Madrid — November 19, 1941
The sun barely filtered through the windows of El Pardo Palace. Francisco Franco stood still, eyes fixed on the large wall map of Europe, where the Axis' latest advances were marked with black-headed pins.
Kyiv had fallen. Tobruk as well. The Suez Canal was now in friendly hands. But Moscow… still held.
Before him, several generals from the High Command waited in silence. Muñoz Grandes was not present; he remained on the Eastern Front, leading the Blue Division alongside the Germans. It was General Asensio who finally spoke:
—The Reich has halted its advance toward Moscow, Your Excellency. Some forces have shifted south, toward the Caucasus. Reports mention the early winter, Soviet resistance...
Franco interrupted with a sharp tone:
—Winter always comes. That's no surprise. What concerns me is not the weather… but the strategy.
He paused for a moment, then added:
—Our men, under Yagüe, are fighting in Egypt. They're shedding blood in the sands of Sinai for a victory that might not even be ours. And in the East, the Germans hesitate at the gates of the Soviet capital.
He turned and pointed his cane directly at Moscow on the map.
—Congratulate Berlin on their advances. But demand clarity. Spain is not a pawn. I want to know if we are helping to build a new order… or trailing behind an empire that doesn't know how to close its fronts.
Rome — November 20, 1941
Benito Mussolini paced impatiently across the grand chamber of the Palazzo Venezia. On the table lay telegrams from East Africa, press clippings, and dispatches from the German High Command.
—The Spaniards are getting headlines in Egypt. The Germans raise flags in Ukraine. And us? Where is Italy?
A colonel attempted a careful reply:
—Duce, our forces continue to hold the line in Cyrenaica. Our units supporting operations in the Sinai have distinguished themselves...
—And will that be remembered in history books? —Mussolini snapped— Or will we be the Reich's footnote?
He stormed over to the Mediterranean map, eyes burning with a mix of rage and pride.
—I want an operation. One with a name. Malta, Alexandria, anything. But let it be ours. Let us be seen. Let us be feared. The Empire cannot settle for merely attending.
Tokyo — November 21, 1941
In the dim light of the Imperial General Staff, discussions were measured—but dangerous. The Axis' progress through Ukraine, Syria, and Iraq unsettled many. The stalled push toward Moscow created a vacuum.
—Germany is expanding southward. If they reach Persia, they'll be at our doorstep —said a general.
—And if they control Egypt, they'll own the Mediterranean —added another.
Admiral Yamamoto remained quiet until he spoke:
—Pearl Harbor remains on the table. But we have not been attacked. The people are not yet prepared for open war with the United States.
—And if we wait too long?
—Then the war may find us already cornered.
No one responded. Silence, clearer than any command.
Moscow — November 22, 1941
Night had fallen over the Kremlin, but Stalin still sat at his desk. Before him were three maps: the northern axis, the Moscow front, and the Caucasus.
—What's the latest? —he asked without lifting his gaze.
—The enemy has halted its direct advance. They're regrouping. Part of their forces are turning south. Winter arrived early. The Kyiv front is now under Axis control.
—And Turkey?
—Observing. But Syria and northern Iraq are under threat.
Stalin nodded slowly. Then, with a cold, firm tone:
—Fortify Moscow. Reinforce the Urals. And make sure our agents are listening to every whisper coming out of Ankara.
—And if Moscow falls?
Stalin raised his head.
—Then this will no longer be a war of trenches. It will be a war of ideas. And in such wars… only one side survives.