"Is there nothing else?" Jaeger asked, looking up from his desk.
Col. Jodl, his aide-de-camp shook his head, "No sir. All business is concluded for the day."
Jaeger sighed in relief and picked several papers up off his desk. "Good. Cable these reports to the Emperor and Lord Maximillian. They will want to know our progress. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir." Jodl clicked his heels together, saluted, and took the reports with him.
Jaeger pushed himself away from his desk and walked to the bar by the window. He stared out the window for a moment, watching his men drill before turning his attention to the bar. He picked up one of the many bottles that sat upon it and poured a liberal portion into a snifter. He held the glass up to the lamplight of his office, and watched the colours dance before bringing the rim of the glass to his nose and inhaling deeply.
Gallian brandy, there was really nothing like it; a marked improvement over the swill that passed for wine in most quarters of the Empire, and caused his stomach to ache every time he drank it. That the Emperor in all his glory could stretch his arm in conquest so far and not produce a decent vintner without 'importing' one from his conquered territories was something that had always made Jaeger chuckle. He brought the glass to his lips and savoured the sweet peppery flavour as he made his way back to his chair.
It was a pale imitation of what he truly wanted, however. He longed with heart and soul to taste the wines of his homeland again. He glanced at the calendar. At this time of year, the vintners back home would be hard at work harvesting the fruit of the vine at this time of year, soon to be turned into that dark, mysterious nectar that never failed to make him weep for home. How he longed to return there again, to see the vast fields of wheat waving in the breeze, hear the mighty roar of the Tiber River, to stand in the Grand Square of the Capitol; and feel his heart swell once again as he gazed at the Royal Palace, the last symbol of freedom to a subjugated people.
A hint of a smile graced Jaeger's lips as he remembered the first time he had visited the Capitol with his family, and seen the Palace. He had been only six at the time; but even now, thirty years later, he could still remember the awe he felt as he gazed up at it. At the snow white towers, four of them, surrounding the Great Dome, which had stood tall for over seven hundred years. It had become the official residence for the Empire's Magistrate ever since the conquest of EWI; but the presence of a foreign overseer could not drown out the thousand years of history left behind by the monarchs of Fhirald's days of glory – whose names and deeds Jaeger could still recite alphabetically or chronologically on command. Something his father, a patriot and avid historian, had often insisted he do.
"Never forget where you come from," the old general had told his son; and he never had. Not for a moment. Jaeger was always thankful to providence that his father had never lived to see what had become of the land he had served as a faithful soldier for over forty years. It would have broken his heart. Jaeger propped his feet against his desk and drank as he thought of home, of poor little Fhirald all alone, consumed by a man's lust for land and power. The world had forgotten her. But he…he would never forget. After all the battles fought in her name, after all that had been lost, how could he?
Being sons of one of the most famous living generals, the entry of Jaeger and his brothers into the National Military Academy was a foretold conclusion from the day they were born. He could remember the tears of joy in his mother's eyes and the look of pride on the old general's face, as Jaeger and his brothers Christoph and Frederick had stood before their parents in uniform for the first time. Buried somewhere amongst belongings he never remembered to unpack was a photograph of the three of them from that day. They had looked so proud then, wearing the red serge of Fhirald, so invulnerable. Jaeger sighed and drank the last of his brandy. Things had been so different then. The world had been a brighter place.
And then the war began. Jaeger had just received his general's star, when the Empire came crashing down upon his land like a wave. Drills, and parades changed to bayonet charges; the blast of brass bands to the whistle of artillery and the screams of the dying. Had Jaeger known, when he and his brothers had said goodbye to one another, that he would never see them alive again he would have…well it didn't matter what he might have done.
He'd always remember the moment when he learned they were gone. It had been a cold winter's day, two years into the war. He'd been in his war room, planning the latest offensive with his subordinates, when his aide had come rushing into the room. Jaeger remembered the feeling of surprise at the breach of protocol from his usually by-the-book assistant, and was about to reprimand him until he saw the sorrow in the man's eyes, and the official envelope clutched in his fist like a vice grip. And then Jaeger knew. He'd sent far too many of those brown envelopes to fathers and mothers about to have the worst day of their lives to not recognize what his aide was holding. Without a word, his aide passed him the envelope. Jaeger dismissed him with a wave and opened the letter.
"We regret to inform you": that was the way those letters always began. After that, the words blended together as his heart clenched in his chest and his breathing became shallow. Snatches of the letter still managed to invade his consciousness: words like "tank attack", "valiant service" and "posthumous award" managed to get past the grief before he dropped the letter and collapsed against the wall for support. They were dead, both of them. Neither medal, nor gain in territory would make up for that, or would dry the tears of his already ailing mother.
The bodies were sent home for a hero's funeral. Jaeger hadn't been there. Someone had to prepare the new offensive. Someone had to make a sacrifice in the name of the greater good. His brothers were buried, his mother wept alone, and Jaeger carried on just like he always had. Just like his father had always taught him to.
With the passage of that winter came spring, and the new offensive. On the morning the first battle was to take place Jaeger had received a cable from Intelligence. The enemy had anticipated his gambit, and were sending one of their best and brightest to meet him: General Gregor. Jaeger had smiled a grim smile as he crushed the telegram in his fist. That was just fine with him. Let the enemy send their best to him to die. Only two thoughts warmed Jaeger by then: victory and vengeance; and he meant to obtain both that day.
Although they had met on the field of battle for the first time that day, neither man would meet in person until much later. Jaeger had managed to carry the day by launching wave after wave of artillery at the Gregor's headquarters, while launching a blitz attack on the frontlines. The Empire had been in total disarray, unable to communicate.
It wasn't until much later that he learned that General Gregor had been wounded when his staff car had been struck by one of Jaeger's artillery shells. How ironic, Jaeger thought, that he should be serving in the same army as a man he had nearly killed so many years ago. To this day Gregor still bore the limp caused by the shrapnel of Jaeger's guns: the limp which served to remind both men of what might have happened had Gregor been sitting on the right side of his staff car instead of the left.
While Jaeger's offensive had been a clear victory, it had merely delayed the inevitable. Within two months, the ground that had been gained had been lost in next Imperial counterattack. Within another month, Fhirald was in full retreat. Nothing could stop the Empire's advance.
Jaeger leaned back in his chair, his mind travelling back to the worst day of his life.