The snows of Tyrol had melted into rivers that rushed down from the mountains, feeding the valleys with the promise of spring.
But in Berlin, the air carried no promise, only the sour tang of tension. Reports arrived daily from the frontier.
French guns "training" too close to the border, shells "straying" into German trenches, patrols cut down in the dead of night.
Bruno sat at the long oak table of the General Staff, his uniform immaculate, his face carved in stone.
Around him, voices clashed like sabers.
"They've killed twenty men this month!" one general barked, fist striking the table hard enough to rattle the inkpots.
"How long do we endure this farce? Are our soldiers to sit idle while the French butcher them under the pretense of drills?"
Another joined in, voice sharp with fury.
"We have every right to retaliate in kind. One barrage across the line would silence their arrogance."
