"Will you stand by and watch this fleet be destroyed by greed and fear, Admiral?!" Meindl shouted, his voice echoing through the room.
The admiral stared at the floor, his face a mask of bitter contemplation. He knew the British. He knew their doctrine. If they could not have the French fleet, they would turn it into a graveyard.
"The British," he cursed, his fist clenching until the knuckles turned white. "They would fire on their own allies before letting a single ship sail under a different flag. They have no right."
Niemann and Gustaf exchanged an optimistic glance, but the admiral's head snapped up, his eyes cold.
"But you," the Frenchman spat, "you are no different. You come here with your paratroopers and your demands, speaking of cooperation while your boots stand on our soil."
Gustaf stepped forward, his voice dropping to a calm, provocative tone. He had learned from Paul that men like this needed a bridge to cross, not a wall to climb.
"We are different in one significant way, Admiral," Gustaf said. "With us, these ships remain a fleet. They remain the beautiful monsters of the sea they were built to be. With the British, they will be scrap metal at the bottom of this harbor within forty eight hours. How can a man of the sea allow that? To let them rot in the mud because of a politician's pride?"
"By any means necessary," Meindl repeated, the weight of high command's orders heavy in his voice. "If you defend this harbor now, you are not surrendering. You are joining a new order. You will retain your rank and your command."
The admiral looked up. There was no joy in his expression, only hard, desperate determination.
"Only if I retain my crew," he muttered. "I will not have my men sent to camps while Germans sail their ships."
Meindl and Gustaf exchanged a brief, tense look. They were overstepping their authority, but the roar of incoming transport planes had become a physical force, shaking the room. Gustaf nodded.
"Agreed. You and your crew stay together. You keep your flagship. You fight for the fleet, not for a lost cause."
The admiral let out a long, weary sigh. His eyes drifted to the maps of a France that no longer truly existed.
"The politicians in Paris have already lost the country. Our gold is gone. Our borders are broken. If the choice is between sinking for London or sailing for a new Europe, then I choose the sea."
He stood slowly, straightening his tunic, posture stiff and formal as he faced the two Germans.
"Danke," he said in awkward German, extending his hand, heavy with sadness and shame.
"Welcome to the Kriegsmarine, Vice Admiral," Meindl replied, shaking it. The air in the room remained thick with a sense of profession rather than celebration.
"Then let us get to work," the vice admiral said, clenching his fist.
"Hey, have you heard?" a French soldier said, tilting his head toward the comrades leaning against the wall. Both were smoking. "A gold transport entered the base some time ago."
"Really?" the other man asked, stepping forward and revealing his face and uniform as he emerged from the shadows into the gleaming sun.
He was an officer, one Paul would have immediately recognized from his previous vision.
"We could try to get some payment for hardworking soldiers," he mocked, baring his teeth. One of them was gold.
"We cou..." the other man began, when suddenly the metal loudspeakers scattered across the base erupted with sirens.
Every soldier across the vast area stiffened in visible fear. At the docks, in the barracks, in the command center, not a single man remained unmoved.
For a moment, only the siren dominated the air. Then everything exploded into chaos. Officers shouted orders in every direction. Soldiers tried to follow them, running frantically, colliding with one another in the confusion.
The officer with the golden tooth exchanged a glance with the man beside him, watching the disorder unfold.
"Girard!" an older officer shouted from across the street, striding quickly toward them.
"Yes, sir," Girard replied flatly, with little enthusiasm.
"We are to man the heavy naval defenses. An enemy is coming," the officer said, pointing toward the distant hills.
"An enemy?" Girard asked, baffled. "The Germans?"
The older officer hesitated, his gaze shifting briefly to the tall command center nearby.
"Does it matter? An enemy! Move!" he barked, irritation boiling over.
Girard tilted his head, intrigued, before turning and heading in the indicated direction with his companion.
...
"Quickly! Move!" officers shouted as the sirens continued to howl, directing hundreds of soldiers toward the heavy guns positioned along the hillsides.
As the sun slowly lost its brilliance, its final rays reflecting across the vast sea, the monstrous coastal guns came to life once more. Old metal, sometimes even rusted, creaked loudly as the turrets began their painful, deliberate rotation.
Toward the harbor. No, toward the open sea.
Dozens of barrels turned sluggishly toward the fading light, menacing despite their age.
Defenses sprang up everywhere. Sandbags were stacked around key buildings. Light artillery was positioned throughout the base. For the first time in a long while, sailors boarded the Mediterranean fleet again. There were not enough men to crew every ship, let alone sail them, but they could still man the guns.
Especially the massive cannons of the twin battleships Strasbourg and Dunkerque, anchored just off the docks, silent giants now filling with French sailors once more.
Gustaf and Meindl watched the scene through binoculars, their faces tense with worry.
"Chaos. No discipline. Not enough men."That was Meindl's conclusion as he lowered the binoculars. The command room had grown dark, the sun having finally set.
Gustaf sighed.
"Still, we cannot go outside until the reinforcements arrive. Otherwise the French may turn on us."
Meindl nodded, clenching his fist, when suddenly light flooded the command room again. It was neither electric light nor sunlight. In the glass of the windows, burning fire reflected.
At the same moment, a massive explosion shook the base, rattling even the command center.
Gustaf raised his binoculars again, turning them toward the sea.
"They have arrived," he muttered, jaw tightening.
And indeed, far on the horizon, small lights appeared in the darkness. Metal colossi emerged from the waves, filling the horizon as they advanced.A massive British fleet, ready to sink every single French ship this very night.
Admiral Cunningham gripped a metal railing as his battleship turned sideways, sliding into its firing position.
His eyes scanned the distant harbor of Toulon, still glowing with lights and chaos, the fire from the first explosion clearly visible.
"Men," he said, "the King and his Prime Minister have ordered us to leave the French fleet in Toulon."
"Forever."
"And that is exactly what we will do. I want every turret and every gun aligned on the fleet. The Arc Royal is to launch its aircraft immediately."
He paused, exhaled slowly, and lowered his hat.
"Until then... fire at will."
One after another, the massive metal turrets of the British fleet rotated into position. Shouts filled the decks. Above them, dozens of fighters and naval bombers thundered past, wings shaking the air as they headed straight for the harbor of Toulon.
....
"This is Vice Admiral d'Escadre Emmanuel Ollive."
"ALL COASTAL GUNS, FIRE!"
With that command, the Battle of Toulon officially began.
Deafening shells erupted from the turrets, streaking toward the approaching British fleet, which answered almost instantly with its first barrage, barrels glowing with heat as the night ignited...
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