Oskar arrived late.
Not scandalously late.
Not carelessly late.
Simply… after midday—the kind of lateness that belonged to men who had spent the morning deciding how armies would kill and survive, and only afterward remembered that life had continued without them.
Shadowmane's hooves rang softly against cobblestone as Oskar rode through the streets. Snow dusted his cloak and the stallion's mane alike, turning black into something almost silvered at the edges. Behind and around him, the Eternal Guard moved like a living perimeter—steel and dark coats flowing in practiced silence, each man positioned as if the world itself had been mapped into angles and threats.
He dismounted in front of Karl's house.
Not a palace.
Not a factory.
Something in between—a private fortress of warm light and thick walls tucked close to the royal grounds. The Bergmann residence was large enough to matter, modest enough to breathe. Its windows glowed gold against the winter gloom like a promise kept.
At the entrance, Karl's Eternal Guard detachment waited.
Twenty-four men assigned to one household—not because Karl feared enemies…
…but because Oskar refused to allow chance near the people he cared about.
They didn't salute like parade troops.
They struck a fist to the heart—one heavy, synchronized motion that carried a meaning older than words:
We are yours to spend.
Oskar gave them a single nod. No speech. No flourish. Just recognition—because praise meant more when it was rare.
Behind him, his own cavalry detail peeled away to secure the perimeter, positions shifting like a clockwork machine.
And then Oskar stepped inside.
The world changed.
The air was warm. It smelled of linen, boiled water, clean soap… and underneath it all, faint and unmistakable, the metallic trace of birth—life's oldest alchemy. The fire crackled somewhere below. Voices had softened themselves instinctively, as if the house knew something sacred was resting inside.
Oskar moved up the stairs without hurry, boots heavy on wood.
At the third floor he paused before a door—Karl and Heddy's private bedchamber—and for a moment he simply stood there, listening.
Quiet.
Breathing.
That soft, careful hush that existed only in rooms where a woman had suffered and survived.
He opened the door.
And stopped.
Inside, it wasn't just Karl and Heddy.
It was… everyone.
Heddy lay propped against pillows, hair loose, face pale but peaceful in the way only women who had won a battle could look. Her eyes held that dazed clarity mothers sometimes carried afterward—exhaustion so deep it became calm.
Karl sat beside her, shoulders squared, posture awkward with pride, like a man who still couldn't believe he'd been trusted with something so fragile and so important.
Durin sat on Karl's lap—serious and watchful, already studying the world as if it might one day require correction.
And in Heddy's arms—
two new lives.
A boy and a girl.
Small, warm, perfect sparks.
Oskar took one step inside.
The floorboards groaned under the sheer weight of him, and every head in the room turned.
Karl looked up first—then straightened so quickly Durin squeaked in protest.
"Oskar—what are you doing here?" Karl blurted. "Weren't you at the weapons demonstration today? How did it go?"
Oskar raised a hand at once.
"No business," he said quietly. "Not today."
Heddy's mouth curved.
"You're late," she said—not accusing, just amused, the tone of someone who had earned the right to be sharp.
"I was detained," Oskar replied dryly, "by grumpy old men with medals. They enjoy talking far more than they enjoy listening."
Karl let out a short laugh, half disbelief, half relief, and gestured helplessly at the bed as if to say, look what happened while you were being a prince.
"We named them," he said. "And—before you say anything—yes. I took inspiration from you, my gigantic friend. So don't worry. They are absolutely not normal."
Oskar stepped closer.
Anna and Tanya sat nearby, each with one of Oskar's younger children tucked close. Their faces were tired in that soft, glowing way women sometimes had when the house had been full of birth and blood and survival. When Oskar passed, he brushed his hand over their heads—an affectionate touch, quick and familiar.
His older children were on the bed too—wide-eyed, strangely solemn, like they knew they were witnessing something sacred but didn't yet know what to do with it.
Oskar gave them a small nod.
Then he leaned toward the bed.
"Alright," he murmured. "Show me what my little man Karl has managed to create this time."
Heddy's smile widened. She adjusted the blanket carefully.
The boy had dark hair—thicker than Durin's had been at birth—and gray-blue eyes already stubbornly open, staring at the ceiling as if daring it to blink first.
The girl was quieter. Pale blond fuzz like down, eyes darker, softer—watching faces more than the room.
When her gaze found Oskar's, her eyes went wide.
Because he was the largest thing she had ever seen.
Karl's voice softened with pride.
"The boy is Balin," he said. "You told me once about old names—names that meant builders. Strong men. Loyal men. I liked that."
"And the girl," Heddy added gently, "is Éowyn."
Oskar closed his eyes for half a heartbeat.
A reflex. A tiny internal flinch.
In his old world those names would have sounded like nerd bait.
Here?
Here they were simply… names.
Unusual. Memorable. Powerful.
He opened his eyes and nodded.
"Well chosen," he said. "Both of them."
Then he held out one finger between them as if offering a formal greeting.
Balin grabbed it instantly.
Not gently.
With conviction.
Oskar's mouth twitched.
"Ah," he murmured. "This one intends to argue with the world."
A moment later Éowyn curled her tiny fingers around his knuckle—not tight, not demanding.
Just… present.
A handshake.
A welcome.
Behind Oskar, the room shifted again—quiet movement, warmth rearranging itself.
Imperiel, the oldest of the boys, had organized the other toddlers like a little tyrant general. They were at one end of the mattress practicing handshakes with fierce seriousness, as if masculine honor depended on grip strength.
The girls sat closer to the newborns—Juniel and Lailael holding little Liorael between them—watching Balin and Éowyn with solemn wonder, like witnesses at a ritual.
Oskar straightened slowly.
He looked at Karl.
At Heddy.
At the children—at the impossible, stitched-together family that had formed around him like a living fortress.
"Well," he said softly, "welcome to the world, Balin Bergmann… and Éowyn Bergmann."
Then he looked at Heddy.
"They weren't too hard on you?" he asked, voice gentler now. "The birth went well?"
Heddy stared at him for a beat—
and then her smile turned wicked.
"Nah," she said, deadpan. "Not hard at all. Just like Anna and Tanya told me. Giving birth to twins is like taking a really big shit and nothing more."
For half a second, the room froze.
Then the adults burst into laughter—Karl choking on it, Tanya outright cackling, even Anna covering her mouth with a scandalized smile.
The children looked confused.
The fire crackled.
Snow drifted past the windows.
And for one rare, perfect moment—
the Iron Prince stood not as a war-king…
but simply as a man surrounded by life that had stubbornly insisted on existing in his century.
---
The moment might have lasted longer…
if the door hadn't opened again.
Count Tirpitz entered, and with him came the cold air of the outside world.
He paused when he saw the bed crowded with babies and children, then recovered quickly—because Tirpitz had survived court politics, and nothing survived court politics without learning how to adapt.
"Ah," he said with measured warmth, "Herr Bergmann. I see you have produced two mighty new children. Congratulations are certainly in order."
His gaze shifted to Oskar.
"And Your Highness… congratulations as well."
Then—like a man unable to hold his nature back—he added, a touch too eager:
"The Imperial Weapons Works… truly excellent. Superb performance—unlike anything I have ever seen. Might we possibly discuss—"
Oskar's expression tightened.
He cut in at once.
"Forget it," he said, then softened the edge with a breath. "No complications. Sit, Marshal. We can speak here."
Tirpitz hesitated—clearly aware that discussing procurement next to newborns might be the fastest way to earn a knife from every woman in the room.
But there were no chairs left.
So, stiffly, he approached and sat on the far edge of the bed.
And immediately suffered for it.
Imperiel and his two other younger drooling brothers swarmed Tirpitz like a boarding party—tiny hands grabbing at his medals, one little fist clutching his beard like it was a rope.
Tirpitz tried to pretend he didn't notice.
He failed.
Oskar sat beside him with the calm of a man used to chaos.
The room listened.
"Your Highness," Tirpitz began carefully, attempting dignity while a toddler investigated his collar with sticky fingers, "there is no need to worry. God will always shine favorably upon you and your house, I assure you."
Oskar snorted softly.
Tirpitz continued, lower now:
"Although your Imperial Weapons Works has not received as many orders as it deserves, due to… obstruction from certain individuals and interests… the future prospects are, in my opinion, extremely optimistic. If war ever breaks out, the demand for advanced weapons will increase greatly."
Oskar shook his head.
"Marshal," he said, quiet but hard, "I understand what you mean."
He looked toward the bed—toward the twins, toward Heddy's exhausted face, toward Karl's proud eyes.
"However," Oskar continued, "I do not want that. If we can gain overwhelming advantage with modern weapons, then we should modernize now—not after we've paid for it in corpses."
His voice lowered.
"Germany's population is not infinite. Every soldier's life is precious. I do not want to bury our men just to convince the Army to stop living in yesterday."
Tirpitz's eyes flicked—toward Moltke's shadow even though Moltke was not here. He understood the trap perfectly.
He held influence.
He held rank.
But the Army was not his kingdom.
Tanya spoke before anyone else could.
"If Little Moltke is the problem," she said brightly, as if discussing a stubborn servant, "then why worry? Soon Oskar will rise to power, and Anna and I will be his queens, and when that day comes, Moltke will step down."
Anna blinked, half shocked that Tanya would address Tirpitz so casually.
Tanya didn't care.
Oskar laughed under his breath.
"Indeed," he said, amused. "Well said, my love."
His tone sharpened again.
"Moltke is a problem," Oskar admitted. "One we must overcome. Better sooner than later."
Because he remembered the other timeline.
He remembered Moltke resigning only after disaster—after stalled offensives and endless casualties and Wilhelm's faith collapsing under the weight of reality.
Oskar didn't want to wait until then.
Tirpitz, finally rescued when Anna quietly lifted the three toddlers away and deposited them on the floor like unruly puppies, reached into his coat and produced a document.
"Your Highness," he said, "this is the Navy's procurement order. Most of our men are on ships, yes… but our naval bases still require infantry equipment. They must be properly armed."
Oskar accepted it and glanced over the numbers.
Not huge.
But real.
Supportive.
He gave Tirpitz a short nod of acknowledgement. He understood what the old man was doing.
Then Oskar placed the paper down—only for little Lailael to crawl over immediately and stare at it like it was treasure.
Oskar watched her for half a second, then looked back to Tirpitz.
"Marshal," he said, "I have a proposal."
Tirpitz straightened.
"Yes, Your Highness. Please speak."
Oskar leaned forward slightly, tone turning strategic.
"The Navy's main force is surface ships," he said. "But you cannot pretend the sea ends at the shoreline. The Navy needs ground forces."
He held Tirpitz's gaze.
"A dedicated Marine Corps. A large unit specifically trained for amphibious operations—first wave landings, opening beachheads, taking islands, sabotage of enemy naval infrastructure."
Tirpitz's eyes lit up instantly.
Because it wasn't just a military idea.
It was a political one.
A way to expand the Navy's influence into territory the Army guarded jealously.
"Your Highness," Tirpitz said carefully, "it is an excellent idea. But it will provoke backlash from the Army."
Oskar nodded, already expecting it.
"Then we start small," he said. "A brigade. A nucleus. The mission stays clear—amphibious operations only. If the Army screams, let them scream."
His gaze drifted—just once—to the bed.
Heddy's arms were full. Two tiny lives, bundled tight, asleep as if the world had sworn an oath to be gentle. Durin sat beside his mother like a little sentinel, too serious for his age, watching everyone with bright, solemn eyes.
Oskar's voice softened almost against his will.
"Better we argue with paper now," he murmured, "than argue with graves later."
Tirpitz gave a slow nod. He understood that sentence in his bones. Men like him lived in the space between budgets and funerals.
For a moment, the room held a strange stillness.
Outside, snow slid past the window glass in quiet layers.
Inside, the babies slept—unbothered, perfect, mouths slightly open in trust. They had no idea what a Reichstag was, or what a naval office was, or what "Army opposition" meant. They only knew warmth, and arms, and the soft rhythm of adults breathing around them.
And yet the men in the room were already shaping the world those children would inherit.
Tirpitz cleared his throat, pulling the atmosphere back toward duty. He did it gently, as if he knew he was stepping on something delicate.
"Your Highness," he said, voice low, "the Navy and I support it. But I believe the army will resist."
He paused—then added, more honest than he usually allowed himself to be in front of women and children:
"Loudly."
Oskar didn't flinch.
"They resist anything that isn't theirs," he said quietly. "That isn't a reason to stop."
Tirpitz's eyes narrowed; he was weighing the situation the way a sailor weighed a storm.
"If we do this," he said, "we must do it correctly. It must be anchored in law and doctrine… and in His Majesty's authority."
A beat.
"Your Highness," he added, "we should go to the palace. Now. While the idea is still warm. If we gain the Kaiser's blessing, the Army will have to choose its battles carefully."
Oskar's first instinct was to refuse—not out of strategy, but out of something personal and raw.
He looked down.
Three of his little boys were on the floor, crawling like small invaders across blankets and carpet—little hands, round cheeks, unstoppable. Anna had put them there earlier with ruthless maternal efficiency, like a commander relocating troops so adults could breathe.
Tanya held one of the newest baby boy infants in her arms, rocking gently. She looked tired, but bright—her eyes sharp, her posture confident, like she'd decided long ago that fear was a waste of energy.
Anna sat beside her with the other infant in her arms, the baby girl who slept peacefully. Anna was quieter. More careful. She still carried the instinct of a maid who had once learned that speaking too boldly could cost you everything—yet her eyes stayed on Oskar with steady support.
On the bed, his daughters sat close together, solemn as little turtles, watching him now, the documents of Tirpitz spread before them and covered in drool already. It was the kind of attention only children could give—wordless, reverent, so cute.
And Heddy lay there, with two sleeping infants in her arms as Karl sat close by with Durin there as well. It was a sweet sight and Oskar did not want to leave it.
Not today. Not now. Not when the air still smelled like warm linen and new life.
Then Tanya spoke, as if she'd read the conflict on his face like a book.
"Oskar," she said, warm and unapologetically familiar, "go."
He blinked at her.
She gave him a small, dismissive wave—like shooing a stubborn bear off a chair.
"You don't have time to sit here looking noble," she said. "If you don't go now, the old men will bury your ideas in meetings and caution until it rots. Go make your proposal."
Anna nodded, gentler.
"Yes," she said softly. "Go… and come back soon."
Heddy, without missing a beat, added in her dry, half-mocking tone:
"She's right. You didn't build Karl's wealth and this house just so we could lose it to idiots and pride. If you want us to keep living warm and safe… then go make sure Germany stays strong."
Karl made a strangled noise, scandalized on instinct.
"Heddy—no—" he began, horrified. "Your Highness, she doesn't mean—"
Oskar lifted a hand, amused despite himself.
"Karl," he said, "it's fine."
He looked at Heddy, then at Tanya and Anna, then at the babies.
There was gratitude there—real gratitude. And something else too: acceptance. They all understood, in their own way, what his life actually was.
He exhaled slowly.
"Karl, it's as I've told you," he said, more to himself than anyone. "Until 1914 passes without disaster… I don't get to rest."
Then he nodded once, the decision settling into place.
"I'll be back later today," he said quietly. "We'll eat. We'll celebrate—properly."
His gaze moved across the room, lingering, softening.
"But for now—rest," he added. "All of you. Especially the children… and Heddy."
He moved among them with a gentleness that always surprised those who didn't know him well. His fingers brushed through small heads, warm hair, lingering just long enough to be remembered. He pulled the children close one by one, brief embraces—solid, grounding—before finally bending toward the bed.
He touched the twins last.
One fingertip to each tiny hand.
Not a caress. Not a blessing.
A promise.
He leaned in, kissed Tanya and Anna goodbye—soft, familiar, unspoken—and then straightened, already turning toward duty.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "All of you."
Tirpitz rose with him.
They stepped out together.
The door closed behind them.
And the cold claimed them at once.
---
It didn't take long to reach the palace.
Snow had built thin, clean edges along the stonework, and guards stood like carved things beside the gate—still, watchful, eyes sharp. They let Oskar and Tirpitz pass without question, saluting with precision.
Inside, the palace felt different than the Bergmann house.
Colder.
Quieter.
Not because it lacked warmth, but because it was built for power, not comfort.
They were ushered through corridors polished by history and fear, and then to the Kaiser's office—
where Wilhelm II was engaged in what he considered sacred imperial tradition:
his afternoon nap.
The curtains were half-drawn. A cup of hot chocolate sat steaming near his elbow like a ceremonial offering. A plate of cookies waited beside it. The room smelled of cocoa, waxed wood, and the expensive calm of a man who believed the Empire should pause when he did.
Wilhelm had just started to lean back—
—and then the door opened.
A Royal Guard announced them.
"Count Tirpitz. His Highness Prince Oskar."
Wilhelm exhaled through his nose.
Of all the possible interruptions, these two were the worst—
because they never came with gossip.
They came with projects.
He straightened with the reluctant dignity of a man forced to abandon joy for responsibility.
"What is it now?" Wilhelm muttered, waving toward the chairs. "If this is another shipyard argument, I will—"
"It is not a shipyard argument, Majesty," Tirpitz said smoothly.
That alone made Wilhelm pause.
Tirpitz did not interrupt naps lightly.
"Good," Wilhelm said, reaching for a cookie as if arming himself. "Then speak."
Tirpitz stepped forward.
"Your Majesty, the Navy has a plan," he said, "one that requires your approval at the highest level."
Wilhelm's eyes narrowed with interest. His navy was thriving, modernizing, expanding into something he could point at and feel pride in.
He glanced at Oskar—checking, as he always did, whether his son had come to argue or to support.
Oskar's face was calm, unreadable.
That was… suspicious.
Wilhelm set down the cookie.
"Alright," he said. "What plan?"
Tirpitz didn't waste time.
"Majesty," he said, "at the current pace of construction, training, and modernization… I estimate our chance of defeating the British fleet in a future war at approximately fifty percent."
Wilhelm's brow lifted.
"Only fifty?"
Tirpitz didn't flinch.
"Against Britain, Majesty, fifty percent is already an insult to their pride," he said. "But victory at sea does not automatically mean victory in war."
He moved closer to the desk, voice steady.
"Britain can lose ships and still refuse peace," Tirpitz said. "They can retreat behind their island, tighten their empire, and choose slow war. They can wait us out because no one can touch them."
Wilhelm leaned forward slightly.
He knew that truth too well.
The island was Britain's shield—and Britain's arrogance.
Tirpitz's tone hardened.
"So if we plan for victory," he said, "we must plan for what comes after victory. If we break their fleet and they still refuse to surrender…"
He paused, deliberately, allowing the silence to sharpen the idea.
"…then we require the ability to do what Europe has dreamed of—and failed to do—for centuries."
Another pause.
"To land on British soil," Tirpitz continued, voice low and certain, "as the Normans once did in 1066. They crossed the sea, shattered the illusion of safety, and took the island itself. England was conquered not by fleets alone, but by boots on shore."
His eyes held steady.
"If true peace is to be forced," he said, "then we must do the same."
For half a heartbeat the room went still.
Then Wilhelm II's eyes lit up.
A slow smile crept across his face—the kind that came whenever someone offered him a vision large enough to make history kneel.
"A landing…" Wilhelm repeated, tasting the word.
It wasn't just a plan.
It was a fantasy shared by every continental ruler who had ever stared across the Channel and felt insulted by water.
Napoleon had dreamed of it.
Napoleon had dominated Europe—and still never crossed successfully.
To do what Napoleon could not…
Wilhelm's pride swelled like a sail catching wind.
Oskar watched him quietly.
Men like Wilhelm loved two things:
glory—
and the idea that the world would remember their name.
Tirpitz pressed while the Kaiser was hungry for the dream.
"Majesty," he continued, "the British believe the island makes them untouchable. It is the root of their confidence. Their pride. Their refusal to compromise."
Wilhelm's fingers tapped the desk, already imagining headlines.
"And you propose…" he said slowly, "…that we make them touchable."
"Yes," Tirpitz replied. "To do so, we require a dedicated maritime arm."
He glanced at Oskar—not for permission, but for reinforcement.
"Marines," Tirpitz said. "A true marine corps. Trained for landings, seizure of ports, beachheads, coastal fortifications, and rapid reinforcement. Not sailors pretending to be infantry. Not infantry pretending to be sailors."
Wilhelm's smile widened.
"And how large?"
Tirpitz answered immediately.
"Small at first. Elite. A nucleus. Enough to establish doctrine, training, equipment development, landing exercises. Expansion later, only if necessary."
He still didn't mention cost.
Not yet.
Not until the Kaiser's imagination was fully in his hands.
Wilhelm turned his gaze to Oskar.
"And you?" he asked. "You agree with this?"
Oskar stepped forward just enough to make his presence felt.
"Yes, I believe it's necessary," he said quietly. "It's preparation for the future."
He looked at his father directly.
"If Britain believes it cannot be invaded," Oskar continued, "then Britain will always believe it can outlast any war. We can pressure them. Starve them. Hurt them."
He paused, voice colder now.
"But only the threat of landing—only the knowledge that the island itself can burn—creates real fear. And hopefully it will be enough to make their overseas colonies submit as well."
Wilhelm stared at him.
Hot chocolate forgotten.
Tirpitz watched the Kaiser's face and saw it happen—the shift.
Wilhelm stopped thinking like a man who wanted ships.
And started thinking like a man who wanted destiny.
Finally, Wilhelm leaned back.
"Well," he said slowly, pleased, "if Napoleon couldn't do it… then perhaps it is time Germany did."
He reached for his cookie again like a man rewarding himself.
"Tell me," he said, eyes sharp, "what do you need?"
Then, with a frown, he added:
"And Tirpitz… be honest. Are our chances truly only fifty percent?"
Tirpitz held his gaze.
"Majesty," he said, "complete certainty is impossible. But if you demand optimism—then I will say sixty percent."
Wilhelm's frown eased.
"Sixty percent," he repeated, satisfied. "That is… respectable."
Tirpitz nodded.
"Therefore, Majesty, we must prepare for what follows victory."
Wilhelm steepled his fingers.
"Very well," he said. "However, it will be the Imperial Marines, perhaps. A proper name like that. Like how the British have the Royal Marines already."
He paused, and the practical Kaiser reappeared beneath the dream.
"The Army will howl."
"They always do," Oskar said mildly.
Wilhelm exhaled.
"I will consider it," he said at last. "Tomorrow afternoon you will have my final answer. I will hear the Army's opinion first."
Which was Wilhelm's polite way of saying:
I want my nap, and I want to see who screams the loudest.
"Yes, Majesty," Tirpitz said, satisfied enough.
"Yes, Father," Oskar echoed, already knowing the real battle hadn't even started yet.
After they left, Wilhelm summoned his personal assistant.
"Leak this information," the Kaiser said simply. "To the Army."
The assistant bowed.
Wilhelm leaned back, cookie in hand, eyes half-lidded with lazy cunning.
He wanted to see exactly who would bare their teeth.
And Indeed, Moltke the Younger bared his teeth immediately.
"Damn it," he hissed in his home office when the news reached him. "What are they trying to do? Break the rules?"
He paced, furious, the anger not purely patriotic—never purely patriotic.
It was power.
It was tradition.
It was territory.
"It's one thing for Oskar to be meddling in small arms," Moltke snapped, "but why is Tirpitz joining this circus? Is the Navy not satisfied with ships and budgets? Now they want ground forces too? And soon they will probably want command of the air as well, it's absolutely unacceptable."
He stopped, eyes narrowing.
"No," he said, voice low. "We cannot allow this. If they succeed, there will be even less chance of restraining that oversized princeling."
Moltke made his decision fast—because men like him always did when power was threatened.
"Invite His Excellency von Falkenhayn," he ordered. "And General Waldeck. Immediately."
"Yes, Chief of Staff," his secretary replied.
Less than half an hour later, Falkenhayn and Waldeck arrived.
Moltke didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"Gentlemen," he said, face hard, "I have received very bad news. It concerns the Army's vital interests."
Falkenhayn's eyes narrowed. Waldeck looked wary.
"What happened?" Falkenhayn asked.
Moltke leaned forward.
"The Navy intends to form a Marine Corps," he said, as if the words tasted like poison. "Eighty thousand men strong—nearly one-sixth the size of our standing army. A ground force."
Waldeck blinked. Falkenhayn's expression tightened.
"It will be nominally 'amphibious,'" Moltke continued, voice rising, "but everyone with a brain knows what it really is: competition for resources. For influence. For budget."
He slammed his palm lightly on the desk.
"We cannot back down. We cannot have the armies budget shrink because of this. I say let the Navy fight at sea. Let them defend ports. Ground war belongs to the Army."
Silence.
Then Falkenhayn spoke, controlled but firm.
"The Army is the Empire's ground force," he said. "There is no need for the Navy to expand beyond its sea battalions."
Moltke's mouth twitched—satisfaction, cold and sharp.
Waldeck nodded.
"I agree," he said. "If they want special landing troops, the Army can provide them. We do not need a second ground force."
Moltke leaned back slowly, already plotting the next steps.
On this issue, at least—
the top of the German Army had found unity.
And the fight for the Empire's future doctrine began not in trenches…
but in offices.