacing slowly. “After last year’s defeats and the continuing enemy offensive deep into the Motherland, the Empire is badly shaken. What was once the borderlands, namely Poland, Lithuania, and Courland, are now German-occupied. Our armies retreat from the Western Dvina to Minsk and before Kiev. Every day I receive dispatches reporting desertions, mutinies, open defiance of officers.” He stopped, resting his hand on the samovar as if steadying himself. “The people are exhausted. The peasantry starves. The cities rot. One more jolt, and the whole national structure may collapse.” Kornilov inhaled sharply. He already knew the conclusion, but hearing Lavrov say it gave it the weight of fate. “And agitators,” Lavrov continued, “are pouring poison into the veins of the nation. Lenin is the deadliest. He has no loyalty, no nation, no conscience. Only ambition. And Berlin knows.” “I know, Sir, answered the former Russian general. “That is why Kühlmann sought him out. They want him back in the capital. They want him to light the fuse.” Starsky’s voice cut softly through the room. “So we stop the fuse.” Lavrov turned toward them. “Yes. Permanently.” He let the words settle. No euphemisms. No diplomatic language. “This is an order from the highest circle of the Okhrana. Lenin must not return to Russia. He must die here. In Switzerland.”

  Kornilov nodded once in a military gesture of absolute clarity. But Lavrov was not finished. “Your task is simple in words, but not in execution. Switzerland is crawling with spies, police, and foreign agents. One misstep and we start an international scandal.” He leaned forward. “But the Empire cannot survive a revolution in the middle of a foreign invasion. We are in retreat everywhere. Riga will fall, as well as Minsk. Vilna is lost, and the enemy could march as far as Smolensk, Kiev, and even, by the Tsar, to St. Petersburg. If Lenin returns during such a crisis, he will finish what Japan started in 1905.” He lowered his voice. “You two will stop him. Before Germany has time to move him.” Kornilov rose, straight-backed, ready. Starsky’s jaw set. Lavrov extended his hand. “This is for Russia.” Kornilov answered, “For Russia.” Starsky echoed, “For Russia.” The order was given.

  They left Lavrov’s office in silence, descending the stairwell and stepping into the cold Geneva air before speaking. Kornilov lit a cigarette, cupping the flame with his hands. Starsky stepped close. “We should assume Lenin is expecting surveillance,” Starsky said. “He’s too paranoid not to be.” Kornilov nodded. “He’ll move carefully, but he won’t hide. His work requires meetings. And meetings require visibility.” They walked along Rue de la Croix-d’Or, blending into the morning crowds. Geneva’s elegant streets masked their purpose well. Kornilov finally spoke again. “Where does Lenin go most often?” “The library on Promenade des Bastions,” Starsky replied. “The Café de la Terrasse. The socialist printing shop near Plainpalais. And, of course, Spiegelgasse 14.”

  Kornilov smiled grimly. “A creature of habit. Even revolutionaries have patterns.” Starsky continued, “If we strike in his apartment, the Swiss police will tear the entire neighborhood apart. Too risky.” “Not the apartment,” Kornilov agreed. “He must be struck outside. Walking. Crossing a street. Leaving a meeting.” Starsky nodded. “A pistol shot?” Kornilov hesitated. “No. Too loud. Too obvious. And our escape would fail.” Starsky thought for a moment before answering. “A staged accident. A carriage ‘loses control.’ A collision.” “Too unpredictable,” Kornilov countered. “Requires proximity. Requires timing.” Then Kornilov stopped walking. “We do it the way the Tsar’s enemies killed Stolypin. Close. Silent. Precise.” Starsky understood immediately. Pyotr Arkadyevich Stolypin was the Russian Empire’s most determined reformer in the final years before the Great War. Appointed Prime Minister in 1906 after the 1905 Revolution, he sought to stabilize the collapsing Tsarist regime through bold agrarian reforms, aiming to create a loyal class of independent farmers and weaken revolutionary movements. Fiercely authoritarian yet deeply pragmatic, he combined modernization with harsh repression, earning both admiration and hatred. His policies briefly strengthened Russia, but his assassination in 1911 deprived the empire of one of the last statesmen capable of steering it away from chaos.

  “A knife?” “A stiletto,” Kornilov said. “No gunshot. No echo. No powder burn. A quick thrust beneath the rib, up into the lung. He collapses. We disappear into the crowd.” Starsky considered it, then nodded. “And where?” Kornilov gestured north. “Spiegelgasse. He always leaves in the late afternoon to walk toward Limmatquai.” “Crowded,” Starsky said. “Too crowded.” “Yes,” Kornilov said. “Which is why no one will notice two men behind him.” Starsky allowed himself a thin smile. “Like wolves hunting a goat.” Kornilov paused. “We must also ensure that the Germans do not intervene. They may already be planning to extract him.” Starsky’s expression hardened. “Then we strike before they move.” Kornilov crushed his cigarette under his heel. “Tomorrow at dusk. When the shadows are long on Spiegelgasse.” “And if he is with companions?” “Then we wait. We follow. We take him alone.” Both men turned toward the lake, the wind biting at their coats. The plan was simple. Brutal. Effective. And if successful, it would change Russia's fate. Starsky said it aloud. “We kill the man. And perhaps save the Empire.” Kornilov answered, “Or we die trying.”