VI GÅR I KRIG

The Nordic Union, known officially as the World Organization for the Defense of Economics in Northern Europe, had maintained the reputation of a peaceful, almost neutral bloc ever since its birth in 1852 with the official association of Denmark and Sweden. Some of its proud supporters looked as far back as the 1814 Treaty of Kiel to explain its lasting status as a bastion of realpolitik, alleging it as the definitive end of the northern nations’ unrest. Admittedly a landmark of diplomacy, the treaty acted as a symbolic milestone, though some frictions had remained clear. Still, more powerful than diplomatic woes was the Scandinavian myth of quiet unity, which was largely consolidated by 19th century romanticism. Few of the nations of the world could neglect the aura it had emanated throughout the hemisphere since then.

In the decades that followed its inauguration, the NU enjoyed a peaceful series of incorporations that only moderately shook its fabled image. Norway’s admission in 1905 after its separation from Sweden was a formality, with Haakon VII’s establishment merely reaffirming historic ties. The same was true of Iceland’s declaration of independence from Denmark in 1918, which was seamlessly traded with its immediate inclusion into the Union. The diplomatic situation degraded during the secession of Finland and Estonia from Russia in 1920, as it was clear that the Finnic nations would try to use Russia’s inner turmoil as a pathway into the alliance forming west of them. The Red Army declared their unofficial liberation, in response to which the Tsarists, with The Holy Roman Empire’s vow for support, retaliated with brutal military strength – effectively wiping out communist separatism and reclaiming Saint-Petersburg.

Quickly however, the intervention of the HRE was thwarted by the Nordic Union’s threat of war. As for White Russia, though it won on ephemeral battlefields, issues of internal stability forced the concession that Finland and Estonia had become unsustainable ground. Within months, Moscow had begrudgingly confirmed their independence, and Nordic tensions faded again. The year after, the entrance of the two countries into the Union was made official with no significant hindrances. At this stage, hopes started to emerge that Scandinavia might unify Europe.

More impactful was Switzerland’s admission, though it could have come across to an outside observer as the ratification of evident common grounds. The Helvetic Confederation and the Nordic Union did, after all, share a focus on European economic interests as well as defense and deterrence. Switzerland would contribute to the Nordic economy – in particular with the aim of building a Scandinavian jump gate – while the alliance would preserve the country’s famed impartiality in the face of the threat posed by Karl VIII.

Yet behind this rational façade stood the house of mistrust. Switzerland was still mulling over The Holy Roman Empire’s aggressions, the French occupation of the 1850s, its uncomfortable status as the gatekeeper of the now Imperial Vatican, and the economic insecurities that followed the extensive money outflow of the 1920 famine loans. Though the country used to take pride in being relied on, there had been a creeping feeling of being used as Europe’s golden goose. Had the Swiss liquidity become mere conveniences for the greater powers? How long would it take until France or the HRE would permanently claim them for themselves? The country suffered from a veritable neutrality crisis.

Upon joining the Union in April 1938 at the end of a frenzied and controversial process, Switzerland had convinced all member-states but Iceland of its legitimacy as a Nordic Nation. This, however, came at the cost of its leader’s reputation as well as internal dissent, both within the country and the Union. Robert Grimm and his increasingly virulent Abschreckungsgruppe (Deterrence Group) could scarcely hide that their motivations were fear and defiance, drawing sharp popular criticism. Simultaneously, differences between member-states that had so far been moot suddenly were set ablaze by Switzerland's perceived attempt to hog the limelight. Finland and Estonia emphasized their anti-Russia interests, in which both nations were aligned with the Imperial-fearing policies of the Swiss. Denmark and Sweden maintained the need for trade and defense, reluctant to see a transition from the Scandinavian ideals of stability. Norway seemed only to condemn the debate, while Iceland kept silent in the hope of not being dragged into the conflictual net. Soon, the word was out that Grimm had “planted a bomb of paranoia within the Nordic Union”, and it was not long before London’s Daily Herald dubbed him the Grimm Reaper.

While he was presented as the main figure of the Union’s sudden agitation, Grimm was not so much an expert intriguer as a catalyst of preexisting tensions. Moreover, the NU was not the only sun to ripen them.

The 1930s saw great shifts in the dynamic of Western political influences, notably with the rise of the Grand Alliance doctrines in 1935. Inasmuch as The League of Five Emperors and The Anglo-Japanese Pact had already sealed two thirds of the world in such alliances, the rest of Europe lagged behind in similarly consolidating – and the matter was now pressing. In response, ambassadorial envoys were sent that reshaped the diplomatic landscape in a hurry. By 1938, the young North Atlantic Alliance was clearly Europe’s leading coalition, underlined with a strong network of diplomatic feats – or a jumble of inexplicable alliances, depending on the point of view.

Be that as it may, the Nordic Union was finally caught up by reality in at least one respect: the prestige of the old defensive pact had waned, and new internal issues terminated the prospect of a European pact under Scandinavian guidance. With two empires casting the shadow of war on its southeastern side, NU’s peculiar borders still soft from fresh soldering caused immediate security concerns. Leaders started secretly looking towards the NAA for support. When French foreign minister Georges Bonnet sensed it and approached Copenhagen about an alliance, it was almost a given that the two coalitions would (practically) become one at the dawn of war.

Upon The Holy Roman Empire’s war declaration to France on August 12th, 1938, things had a way of falling into place for the Union. Despite the fact that the French-Nordic alliance did not formally include it into the NAA at large, the extent of shared interests between the two blocs made the exact nature of their relationship fairly irrelevant. Thereafter, Nordic members were generally content to be seen as a semi-independent entity. The war and the press took care of cementing them as official constituents of the NAA in the popular mind – which many politicians have seemed to accept as the truth as well.

As for the qualms that had been heatedly expressed by constituents as they were forced into rapid collaboration, they had been mainly grounded in uncertainties concerning the near-future. With the Imperial threat now taking a sharp turn into reality, such concerns became baseless and war became the common priority.

What the twin coalitions’ catch-all structure meant for the war, however, was that nations enjoyed relative freedom to act after their own mind. Another fact not to be overlooked, the NU was also giving its members the opportunity to finally fight back against long-term oppressors. And so, in the year that followed, the world was sprinkled with fluid responses from the North.

Since the Union’s alliance was primarily with France, and the Great War had started with the Imperial declaration of war on that very country, the NU found itself in a position of prime importance that it did not expect. New commitments had to be formulated so as to ensure that those ties would be properly honored.

On October 2nd, ambassadors and other representatives gathered in Paris for a roundtable conversation, followed by another in Copenhagen a week after. What later became known as the Bonnet-Munch Agreements (after French and Danish foreign ministers Georges Bonnet and Peter Munch) included fifty-six terms, forming a strong contract that would shape the Union’s general heading in the war and attempt to settle internal divergences.

In an atmosphere of dull resignation, the meeting first addressed Switzerland’s matter of security – or rather, insecurity. As a gesture of good faith and to help the negotiations to move forward, France agreed to dispatch 5,120 Gendarmes throughout Swiss towns. The brigade, dubbed the “Non-Swiss Guard” by irritated locals, had orders to help repress insurgents who protested Grimm’s alleged federal overreach. The Bourbon Times, one of the most prominent anti-French voices of North America of the time, would quip: “Switzerland needed a pacifier. Coherent, as they are a toddler of a nation.”

Witticisms aside, the conference focused on the protection of the French eastern borders, arguably the primary point on the agenda. Here, Switzerland’s contribution was welcome, and the country agreed to build and maintain outposts on the more mountainous portions of the Italian-Imperial and French-Imperial borders. The Swiss forces themselves concentrated in the northeast. Elite mountaineers were made available to the French in the event of an alpine clash, though it was unclear why exactly 5,120 of them. A significant amount of equipment was supplied as well, mostly in terms of small personal weapons.

Denmark, with the financial aid of Switzerland, pledged to consolidate its southern border. This resulted in the Esbjerg-Kolding Line: 38 miles (61 km) of state-of-the-art fortifications meant for intimidation. This turned out less effective than intended, as the resulting barrier was so impenetrable that both sides would be compelled into an idle face-off – and so neither had to commit many troops to it.

Norway and Sweden, faithful against all odds to their old ideals, opted to up their industrial output by 35% by 1941. This level-headed option was bound to provide increased wartime autonomy to France, while boosting independent trade opportunities. It also presented the advantage of limiting the economic reliance on the United States that Scandinavia had felt coerced into.

Reciprocally, The New French Republic would compensate for one of the Union’s major weaknesses: its manpower. With only a few million men eligible for draft, it could scarcely compete with the Empires’ sixty-nine millions – a sword of Damocles that the Nordics would only be too glad to counter with a French épée.

Scandinavia’s naval tradition was also of particular interest, as it was capable of securing the North Sea, and indirectly the English Channel. This was especially important to the NFR as the prospect of a French operation in the Mediterranean became more and more likely. There was something in it for Finland and Estonia too, who had been vocal in their plea that the Union consider direct offensives on Russia, or at least provide guarantees for their sovereignty. In exchange, the NAA would benefit from their veteran command structure, which still had much field experience leftover from the War of Independence.

In the last few terms of the agreements, it was decided that a Baltic blockade must be maintained, albeit not without criticisms directed at the two constituents for using the Union as a way to get to their common enemy. With the Frisian coastline under HRE control, over the following months the Baltic would progressively turn into a no man’s sea, but not until…

The initial reaction of the Nordic leaders to the war had been unanimous in one way: whether to reaffirm sovereignty, reclaim fading prestige, or fasten fresh alliances, strength had to be asserted right away. Thoughts on entering the war, however, were split. Iceland and Switzerland voted against, Estonia and Finland in favor. This left the rest of Scandinavia with the decisive votes, all three remaining countries wanting to settle any disagreements with a single voice of reason. Still feeling forced into an alliance with the United States, they had their own motive for reluctance. Debates broke out and dawdled.

In the meantime, few could ignore that a quick glance at any decent map revealed a sticking point of Nordic-Imperial geography: Gotland. Annexed by Imperial forces during the War of Northern Consolidation of 1847-1848, the island was pivotal to the security of the Baltic Sea, and now had the potential to disrupt crucial Nordic exchanges. The ongoing construction of the Kalmar Gate nearby posed additional security concerns. Amid the stalling discussions, a Swedish-Estonian-Finnish secret council broke apart from the Union’s debates and covertly organized Operation Våg: a surprise attack on the de jure Swedish land while The Holy Roman Empire, focused on its land attacks on France, seemed unprepared (and somehow ill-documented about the Nordic fleet’s whereabouts and cumulative size, for as modest as it was).

The attack was conducted on November 8th with the coordinated participation of the Swedish, Finnish and Estonian navies. It was daring and unexpected, Gotland having been fitted with a garrison and naval fortifications. Heavy casualties were taken in the morning, and the situation stalled for most of the afternoon. With many troops bottlenecked on the seaside around Wiesbi (formerly Visby), time was on the side of the Imperials, whose response became direly awaited.

At around noon, an Imperial response fleet left Gdansk towards Gotland, with just enough ships to quickly repress the threat. This is when the secretive involvement of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in Operation Våg was revealed, as submarines intercepted the Gdansk fleet. Simultaneously, Nordic troops finally advanced, leading up to the quasi-decimation of the garrison. This was largely credited to Finnish-Russian commander Eino Rahja’s leadership, who had enjoyed a successful military career in Finland after seceding from Russia during the Finnish War of Independence.

In reality, the Empire had both the means and the numbers to reclaim Gotland within a few days at most, even with Poland’s unforeseen support. Yet, it was determined that the Empire was in no position to risk sunken costs and further ridicule. Additionally, the island would have been a risky investment to keep, despite its strategic interest. The Union, emboldened by its Gotland victory, would do all in its power to secure the surroundings of the Kalmar Gate – and so no attempt to get the territory back was undergone.

The retaliation instead took a more long-term form. Coordinated pushes onto the Polish-Lithuanian and French borders took place starting in January 1939, eventually converging into the bulk of French-Imperial hostilities. The Lakes Campaign consisted of a Russian attempt to claim lakes Ladoga and Onega between May and July, which stalled after a cloud engine malfunction (or sabotage?) utterly froze the latter lake over. This became famous as the Onega Summer Truce, where Russian and Finnish troops agreed to temporarily halt the fighting and were immortalized ice skating together (in Russia, the event is known as the Onega Summer Executions).

Operation Våg was condemned by the Union, whose representatives widely denounced the lack of due procedure leading up to it. It left it with a formal declaration of war from the Empire only three months into the conflict, which was felt as unacceptable, notwithstanding the added prestige. Subsequently, the Nordic involvement in the war diminished, but was irrevocably formal.

Officially a stalemate according to Imperial officials, the Gotland situation fell wholly in favor of the Union, and Swedish flags surrounded the entire coastline starting November 15th. This had come at a high price, but the operation was a success in proving the NU’s military cohesion, as well as its coordination efforts with the NAA. As for how the intelligence related to the attack had been so efficiently withheld from the Empire, analysts have credited a steady flow of misinformation fed to it by the Union. That disruption campaign seemed to originate from two cities in particular…

For several years before the war, Poland-Lithuania had been a pivotal zone of the eurasian conflicts, thanks to its shocking resilience against the surrounding empires. With its border now opening to the Union as part of the NAA agreements, it was only a matter of weeks before the open cities of Riga and Königsberg started teeming with Finnish and Estonian spies. The quick-thinking actions of the network led to several important leaks of Imperial plans in just the first months of the war.

This built up to March 5th, 1939, when Estonia announced having obtained access to the cloud engine technology in its entirety. The claim was proven wrong soon afterwards, but not until the Empire had enacted sweeping executions and established its own counter-network. From this point on, the two cities had become a black market of information – a heaven for spies, conspirators and schemers of all sorts with little fear for daggers in dark alleys.

Much critical information would be exchanged, extorted, stolen or killed for there. As for citizens, they seem to have learned to avoid certain streets or neighborhoods, which some say has something to do with the recurring bomb attacks.

Despite the bumpy diplomatic road that threw the Nordic Union down from the hyperbolized pedestal it had occupied throughout the 19th century, the timing of the war was lucky. They say there is still a hint of the former World Forum’s values in the NAA ideology, and that the Scandinavian common sense is to thank for that.

“Common”, incidentally, is another key word for the coalition, as seen on the day the Bonnet-Munch Agreements were signed. Newspapers throughout Norway, Sweden and Denmark shared a headline then, a sentence that read the same in the respective languages. Vi Går I Krig – We’re Going To War. The insistence on unity has strongly rallied the Nordic popular opinion of the conflict, at least in those countries.

The Nordic Union is sometimes bogged down in complicated voting procedures and interminable debates, which continue to set it a step behind in many diplomatic affairs. Yet, diversity of opinion can also be its strength. In any case, it seems to have earned a new reputation as The North Atlantic Alliance’s guardian angel.