The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 132 The Balcony of Rome and the Wolf's Cold Laughter

June 9, 1940, 2:00 PM, Rome, Italy, Palazzo Venezia.

The map room in the Palazzo Venezia is so large it's almost empty. Huge spherical lamps hang from the towering ceiling, casting light onto a map of Europe that occupies half a wall.

Benito Mussolini, Italy's "leader," paced back and forth on the expensive marble floor, his hands behind his back. The sound of his boots striking the floor echoed rapidly in the empty room.

The afternoon heat in Rome was unbearable. Even though the blinds were drawn to try to block the dazzling sunlight of the early Mediterranean summer, the sultry air still felt like a layer of sticky oil, clinging to everyone's skin.

Mussolini unbuttoned the first button of his uniform collar, but this did not alleviate his inner anxiety.

His gaze swept back to the map on the wall.

Above, the blue arrows representing the German Wehrmacht were spreading rampantly across French soil. Guderian's armored groups had broken through Abbeville, and Rommel's 7th Panzer Division was charging towards the Seine.

France, once considered the leading land power in Europe, is being dismembered by the Germans at an incredible pace.

But this was precisely the source of Mussolini's fears.

He wasn't afraid of Germany's victory; he was afraid of being "late."

Since September 1939, when Mussolini was making rapid progress in Poland, Italy chose the position of "non-belligerent." At that time, Mussolini was still observing, trying to extract the greatest benefit from Britain, France, and Germany through neutrality.

He was a shrewd Venetian merchant, calculating every geopolitical gain.

But now, times have changed.

If France were to surrender within the next week—which was almost a certainty—and Italy had not yet declared war, then Italy, as an Axis ally, would gain nothing at the postwar peace conference.

Nice, Corsica, Tunisia, Djibouti—these French colonies and territories he had longed for would all fall into German hands, or remain in French hands.

"Time—" Mussolini stopped, staring intently at the location of Paris, and muttered a curse under his breath, "Damn time."

The German blitzkrieg was so fast that it dazzled him.

He turned around and looked at the man standing in front of the desk.

Count Galeazzo Ciano, his son-in-law, was also Italy's Minister of Foreign Affairs. The young nobleman, dressed in a well-tailored diplomatic uniform, held a thick document in his hand, his face as somber as a suffering statue.

"Not ready yet?" Mussolini's voice was deep, suppressing his impending rage. "Galeazzo, tell me, how long are you going to hold onto that declaration of war?"

Ciano frowned but did not answer immediately.

He walked to the table and spread out the document. It wasn't a declaration of war, but a top-secret assessment report on the current state of the Italian armed forces.

"Leader, as Foreign Minister, it is my duty to remind you," Ciano said calmly, more rational than Mussolini. "In this room, we don't need speeches in front of those Blackshirts. What we need is mathematics."

He pointed to the first page of the report with his finger.

"Army. We have to face reality. Although we have 73 divisions on paper, in order to make up the number of divisions, we changed the original three-regiment division system to a two-regiment system. This means that each of our divisions is only two-thirds of its authorized combat strength."

"What's worse is the equipment. Our infantry are still using the Carcano rifle, which was finalized in 1891 and is even inferior to the equipment used in the last World War. Our artillery, mostly spoils of war left over from the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire after World War I, lacks tractors and can only be fixed on the ground once the war starts, unable to advance with the infantry."

Mussolini frowned, but he did not interrupt.

Ciano turned to the second page.

"The Royal Air Force claims to have 3000 front-line fighters. But both we and the Germans know this is just a propaganda figure. In reality, less than half are actually operational, which is good news. But unfortunately, our main fighter, the CR.42, is still a biplane. It's powerless against the British Spitfire and Hurricane; this is a performance gap that can't be easily bridged by sheer numbers."

"While our SM.79 bombers performed well in Spain, they lacked escorts, radio communication equipment, and their ability to coordinate operations was virtually zero."

Ciano raised his head and looked directly into his father-in-law's eyes.

"Finally, there's the navy. That should have been our only bargaining chip. We have two Vittorio Veneto-class battleships and a large submarine force."

"However, Master, Chief of Naval Staff Admiral Cavaniya just reported to me yesterday that our fuel reserves are only enough for two large-scale sorties. Moreover, we have no radar. At night or beyond visual range, our fleet is blind."

The British had two powerful fleets in the Mediterranean: Cunningham at Alexandria and Somerville at Gibraltar.

"The data doesn't lie." Ciano closed the file, his tone heavy. "Right now, we may look good on the outside, but our engine is rusted and our fuel tank is only half full. If we were to declare war on Britain and France now, it wouldn't just be risky; it would be suicide."

As Mussolini listened to these figures, the muscles in his face twitched slightly.

Of course he knew all this; he knew better than anyone that the Italian military industry was so inefficient that even Greece couldn't match its production capacity.

But he doesn't care.

He suddenly waved his hand, as if to drive away the last vestiges of rationality in the room.

"Enough, Galeazzo." Mussolini walked around the desk and stood in front of Ciano. He was shorter than Ciano, but he held his head high, pointing his distinctively prominent chin at his son-in-law.

"You are an excellent diplomat, but a terrible gambler," Mussolini's voice suddenly rose. "What you see are rifles in a warehouse; what I see is the torrent of history."

He pointed to France on the map.

"Look there! The Weygand Line has collapsed. The British Expeditionary Force has fled back to the island from Dunkirk like stray dogs. The French are testing the waters with Germany through Sweden regarding armistice terms. This isn't even a war; it's a funeral!"

Mussolini became increasingly agitated as he spoke, stating that he and the Little Mustache were essentially the same type of dictator, and both were detached from realistic logic.

"I know our army isn't ready. Whether it's three years or even three months, I'll listen to you."

But, Galeazzo, do you think this war can last another three months?

He turned around, hands on his hips, and roared into the empty room: "Little Mustache is already having lunch in Paris! The Germans are making history, and we're worrying about whether we have enough shoes! If we don't act now, we'll become second-class citizens in Europe! At that negotiating table that will decide the fate of the world, if we don't have guns, nobody will listen to us!"

Ciano tried one last time: "But, leader, even if France falls, the British are still here. Their seas—" "The British are finished!" Mussolini interrupted him abruptly. "When France surrenders, the British will lose their last foothold on this continent. They will sue for peace. Little Mustache will allow them to retain their empire, as long as they acknowledge that Europe is the axis of Europe."

Mussolini walked to the window and flung open the blinds. A blinding flood of sunlight rushed in, illuminating his ambitious yet anxious face.

He turned to Ciano and uttered those chilling words that would be forever etched in history: "Listen, Galeazzo. Don't talk to me about fuel and planes anymore. The situation is very clear. I don't need to conquer London, nor do I need to take Paris. I just need a few thousand dead men."

"Yes, you heard me right. I only need a few thousand dead people as bargaining chips to sit at the ceasefire negotiation table."

Ciano looked at his father-in-law and felt a chill run down his spine.

At that moment, he realized that in this room, political considerations had completely overridden military common sense. Soldiers' lives and the future of the nation had become disposable numbers in the face of the temptation to "get a share of the spoils."

"Get ready." Mussolini waved his hand, as if shooing away an annoying fly. "Tomorrow afternoon. I will announce this decision from the balcony. Inform Field Marshal Badoglio that the army is to assemble at the Alpine front. Even without winter clothing, even in shoes with paper soles, give me the posture of attack."

Ciano paused for a moment, then finally brought his legs together and gave a Roman-style military salute.

"As you wish, leader."

Ciano left. The heavy oak door closed slowly.

Mussolini was the only one left in the room.

That anxiety seemed to ease somewhat, replaced by an excitement of about to take the stage. For Mussolini, politics was a performance, and Rome was his theater.

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window that led to the famous balcony of Piazza Venezia.

Outside the window, the square appeared deserted in the afternoon sun. Only a few guards patrolled listlessly. But in Mussolini's mind, it was already packed with a hundred thousand fanatical people. They waved flags and chanted the name of their "leader," their shouts surging like a tidal wave.

He straightened his uniform and adjusted the position of his medals.

Then, he pushed open the window and walked onto the narrow stone balcony.

A wave of heat hit us.

Mussolini stood with his hands on his hips and his legs apart, striking his classic, arrogant pose. He leaned back slightly, chin held high, his gaze sweeping over the empty square below.

He began to quietly rehearse the opening of his speech for tomorrow.

"People who fight—warriors of land, sea, and sky—"

He waved his right arm as if cutting through the resistance in the air.

"The Legion of the Blackshirt Revolution—Men and Women of the Italian Empire—"

He was captivated.

At that moment, he was no longer the politician worried about fuel shortages, nor the student envious of Little Mustache's achievements.

He is Caesar's successor, the future ruler of the Mediterranean, and the god who will restore the Roman Empire.

Even if this empire was built on the corpses of thousands of dying Italian soldiers, even if this empire was just a shadow trailing behind the German war machine.

He doesn't care.

As long as we can catch this last train before Paris falls, any price will be worth it.

The shadow of the Palazzo Venezia cast across the square like the wings of a giant raptor. And the figure on the balcony, alone, faced the void, rehearsing a grand performance that would plunge the entire nation into the abyss.

June 9, 1940, 19:00, Brülly-de-Pesch, Belgium, the German headquarters "Wolfsschlucht I".

Unlike the opulent and marble-filled Venetian palaces in Rome, the German headquarters "Wolfsfield 1," located deep in the forests along the Belgian border, was damp, dark, and austere.

There are no grand crystal chandeliers here, only dim tungsten bulbs in the air-raid shelters. There are no valet officers in splendid uniforms, only staff officers in field-gray uniforms with grim expressions, and the incessant ringing of telephones and the clicking of teletype machines.

The little mustache sat at a simple wooden table covered with maps.

At this time, he was at the pinnacle of power.

Under his command, the French army, known as the "world's best army," had its backbone broken in just four weeks. A telegram just sent by Guderian indicated that the 19th Panzer Corps had crossed the Aisne River and was maneuvering towards the Swiss border, preparing to cut off the last retreat route behind the Maginot Line.

"Is Wei Gang still trying to organize a defensive line?" The man with the small mustache asked without looking up, staring at the map and holding a red and blue pencil.

"Reporting to the Führer," Alfred Jodl replied in his usual calm tone, standing opposite him. "According to reconnaissance at the front, the French army's organization is in complete disarray. They are conducting a disorderly retreat. The so-called Weygand Line" is now just a dotted line. Apart from sporadic resistance, the road to Paris is practically open."

The little mustache's lips curled slightly. Although the French had already submitted a letter of surrender in private, and the draft ceasefire agreement was on his desk, it was far from enough.

In his view, a document signed in a dark corner cannot wash away the shame of 1918.

He needs a stage, he needs the spotlight of history; he is an artist.

"Find that carriage," the little mustache thought to himself. He wanted the French to sign their names again in the Compiègne Forest, under the watchful eyes of the world, in that train carriage that had witnessed the collapse of the German Empire.

Just then, General Wilhelm Keitel, Chief of the General Staff of the Supreme Command, walked in with a newly declassified urgent telegram. His slightly hurried steps disrupted the precise rhythm of the German command headquarters.

"Your Majesty," Keitel said, standing at attention and handing over the telegram, "an urgent message from Rome. It is a personal letter from Leader Mussolini."

The little mustache put down his pencil. He seemed to have had a premonition.

He took the telegram and quickly scanned it.

The telegram was short and full of flowery language, but it contained only one core message: the Kingdom of Italy would formally declare war on the British Empire and the French Republic on June 10, which was tomorrow.

After reading the letter, Little Mustache did not immediately show the joy one would expect from an ally joining the war.

Instead, an extremely complex expression appeared on his face—three parts contempt, three parts mockery, and four parts indifference as if he had already seen through everything.

He casually tossed the telegram onto the map table, and the thin piece of paper slid to the blue area in southern France.

"snort."

A harsh, cold laugh squeezed out of the little mustache's throat.

He looked up, glanced at Yodl, then at Keitel, his eyes filled with malice and malice.

"Look, gentlemen," the bearded man said shrilly, holding the telegram, "our clown friend from the circus has finally arrived."

The officers in the beggars' headquarters looked at each other, none of them daring to speak.

The man with the small mustache stood up, put his hands behind his back, and took two steps into the narrow concrete bunker.

"While we were shedding blood in Poland, he was watching from the sidelines. While we were adventuring in Norway, he was writing letters. While we were fighting the British to the death at Dunkirk, he was calculating his gains."

The man with the small mustache stopped and squinted.

"Now, with the French lion lying on the ground convulsing after we've bitten its neck off, this vulture has finally seen its chance. It flaps its wings and swoops down, ready to devour the carrion."

"This is the ally we'll be working with in the future." The mustachioed man shook his head, his tone full of disdain for the Latin national character. "Always trying to win at the last minute, and then taking half the winnings."

“Blindfold,” Yodl said. Although he also despised the Italians’ opportunistic behavior, as a soldier, he was more concerned about the strategic implications. “From a military point of view, Italy’s entry into the war now may not be all good for us.”

Yodl walked to the map and looked at the Alps.

"According to our intelligence, the Italian army's preparedness is very poor. Their equipment is outdated and their morale is low."

In the complex terrain of the Alps, they might not be able to break through the French defenses. If their offensive falters, or even if the French force reverses their advance, we will have to send troops south to rescue them. This will slow down our advance in northern France.”

Jodl's concerns represented the general sentiment of the German General Staff.

In the eyes of German professional soldiers, the Italian army is a "liability," a "soft underbelly" that Germany needs to be ready to support at any time.

"And," Keitel added, "it seems Mussolini has a big appetite. He wants Nice, he wants Corsica, he wants Tunisia. If we satisfy him in the armistice negotiations, it might anger the Vichy French government and cause the French North African colonies to side with Britain."

The bearded man listened quietly. Of course he knew all this. His assessment of the Italian army's fighting capabilities was even lower than Yodl's.

But he was a politician, not just a warlord.

"You only see land, Yodl." The bearded man walked back to the map table, his hand sweeping across the Alps and towards the blue waters—the Mediterranean Sea.

"I don't expect Mussolini's army to be able to enter Paris. In fact, it doesn't matter whether they can even get past those hills on the French border."

The man with the small mustache planted his hand heavily on the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

"What I need is the Italian navy. What I need is their geographical location."

"As soon as Italy declares war, the Mediterranean will no longer be the British inland lake. The Royal Navy will have to spare a large number of troops to defend Gibraltar, to defend the Suez Canal, and to protect their lifeline to India."

"Take a look at Cunningham's fleet," the man with the mustache circled the location of Alexandria. "If the Italian navy can contain them, even just by keeping them in port, the British strength in the Atlantic and the North Sea will be weakened. This will be a huge benefit to our upcoming Operation Sea Lion, or to our naval blockade of Britain."

"We'll use this vulture." The mustache's voice turned cold, but he felt his decision was right. "Let him make noise in the Mediterranean, let him draw Churchill's fire. If he gets beaten black and blue, even better, then he'll have no choice but to submit to us completely, becoming a true vassal of the Third Reich, and still not a 'Kailh' that wants to be on equal footing with us."

This is Little Mustache's plan.

He looked down on Mussolini, but he needed Italy as a pawn to disrupt the British global strategic layout.

"Return the call to Rome."

The man with the mustache adjusted his mood, and the contemptuous expression on his face vanished instantly, replaced by solemnity and enthusiasm, as if he were welcoming an old friend he hadn't seen for many years.

He dictated to Keitel: "To Leader Benito Mussolini:"

"I am incredibly pleased with your decision. This historic moment proves the unbreakable friendship between Germany and Italy. At this decisive moment, your choice to fight alongside Germany is a matter of destiny."

"The sword of the German-Italian steel alliance has been drawn. Together we will crush the decadent democracies of the West and establish a new European order."

"I look forward to meeting you in Munich to discuss the terms of the armistice with France."

Keitel took notes quickly.

"Have you finished writing?" the mustache asked.

"Yes, blind man."

"Send it out." The man with the mustache turned away, refusing to look at the telegram again, as if it were something filthy.

"Also," the mustachioed man called to Yodl, who was about to leave, "inform Hermann Göring. Have him extend the air force's reconnaissance range southward. Although we put it nicely in the telegram, I'm still worried about those Italians. If they really get kicked in the ass by the French in the Alps, we must be prepared to take over the battle at any time."

"Yes, blind man."

Wolf Valley returned to its previous bustling state.

Outside the window, the frost in the Ardennes Forest grew thicker. On this frosty evening that would determine the fate of Europe, two dictators, one dreaming of restoring an empire from a Roman balcony, the other coldly calculating the remaining value of his allies from a bunker in Belgium.

Among them, millions of soldiers—whether German, Italian, French, or British—were ruthlessly sent to the meat grinder called "war," like cans on a conveyor belt.

Mussolini wanted thousands of dead men as bait, while Little Mustache wanted a lure to contain Britain.

Tomorrow, when that declaration of war is handed to the French ambassador, the azure waters of the Mediterranean will surely be stained red with blood.

At this moment, the wheels of history rolled on with a heavy, grating sound, crushing the last glimmer of hope for peace on the European continent.

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