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The Third Reich: The Return of the King
November 11, 1918.
A cold mist clung to the fields of northern France as General Ferdinand Foch's command train rumbled toward the front. Inside his private carriage, the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the weariness of years of war. The table before him was cluttered with maps, reports, and the endless stream of telegrams that had carried victory and loss in equal measure.
When the latest dispatch was handed to him, the Marshal of France did not read it casually. His sharp eyes traced each word, and with every line, the veins in his temple tightened. At last, he slammed the paper down on the table.
"Bring me the representatives of the German Reich," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The guards straightened immediately. They did not ask questions. In the presence of Foch—Marshal of France, commander of six million men on the Western Front, the man who had driven the Germans back step by bloody step—obedience was instinct.
Moments later, two nervous officers ushered in a German delegate. He was a weary-looking man in a creased uniform, his face pale from sleepless nights and the humiliation of defeat. He had expected the French marshal to sneer at him, perhaps mock him as other victors might. But what he saw instead was fury—a fury so sharp it seemed ready to cut through the air itself.
"Deputy," Foch said coldly, "your Reich will give me an explanation for this."
The German stiffened, unsure whether he had misheard. "An… explanation, Excellency? For what matter?"
His mind raced. The armistice had been signed; the war, for all practical purposes, was over. Did the French intend to tear up the agreement? To march their armies east and carve up what was left of Germany? Instinctively, his heart hardened. Yes, they had surrendered, but five million German soldiers still lived—soldiers who, if cornered, would fight to the death for their Fatherland.
Foch's lips curled. "Do not play the fool. See for yourself."
He flung a folded telegram onto the table. Without waiting for the German to pick it up, he struck a match, lit his cigar, and leaned back, watching with the quiet menace of a man who knew the balance of power was in his hands.
The German delegate unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned the words, and for a heartbeat he forgot where he was. Surprise widened his gaze; then, unmistakably, a flicker of joy shone there.
He mastered himself quickly. He was in French territory—enemy territory. The joy drained away, replaced by a mask of stern neutrality. Yet the effort was wasted. Foch had already seen.
The French Marshal exhaled a cloud of smoke. "So," he muttered, "you are not so broken as you pretend."
The telegram was brief, but its words cut like bayonets:
This afternoon, our forces were attacked by German troops near Bastogne. The 18th Division of the Ninth Army was caught unprepared—casualties: 1,126 dead, 2,457 wounded. The Bastogne sector remains in German hands.
Foch's hand clenched around his cigar until ash spilled onto the carpet.
It was not merely the losses that stoked his anger. Battles were won and lost every day in war. No—the insult lay in the last line. Bastogne still belongs to the Germans.
For a man like Foch, a man who had spent four years fighting to reclaim every inch of France, it was a humiliation he could not tolerate.
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