Chapter 213: Pillars of Domestic Policy

Looking at the lineups of the German national football teams over the years, you can see that this country has never lacked handsome men - sunny types, sophisticated types, mature types, delicate and elegant, rugged and robust, old and mysterious. Women of all ages, young and old, can find someone who suits their taste.

On Christmas Day in 1940, in the luxurious hall of the Imperial Chancellor's Palace, one could find gentlemen who could be described as "handsome," "very handsome," or "extremely handsome." The crisp uniforms highlighted the military officers' rugged beauty, adorned with medals, commemorative badges, and various colored collar tabs and shoulder boards, dazzling the eye. Men in their fifties exuded a calm and dignified demeanor, while those around forty were the "flowers" in women's hearts. As for those approaching thirty, their ranks and positions, somewhat disproportionate to their age, were especially admirable and enviable. In comparison, gentlemen in tailcoats may have slightly less appeal to the opposite sex, but their strengths lie in not causing concern for their families, and domestically, they have a slight edge in practicality in various aspects.

In this life and the past, Logan could be considered a handsome fellow, but in front of many colleagues and dignitaries, he didn't feel that his charm had reached extraordinary levels. Throughout the evening, beautiful maids kept appearing, promptly replacing his empty or nearly empty wine glasses. Fortunately, German champagne wasn't too strong; if it had all been replaced with spirits, he would probably have been carried off to the lounge long ago!

"Oh, no, thank you! Could I have a glass of tap water, uh... where is the restroom?" Logan placed the glass back on the tray, suddenly feeling that this "maid" seemed familiar. How many times tonight had she asked him if he wanted more wine?

The pretty maid with fair, tender skin smiled, "Go through that door, turn left, then right!"

"Thank you very much!" Feeling like he had an overload in his stomach, Logan maneuvered like a Junkers Ju 88 swiftly and deftly through the scattered groups of people. Just as he was about to enter the silver-gray door, a familiar voice came from not far away: "Hans!"

Although he wanted to pretend not to hear, Logan immediately stopped in his tracks, turned around properly, and raised his hand obediently. "Air Force Major General Hans Logan salutes you, Great Leader!"

A few steps away, standing slightly bent over with his hands behind his back, was the imperial dictator clad in his brown-gray Waffen-SS uniform, with Himmler, wearing glasses and also in an SS uniform, faithfully guarding by his side. Behind the Leader stood "Big Mouth" Goebbels, his thin face looking somewhat surprised as he scrutinized Logan.

"Come!" Hitler turned slightly towards the "gentlemen" and "gentlemen in tailcoats" crowding behind him. "Gentlemen, this is our imperial hero, Hans Logan, born in 1913, only 27 years old this year! His performance in France and England is well known to all. The rise of Germania requires talents like him!"

In an instant, all eyes turned to Logan, filled with respect.

"You flatter me, Great Leader! All victories are achieved under your leadership!" Logan blushed and palpitated. Boasting and flattery were more difficult for him than parachuting into a headwind.

"We express our utmost respect to our faithful comrade, the most visionary Air Force leader Hermann Goering. Fortunately, our Air Force still has many brave and intelligent young people like Hans Logan. Our Air Force will continue to be the sword of victory against the enemy!" The Leader's enthusiasm didn't seem particularly high as he spoke, but neither did it seem as melancholic as one might imagine. In any case, it was a confident control of the situation in a calm manner.

"The German Air Force is the pride of the people!"

After paying compliments to the tall, slender "man in black," Hitler smiled and said, "Leader, you don't know, but my granddaughters are admirers of General Logan! They keep pestering me to ask General Logan for autographed photos!"

Autographed photos might sound like a companion to modern-day entertainment stars, but since the advent of photography, people have been using photos and signatures to express their admiration for celebrities or as mementos between loved ones and friends. In present-day Germany, the Leader's autographed photos or copies of "Mein Kampf" with his signature were naturally the most sought after. In comparison, the influence of high-ranking officials and generals was often limited, and it was the battlefield heroes, promoted vigorously by the Propaganda Ministry, who were particularly loved by the common people.

"Can this wish be fulfilled this year?" The man in the black suit extended his right hand half-jokingly to Logan, but what made the young general feel embarrassed was that this man didn't introduce himself - if he were a native German, he would probably know that he was William Frick, the Minister of the Interior.

"You flatter me!" Logan hastily extended his own cold hand, feeling the warmth of the other's palm instantly.

"Is Britain colder than here?" William Frick said humorously.

"Hmm? Oh no, probably a little warmer!" Logan replied earnestly, a little slow in his response compared to the Minister of the Interior, who had 64 years of life experience.

"Britain's weather is too damp! Isn't that right, General Logan?" spoke the short man standing next to Himmler, with an oval head like a taro and a huge brandy nose. He wore a striped gray suit and a black tie, with a white handkerchief stuffed in his chest pocket.

"Quite damp!" Logan answered as earnestly as a schoolboy.

"I heard the general is also from East Prussia? I was born in Tilsit!" said the big brandy nose.

"Oh, really? I was born in Königsberg! A beautiful port city!" Logan replied.

"Ah, quite beautiful! By the way, General, my granddaughters are also your admirers, so... autographed photos!" the big brandy nose said somewhat sheepishly.

The young imperial hero suddenly became the subject of ridicule by this group of ministers. Fortunately, these jests sounded at least friendly. After a while, a middle-aged officer wearing an Air Force marshal's uniform walked to the Leader's side and whispered a few words in his ear. The Leader nodded slightly, then turned to the group of gentlemen in suits and said, "Gentlemen ministers, the grand fireworks show is about to begin. Let's go up to the grand terrace together!"

Obviously, the imperial government officials, who always stayed away from the front lines, were very interested in the magnificent fireworks. Almost immediately, the group of ministers left behind the so-called "imperial hero" and followed the Leader's footsteps, leaving. The top of the main hall of the Imperial Chancellor's Palace had a sunken terrace, designed by Speer when he planned this grand building, taking into account various needs: small-scale parades, banquets, and viewing parties.

Since the fireworks display was to be handled by the Air Force's "General Hermann Goering" Brigade (upgraded from a regiment to a brigade in September 1940) stationed in Berlin, as the Air Force's operations chief, Logan had known the timing, quantity, and location of the fireworks in advance. On the surface, such an event could potentially be exploited for an assassination attempt, but in reality, Berlin's elite SS units and extensive secret police closely monitored the entire process, leaving very few opportunities for mischief.

Feeling that it was too early to celebrate victory with fireworks, Logan didn't follow the Chancellor and his entourage up the long spiral staircase to the upper terrace. Instead, he slipped away into the restroom alone, which was extravagantly appointed, likely deserving at least a six-star rating. When he returned to the hall, the sound of fireworks crackling outside filled the air. Most of the dignitaries and their spouses had already left, leaving only a few generals in relatively relaxed postures, sitting or standing, holding glasses of wine or cigarettes, chatting about the harshness of war, the banality of life, and various interesting or uninteresting matters.

Taking a silver cigarette case from his pocket, Logan was about to find a seat to smoke when he saw a petite figure approaching him with a tray. Hastily, he said, "Ah, no, thank you!"

"Oh!" The watery eyes revealed a pitifully disappointed expression.

Putting the cigarette in his mouth, Logan absentmindedly said, "Why not go and see the fireworks?"

The disappointed expression vanished, replaced by a momentary excitement before settling back into calmness. "We can't leave the hall freely," she replied.

"Oh, that's a shame!" Taking advantage of the moment he lit his cigarette, Logan glanced at her. She was probably the most frequently seen "maid" tonight, with large eyes, delicate nose, and small lips complementing her fair skin, which didn't look European at all—perhaps apart from natural beauty, she also needed a daily milk bath!

Just then, dressed in the uniform of an Air Force Marshal, Milch appeared next to a huge pillar like a ghost and said in a calm tone, "How come our Air Force's operations chief didn't go see the fireworks?"

"I've developed some quirks from being in the trenches, like instinctively plugging my ears at explosion scenes! Why didn't you go either?" Logan smiled in the face of the 48-year-old Deputy Air Force Commander, Milch. Although they hadn't worked together for long, Logan was still impressed by Milch's abundant energy and excellent organizational talent, like most people at the time, he believed Milch was fully capable of doing better than Goering. However, the title of Supreme Commander of the Imperial Air Force did not "naturally" fall on Milch's head after Hermann Goering's plane crash, but was temporarily held by the little mustached Chancellor—rumor had it that Milch was one of the suspicious figures who played a leading or indirectly influential role in the "Goering incident." After all, with Goering dead, the biggest beneficiary was easy to count on one's fingers!

"I don't like noise!" Milch said, hands behind his back. Suddenly, he stared at the "maid" who had just walked away from Logan for several seconds, then smiled awkwardly and said, "Oh, isn't that Fricke's granddaughter? This little troublemaker isn't afraid of being recognized by the Chancellor. I think I also saw Seltz and Rost's granddaughters just now. It must be the old man Manner's doing. Hmph, these guys! Dreaming of being princes and beautiful princesses all day long?"

"Princes and princesses?" Logan turned his head to look, but the petite "maid" had already hurried away. She was the granddaughter of William Fricke, the Minister of the Interior? Was cosplay a thing nowadays?