Der Kampf: The Rise and Fall of the Austrian Führer
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Yes, my wife and I are fine. We bought a lot of bottled water and used snow for toilet water.
My area of Texas is all back to normal. Though some counties still have a boil water notice.
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Growing Pains
Moscow, Russia
Soviet Russia
February 1919
Growing Pains
Moscow, Russia
Soviet Russia
February 1919
Varlam Aleksandrovich Avanesov was a busy man. Being the secretary to one of the most powerful men within Soviet Russia had a habit of filling one’s days with endless assignments and errands, all in the name of the workers’ and peasants’ of the newborn Soviet state of course. He slaved away at the typewriter before him, the click-clack of the keys loud and consistent in the spacious Kremlin office that over a year ago would have belonged to some Tsarist or Conservative reactionary.
He was so busy with the workload that never seemed to end, that he did not realize someone had knocked and opened the door.
Avanesov jumped in his seat from surprise, eliciting a dry chuckle from the newly arrived man who stood next to Avanesov’s desk.
“Good God, comrade, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” The man, a messenger within the vast Kremlin complex, smiled toothily as he walked to Avanesov’s desk in the room.
“Comrade,” the messenger began, “You are needed in the infirmary. Comrade Sverdlov is being, umm, difficult.”
Avanesov sighed as he rose, at first grabbing a handful of papers he knew his boss would want to look over but dropped them as they wouldn’t help matters. He left the office, locking it behind him, and walked to the Kremlin’s infirmary. Only a few months ago Lenin had been there following Fanny Kaplan’s failed assassination attempt. Now it held the man who was one of the most powerful men in Russia, the one who held Lenin’s trust and confidence.
Walking in past the guards set to protect the man inside, he heard disgruntled shouting and calls of alarm from the infirmary staff.
“Comrade Sverdlov, you are in no shape to leave your bed right now,” a pale looking, thin doctor said exasperatedly, three nurses standing behind him, all looking overworked. All four worse masks to protect them from Spanish Flu that had infected their patient some one week ago. Avanesov put one on as well as he neared them.
The man they were all looking at was a thin, short statured Jewish man with glasses. His unassuming look was one of his greatest strengths. Underneath the scholarly look his boss presented to the world was a man whose mind was a sharp as a knife and as ruthless as a Chekist execution squad.
Yakov Sverdlov muttered in Yiddish, attempting to get out of his bed. If the doctor was pale and thin, then Sverdlov was far worse. His features were gaunt, eyes dark from fitful sleep, and he appeared to have lost a significant amount of weight which was worrying since he had so little beforehand.
Sverdlov saw him approach and a flicker of hope crossed his face.
“Ah, Varlam Aleksandrovich, please tell these esteemed comrades that I am fine to leave and return home to my wife.”
“Comrade Sverdlov,” Avanesov had to appear formal here to hone in his point. “You are supposed to be in that bed resting, not trying to leave it and begin working. These are orders from Comrade Lenin himself, and you know that, comrade.” Sverdlov frowned and Avanesov swallowed. They might have an excellent working relationship and a tentative friendship but he just reminded the man who ordered the deaths of the Romanovs to follow orders.
“The Revolution needs me,” he stated to them all. “We are surrounded by Tsarist and counter-revolutionary elements. Our enemies surround us. I am needed to cleanse the nation of their presence. If even one reactionary still breathes then the workers’ and peasants’ paradise we are building will be threatened.”
Sverdlov, wincing from pain and exhaustion settled back in the infirmary bed, “There is much work to be done. The proletariat have put into us their trust and loyalty. How can I repay that confidence by resting?” Though his question was to all, Avanesov answered it.
“It would do the revolution no good if such a key member of its governance died because they worked themselves into an early grave.”
Sverdlov frowned but said nothing. Avanesov, more than anyone, knew just how much work the man sitting next to him did for the Soviet government and the Party that ran it, but he also knew his friend and comrade was physically weak due to the deadly flu that was sweeping the world and leaving millions dead in its wake. Sverdlov was visibly pale, sweat beading his brow. He appeared drained of the energy and vitality that had helped organize and initiate the October Revolution, a far cry of the man who only a few weeks ago was readying a journey to the Ukraine to oversee the election of Communist officials there but due to be stricken with the infuenza that responsibility had been given to another.
This man was the one who had so fervently pushed for decossackization and the retaliation of poor peasant farmers against their richer kulak cousins. By his orders, ten of thousands had died and hundreds of thousands arrested or sent to camps to work until they died, all in the name of bettering Russia and enriching Communism with the fertile soil of dead reactionaries.
“Yakov Mikhailovich, as your friend and secretary, please abide by the doctor’s wishes. You are no good to anyone if you die.”
Sverdlov pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in thought. After a moment, he shrugged. “You’re right as always, Varlam Aleksandrovich. I will abide by the doctor’s orders until I properly recover.”
Avanesov breathed a sigh of relief.
“But,” Yakov Sverdlov, the Chairman of both the Party Secretariat and the Central Executive Committee of the All-Russian Congress, said, “you will keep me apprised of any developments. Is that understood?” The menacing undertones that resided there unnerved Avanesov.
“Of course, Comrade Chairman,” he said deferentially. Appeased, Sverdlov relaxed and closed his eyes.
Leaving the infirmary, the doctor couldn’t stop thank Avanesov enough.
“Make sure he survives this influenza,” Avanesov said, “Or an accident may befall you and your staff.” Avanesov patted the doctor’s arm in a false affectionate way, his gaze unflinchingly and terrible. The doctor cowed, sweating profusely despite the winter weather outside the Kremlin.
“Of course, sir- comrade.”
Avanesov left, returning to the work that awaited him, content to know Sverdlov had a fighting chance at surviving now that he would actually rest and recuperate.
As he walked through the corridors of the Kremlin, he paused and stared upward, as if feeling the eyes of history upon him, followed by the anguished cries of millions that seemingly echoed in his mind. He shook his head. Tired, that was what it was, he was so tired but there was always something to do. If the Soviet state in Russia was to survive the Civil War and defy the foreign powers who saw Communism as a threat, then it required leaders of iron will and conviction with the skills and drive necessary to see Soviet Russia not only endure but thrive.
Sacrifices were necessary upon the path of revolution.
Budapest, Hungary
Hungarian Democratic Republic
February 1919
Everything was shit. Lying in bed, listening to the slight snoring of the woman beside him, Tamás Horváth couldn't sleep. He didn’t know if it was anxiety, excitement, or fear. All of it was mingled together.Hungarian Democratic Republic
February 1919
Hungary, his motherland, was in the midst of dying. Only a few months had passed since the war ended and Hungary had lost around two-thirds of its territory, under occupation by foreign powers. Czechoslovakia, Romania and Yugoslavia watched hungrily like hyenas over wounded prey, slavering away at the bit. While he had issues with Austro-Hungary, there was at least a semblance of stability, but stability in Michael Károlyi’s government was practically unheard of.
Pacifists, the lot of them. He despised them.
He leaned over to the table beside the bed, grabbed a cigarette and a match, lighting it. He took a deep drag of the cigarette, blowing it out through his nose.
Hours passed, the escort continued to sleep but he just laid there, staring at the ceiling. His apartment was in a once well-to-do area of the capital city, but as of late it had become increasingly more dangerous. Agitators, both pro-monarchists, Communists, anarchists and pro-democratic groups clashed in the streets. Some in support of Károlyi whilst many others against. He had been called to detain and even fire upon his own people whose only crime was demanding food in their belly and warmth in their home.
Shit, shit, shit.
When the alarm rang, the escort collected her payment on the apartment kitchen table. It was in specie and foodstuffs as paper banknotes were more useful as toilet paper than currency nowadays.
He dressed in his uniform. He was still a member of the military though Hungary’s Armed Forces were much reduced than the days of the Imperial Common Army, both in manpower and equipment. And he was no longer a captain. The pin markings of a major decorated his collar. Exiting the apartment, a car awaited him. The soldier in front came to attention and opened the door for him. Another officer, a lieutenant colonel, sat in the car and beckoned him in.
“Sir,” Horváth said.
Lieutenant Colonel Henrik Werth handed him a paper. “Have you seen this?”
Horváth read it and grimaced. “First I’ve heard of it.”
The newspaper headline read: ‘Béla Kun Arrested!’
Horváth frowned. “This will cause problems.”
Werth nodded, looking out the window as the driver put the car in gear and drove off to Army headquarters. He sighed. “A storm is coming, major, and we best be ready to face it.”
“Should I prepare the men to resist Communist elements in the face of a coup? I can have an operational outline ready within the day.”
Werth shook his head. “Nothing so drastic. If the Communists initiate an uprising, we will crush them with what we have, paltry as it may be. But if the Reds somehow gain political power then we need to swallow our pride and beliefs and follow orders. As soldiers, we have to be apolitical. The moment politics enters the Armed Forces then we become nothing but the instrument of terror. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Understanding did not equal agreement but Horváth would do what he had to do, he would follow orders. Just like he always had during the war.
The actions he committed still haunted him, a child’s cry before the gunfire echoed in his mind, drowned out by the crowds outside and the vehicle’s engine as it drove through the streets of Budapest.
Moscow, Russia
Soviet Russia
March 1919
Ten thousand men of the Red Army marched in front of the Kremlin. The city citizenry cheered them on. Few dared to not cheer or appear patriotic, lest they be labeled as counter-revolutionary. And once you were labeled as such, a target was on your back with the Cheka ever eager to rid the country of dissidents.Soviet Russia
March 1919
Andrei Fyodorrovich Kolganov stood amongst the exalted and elite of the Soviet state overseeing the soldiers below. He was not high in the ranks of the Cheka, but he was trusted. Ironic then, that such a trusted agent of Soviet Russia lived under a false name. He had a suspicion that the Cheka Director, Felix Dzerzhinsky, knew his true origins but Dzerzhinsky cared more about results and loyalty than his agents’ pasts. Fyodor had, in the past fifteen months, proven his worth to the Soviet secret police. He was educated, committed, and after the torture he suffered in the Petrograd Prison of Solitary Confinement he had become ruthless to those who threatened the Revolution. Fifteen months and hundreds were dead by his orders or hands, as well as those of his comrade Sergei Davydov, his former jailer and now fellow Chekist who stood next to him.
They watched the men walk by, but Fyodor couldn’t keep his eyes off of the five men who stood at the forefront of the assembled men. Premier Vladimir Lenin drew the eye, a strong and confident man whose dreams and ambitions had created a revolution, initiated a civil war, and saw the radical overhaul of the Russian government and its people. Leon Trotsky, Chairman of the Military Revolutionary Committee, the de facto leader of military strategy, stood to Lenin’s left, dressed in an Army uniform. To Lenin’s right was Yakov Sverdlov, still looking pale and weak from being stricken by the influenza but was recovering well according to Chekist intelligence dossiers. The right hand of Lenin might have appeared weak physically but none questioned his importance to the Soviet government. To Trotsky’s left was Fyodor’s boss, Dzerzhinsky, who represented the Soviet state intelligence and secret police apparatus. To Sverdlov’s right stood a man that Fyodor recognized from over a year ago. He was the Pravda editor, one of the Bull’s associates during the July Riots in Petrograd. The Savior of Tsaritsyn and a man whose name meant ‘Man of Steel.’ Joseph Stalin was not physically impressive, he was below middling height and had several pockmark scars on his face. But how he carried himself… one would think he was the only man in the room.
Director Dzerzhinsky had once referred to Stalin as ‘Lenin’s Henchman’ due to his criminal origins. While many of the men who surrounded Lenin were intellectuals or party ideologues and political theorists, Stalin alone was a brute, effectively a bully given vast power. A dangerous man if there ever was one.
Yet he provided results in the Southern Front, though it came at mistrust and suspicion between Trotsky and Stalin following the latter’s murder of hundreds who had been vetted into the Red Army by Trotsky and his conciliatory policies towards men with military and logistical experience that the Red Army needed so desperately.
Nevertheless he held Lenin’s favor, the Henchman’s determination and unflinching resolve firming up the fighting spirit of the common man and woman of the Soviet military forces and populace.
How did Bull and Stalin meet, Fyodor wondered. Was it during their criminal youth in the Caucasus? He may never know.
The military parade ended and there was much handshaking, back patting and saluting. He and Sergei smoked a cigarette away from the others, both wishing for a flask of vodka to warm them up.
Dzerzhinsky walked over.
“Kolganov, Davydov, you have a new assignment in the coming weeks.”
“Where to, Comrade Director?” Davydov asked. Fyodor privately guessed it would be to the Eastern Front where Red Army forces were trying to slow down Kolchak’s most recent offensive. Results were… mixed and required a hefty Chekist presence to remind Red Army soldiery the price of failure.
“To the west, to Petrograd.”
“And what are we to do there, comrade?” Fyodor asked.
Stalin walked up from behind, his presence like a shark in blood infested waters. The Man of Steel spoke.
“Deny the city of Petrograd to White forces and purge any traitors or cowards within our ranks.”
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Hungary looks interesting. Maybe if they fall to the Revolution they'll provide power to Hitler and his cronies via a Red Scare.
Hungary does fall to a Communist controlled government in March 1919, with Béla Kun as it’s leader. This is the Hungarian Soviet Republic. Hungary had 3 major changes of government in just one year.
This is why I wanted Horváth as a character to show Hungary’s side of things throughout the Interwar leading to WW2 and beyond.
So far almost everything has been per OTL with some minor changes that will become the stones thrown in a lake. They’ll leave shockwaves.
And I thought Italy was bad.
In all seriousness I meant a permanent fall to Communism. With them acting as Austria's Soveit Union expy in a red power to their east that throws the nation into a red scare.
Ahh ok. Hungary will be following a largely historical path here up until the mid-late 1930s due to Hitler’s Austria.
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Yes he is but he’s a big fish in a small pond. But he also has an experienced politician leading a far-right organization with Hitler as a protege. He also had a more public and celebrated war record (Hero of Hill 53)
In Germany he was pretty much a nobody at a national level until the Beer Hall Putsch. Here, at least many Austrians (especially those who served in Galicia ) will at least go “Oh, yeah I heard about a Sergeant Hitler during the war.”
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Germany will have a major role to play in the decades to come but can’t reveal too much due to spoilers.
Yes he is but he’s a big fish in a small pond. But he also has an experienced politician leading a far-right organization with Hitler as a protege. He also had a more public and celebrated war record (Hero of Hill 53)
In Germany he was pretty much a nobody at a national level until the Beer Hall Putsch. Here, at least many Austrians (especially those who served in Galicia ) will at least go “Oh, yeah I heard about a Sergeant Hitler during the war.”
That’s awesome! Thanks everyone for voting!
Truly honored and ecstatic that Der Kampf has been so well received.
Glad to have you here and happy that you enjoy the story!
Next Chapter will be Lutjens and Hitler. No ETA at the moment. I’d like for it to be Sunday but it’s unlikely.
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
Separate Paths
Berlin, Germany
Weimar Republic (German Reich)
February 1919
Separate Paths
Berlin, Germany
Weimar Republic (German Reich)
February 1919
Hitler’s fierce blue eyes locked on him. “We need you, Paul. I need you.”
“I’m so tired of war, Adi. All the death, all the sorrow. When does it ever end?”
Paul remembered Hitler straightening, a disappointed look on his mustached face as they sat in a Viennese cafe the day before he left. “The Struggle is ever ongoing. It tests us and tempers us, making us stronger and more pure.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, unbelieving of such drivol “All I want is peace, Adi. Peace and family.”
Paul shook awake, the afterimage of a disapproving Hitler was the last thing in his mind as he rubbed his eyes.
It had been nearly three days since he left Vienna and Hitler, heading north towards Berlin where his sister and her family lived. She had written to him in the final weeks of the war, asking for his help. Her husband had died in France and with the chaos and anarchy in Germany she felt threatened and had written to him. Anya was the last family he had, their parents long dead, so his responsibility was clear.
He had explained to Hitler of his intentions and though his friend had disapproved at first, Hitler understood the reasons and they had left on… lukewarm terms.
“If you ever return, I shall embrace you like a lost brother, my friend. Come back to Austria one day, Paul. It requires men like us to lead it back from the brink.” Those had been Hitler’s last words to him as he set off to Berlin the day before Hitler and Kampfgruppe Wolf was set to head to Carinthia.
Now his friends and brothers-in-arms were on their way to another war. While Lutjens had enjoyed the Army, its camaraderie and the brotherhood war brought, he did not miss the boys screaming for mothers on their deathbed or the sound of artillery thudding into the ground, and the putrid smell of shit, blood, and gunpowder permeating everything.
He awoke as the train pulled into the Potsdamer Bahnhof. The whistle blew and the doors opened, the conductor ushering everyone off and wishing them a fine day in the capital. Lutjens stepped off and immediately noticed the armed guards everywhere. He had heard of leftist discontent in Berlin, but it seemed things were more serious than he realized.
“Papieren,” barked one of the guards, a man dressed in feldgrau and shouldering a Gewehr-98 rifle. Several of the men in the train station wore black armbands, whilst other guards did not. Intrigued as he handed the man his travel papers, Lutjens asked, “What does that mean?” he asked, gesturing at the black armband.
The soldier arched an eyebrow. “Your accent… Are you from Bavaria?”
“No, Austria.”
The man’s face hardened. “Why are you here?”
“To visit my sister and her children.”
“Likely story.” The soldier read over his papers. “Very convincing even,” he bunched them up and reached out. “You’re coming with me.”
“What? Why?” Lutjens demanded, shrugging off the man’s hand, causing a commotion. Lutjens saw two other guards, these without the armbands, rush over.
“Suspected Communist.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Lutjens exclaimed.
The two other men in feldgrau had arrived. “What is going on here?” demanded one, Lutjens saw he wore captain pins, though he did not wear an officers cap but rather a stahlhelm. A pistol was holstered at his side and he was on the short side stature wise.
“Sir, this man claims to be from Austria yet he speaks with a Bavarian accent.”
“Did he come from Bavaria?”
“No, sir, he came from Vienna, but he could have easily have journeyed to Vienna to then come here, thinking to slip past security. Can’t be too careful of the Communists. Sneaky and parasitic, like Jews.”
The captain eyed the black armband soldier with a stone faced look that Lutjens had come to associate as professional irritation. The officer looked at Lutjens.
“Speak your case.”
“My name is Paul Lutjens. I was a soldier in the Austrian Landwehr. Recently discharged, I’m heading to my sister’s house. Her husband, a German, died on the Western Front and she says the city is dangerous and full of violent thugs and asked for me to come help.” Lutjens eyed the black armband soldier. “I see that she was right about it being full of thugs.”
The soldier snarled and raised his rifle to hit Lutjens with the butt of the rifle but a raised hand from the captain gave him pause.
“He’s not Bavarian. And I doubt he’s a Communist.” The officer looked at him for a moment. “Let him go.”
“But, captain-” the soldier began.
“I said let him go. It was not a request, it was not a suggestion, it was an order. You Freikorps still follow those from the proper chain of command or am I wrong?” The captain stared at the soldier, who Lutjens realized was a paramilitary man rather than belonging to the official Army.
“Yes, Captain Rommel,” the Freikorps man said through clenched teeth. The man turned about smartly, showing that he was indeed a veteran, and marched away.
The officer, Rommel, turned to him. “Apologies for that, Herr Lutjens. With events in Bavaria such as they are, we have had to be careful of any Socialist or Communist elements trying to sneak into Berlin to cause sedition or anarchy.”
Lutjens nodding, thinking of the newspaper he had read in the train detailing the chaotic fallout of Kurt Eisner’s assassination and the rise of militant Communism amidst a collapsing government down south in Bavaria as the central German government retook Bavaria meter by bloody meter. In Austria anti-Communism was on the rise, for good reason, but here in Germany it had reached a fever pitch. Understandable with the amount of revolutionary leftist revolts, inspired by the Soviet Russians.
Still, the atmosphere in Berlin was… more tense than he had predicted.
“Farewell, Herr Lutjens,” Captain Rommel said before turning and keeping an eye on another incoming train.
Lutjens left the train station. Out front, clutching three children was his sister, Anya Vogel. He moved to her, noting her pale complexion, tired eyes and weary expression.
“Paul,” she said, hugging him with one arm, the other holding the hand of a child no more than three whose other hand was in his mouth.
“Anya,” he said, returning it. “And who are these three?”
Anya gestured at the three children, starting with the eldest.
“This is Mila, Arnold and Horst, named after his father.” At the mention of the now deceased Horst Vogel, Mila scrunched her face while Arnold looked sad and Horst Jr. just looked confused.
Anya straightened, swallowing her sorrow.
“Come, Paul, I’ll take you home.”
“I’m so tired of war, Adi. All the death, all the sorrow. When does it ever end?”
Paul remembered Hitler straightening, a disappointed look on his mustached face as they sat in a Viennese cafe the day before he left. “The Struggle is ever ongoing. It tests us and tempers us, making us stronger and more pure.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, unbelieving of such drivol “All I want is peace, Adi. Peace and family.”
Paul shook awake, the afterimage of a disapproving Hitler was the last thing in his mind as he rubbed his eyes.
It had been nearly three days since he left Vienna and Hitler, heading north towards Berlin where his sister and her family lived. She had written to him in the final weeks of the war, asking for his help. Her husband had died in France and with the chaos and anarchy in Germany she felt threatened and had written to him. Anya was the last family he had, their parents long dead, so his responsibility was clear.
He had explained to Hitler of his intentions and though his friend had disapproved at first, Hitler understood the reasons and they had left on… lukewarm terms.
“If you ever return, I shall embrace you like a lost brother, my friend. Come back to Austria one day, Paul. It requires men like us to lead it back from the brink.” Those had been Hitler’s last words to him as he set off to Berlin the day before Hitler and Kampfgruppe Wolf was set to head to Carinthia.
Now his friends and brothers-in-arms were on their way to another war. While Lutjens had enjoyed the Army, its camaraderie and the brotherhood war brought, he did not miss the boys screaming for mothers on their deathbed or the sound of artillery thudding into the ground, and the putrid smell of shit, blood, and gunpowder permeating everything.
He awoke as the train pulled into the Potsdamer Bahnhof. The whistle blew and the doors opened, the conductor ushering everyone off and wishing them a fine day in the capital. Lutjens stepped off and immediately noticed the armed guards everywhere. He had heard of leftist discontent in Berlin, but it seemed things were more serious than he realized.
“Papieren,” barked one of the guards, a man dressed in feldgrau and shouldering a Gewehr-98 rifle. Several of the men in the train station wore black armbands, whilst other guards did not. Intrigued as he handed the man his travel papers, Lutjens asked, “What does that mean?” he asked, gesturing at the black armband.
The soldier arched an eyebrow. “Your accent… Are you from Bavaria?”
“No, Austria.”
The man’s face hardened. “Why are you here?”
“To visit my sister and her children.”
“Likely story.” The soldier read over his papers. “Very convincing even,” he bunched them up and reached out. “You’re coming with me.”
“What? Why?” Lutjens demanded, shrugging off the man’s hand, causing a commotion. Lutjens saw two other guards, these without the armbands, rush over.
“Suspected Communist.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Lutjens exclaimed.
The two other men in feldgrau had arrived. “What is going on here?” demanded one, Lutjens saw he wore captain pins, though he did not wear an officers cap but rather a stahlhelm. A pistol was holstered at his side and he was on the short side stature wise.
“Sir, this man claims to be from Austria yet he speaks with a Bavarian accent.”
“Did he come from Bavaria?”
“No, sir, he came from Vienna, but he could have easily have journeyed to Vienna to then come here, thinking to slip past security. Can’t be too careful of the Communists. Sneaky and parasitic, like Jews.”
The captain eyed the black armband soldier with a stone faced look that Lutjens had come to associate as professional irritation. The officer looked at Lutjens.
“Speak your case.”
“My name is Paul Lutjens. I was a soldier in the Austrian Landwehr. Recently discharged, I’m heading to my sister’s house. Her husband, a German, died on the Western Front and she says the city is dangerous and full of violent thugs and asked for me to come help.” Lutjens eyed the black armband soldier. “I see that she was right about it being full of thugs.”
The soldier snarled and raised his rifle to hit Lutjens with the butt of the rifle but a raised hand from the captain gave him pause.
“He’s not Bavarian. And I doubt he’s a Communist.” The officer looked at him for a moment. “Let him go.”
“But, captain-” the soldier began.
“I said let him go. It was not a request, it was not a suggestion, it was an order. You Freikorps still follow those from the proper chain of command or am I wrong?” The captain stared at the soldier, who Lutjens realized was a paramilitary man rather than belonging to the official Army.
“Yes, Captain Rommel,” the Freikorps man said through clenched teeth. The man turned about smartly, showing that he was indeed a veteran, and marched away.
The officer, Rommel, turned to him. “Apologies for that, Herr Lutjens. With events in Bavaria such as they are, we have had to be careful of any Socialist or Communist elements trying to sneak into Berlin to cause sedition or anarchy.”
Lutjens nodding, thinking of the newspaper he had read in the train detailing the chaotic fallout of Kurt Eisner’s assassination and the rise of militant Communism amidst a collapsing government down south in Bavaria as the central German government retook Bavaria meter by bloody meter. In Austria anti-Communism was on the rise, for good reason, but here in Germany it had reached a fever pitch. Understandable with the amount of revolutionary leftist revolts, inspired by the Soviet Russians.
Still, the atmosphere in Berlin was… more tense than he had predicted.
“Farewell, Herr Lutjens,” Captain Rommel said before turning and keeping an eye on another incoming train.
Lutjens left the train station. Out front, clutching three children was his sister, Anya Vogel. He moved to her, noting her pale complexion, tired eyes and weary expression.
“Paul,” she said, hugging him with one arm, the other holding the hand of a child no more than three whose other hand was in his mouth.
“Anya,” he said, returning it. “And who are these three?”
Anya gestured at the three children, starting with the eldest.
“This is Mila, Arnold and Horst, named after his father.” At the mention of the now deceased Horst Vogel, Mila scrunched her face while Arnold looked sad and Horst Jr. just looked confused.
Anya straightened, swallowing her sorrow.
“Come, Paul, I’ll take you home.”
Marburg an der Drau, German-Austria
Republic of German-Austria
February 1919
Republic of German-Austria
February 1919
Adolf Hitler had envisioned many things when he had rallied hundreds of men to Carinthia. Glory, proof of his worth to the National Liberal Front, and a declaration to the world that Austria was not to be trifled with.
Yet when Kampfgruppe Wolf arrived in Carinthia, it had come too late. A plebiscite had been called whilst they were en route from Vienna, officially ceasing hostilities. The men had been disheartened, they had wanted to take the fight to the Yugoslavs but, Hitler grimaced in disgust, were unable too due to American interference. As a result, some went back to Austria, disheartened and disillusioned. But out of the near four hundred men he had brought to Klagenfurt, still three hundred had remained. The ones whose wills were weak, whose conviction was not strong enough to see them through the conflict had melted away, but those who had remained were true patriots all. He was proud of them, of their conviction, of their defiance of a world hell bent on destroying Austria.
Still… Hitler had expected war and instead he faced peace.
It made him want to puke and curse at the same time. He, and several members of the Kampfgruppe he had chosen as section leaders, including Franz Olbrecht who acted as his second, sat in the assembly room of the Marburg City Hall. Uniformed officers of the German-Austrian Volkswehr, the City’s disbanded Schutzwehr, and the Kampfgruppe Wolf sat with one another, showcasing a sense of unity that had been lacking prior to the Kampfgruppe’s arrival. Facing them were Yugoslavs citizens of note and Yugoslav officers, both made up largely of Slovenians. Between the two sides were some city officials of a more neutral stance and the foreign delegations.
Lieutenant Colonel Sherman Miles of the United States Army was the leading military officer of the Coolidge Mission in the Balkans, and led the American investigation in Carinthia to settle the divisive territorial dispute involving rival litho-ethnic groups while the French delegation were mere onlookers, there to report any developments of significance to Paris where the Peace Conference to officially end the war via signed treaties would be held later this year.
Miles, who had surveyed the land, seeing the rivers, the towns, the people, had come to announce his decision that had already been conveyed to the Entente and League of Nations for oversight and approval.
The clean shaven Army officer stood in the assembly hall’s center and spoke loudly and clearly, translators whispering his words into the various tongues spoken in the room.
“After viewing the disputed territories in depth these past nine days, this Mission, after much deliberation and consideration, has decided that the territorial division between the Republic of German-Austria and the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes will not be the Drava River as proposed by Yugoslav Kingdom but instead the Karawanks Mountains with the fate of the Klagenfurt Basin to be decided by plebiscite.”
The Yugoslavs booed and derided the American officer, while the Austrians shuffled uncomfortably. Though many cities in Carinthia were German-speaking, much of the countryside, especially in south-eastern Carinthia, was ethnic Slovene. A plebiscite would be close. Too risky, perhaps.
The meeting of the various leaders and factions concerned about Carinthia’s fate left, none too pleased with the verdict though the Yugoslavs were more vocal about their displeasure as they felt that their so-called “crusade for self-determination” was being punished. And so it should, Hitler mused. The Slovenes were vultures, biting away at Austria in its weakened form, something they would never have done even a year prior when Austro-Hungary had been one of the largest and most powerful empires in Europe.
Hitler swore to himself that though the Empire had fallen, and with it the aristocratic fools who had led it, Austria would rise once again from the ash heap of defeat and reclaim its throne as a Great Power of Europe, the bastion of civilization and order for the world.
Franz Olbrecht walked beside Hitler, the other section leaders following behind. It was cloudy overhead, likely soon to snow.
“Now that things are settled, what are we going to do, Adi?”
“We’ll keep training the men, we cannot afford for them to become lazy or lose sight of why we are here. We also need to be seen helping German-speaking families in the city, and make sure photos and reports of such things reach far and wide in Carinthia and disseminate elsewhere in Austria. If there is not to be war, then we must show the Front that we have aided our brothers and sisters while they sat on their asses. I will not return to Vienna a man who accomplished nothing.”
Olbrecht was silent.
“Don’t worry, Franz. This peace, this plebiscite, is temporary, a rag to stem the bleeding. There will be fighting soon enough, and there we will prove ourselves to the Front and to these South Slav barbarians feigning nationhood. There will come a time when people will hear the name Kampfgruppe Wolf and will either cheer on in triumph as patriots or tremble in dreadful fear for the traitors and backstabbers that they are.”
“Forward to Victory, Franz,” Hitler said.
“Forward to Victory,” Olbrecht, replied, the men behind them repeating the mantra.
Yet when Kampfgruppe Wolf arrived in Carinthia, it had come too late. A plebiscite had been called whilst they were en route from Vienna, officially ceasing hostilities. The men had been disheartened, they had wanted to take the fight to the Yugoslavs but, Hitler grimaced in disgust, were unable too due to American interference. As a result, some went back to Austria, disheartened and disillusioned. But out of the near four hundred men he had brought to Klagenfurt, still three hundred had remained. The ones whose wills were weak, whose conviction was not strong enough to see them through the conflict had melted away, but those who had remained were true patriots all. He was proud of them, of their conviction, of their defiance of a world hell bent on destroying Austria.
Still… Hitler had expected war and instead he faced peace.
It made him want to puke and curse at the same time. He, and several members of the Kampfgruppe he had chosen as section leaders, including Franz Olbrecht who acted as his second, sat in the assembly room of the Marburg City Hall. Uniformed officers of the German-Austrian Volkswehr, the City’s disbanded Schutzwehr, and the Kampfgruppe Wolf sat with one another, showcasing a sense of unity that had been lacking prior to the Kampfgruppe’s arrival. Facing them were Yugoslavs citizens of note and Yugoslav officers, both made up largely of Slovenians. Between the two sides were some city officials of a more neutral stance and the foreign delegations.
Lieutenant Colonel Sherman Miles of the United States Army was the leading military officer of the Coolidge Mission in the Balkans, and led the American investigation in Carinthia to settle the divisive territorial dispute involving rival litho-ethnic groups while the French delegation were mere onlookers, there to report any developments of significance to Paris where the Peace Conference to officially end the war via signed treaties would be held later this year.
Miles, who had surveyed the land, seeing the rivers, the towns, the people, had come to announce his decision that had already been conveyed to the Entente and League of Nations for oversight and approval.
The clean shaven Army officer stood in the assembly hall’s center and spoke loudly and clearly, translators whispering his words into the various tongues spoken in the room.
“After viewing the disputed territories in depth these past nine days, this Mission, after much deliberation and consideration, has decided that the territorial division between the Republic of German-Austria and the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes will not be the Drava River as proposed by Yugoslav Kingdom but instead the Karawanks Mountains with the fate of the Klagenfurt Basin to be decided by plebiscite.”
The Yugoslavs booed and derided the American officer, while the Austrians shuffled uncomfortably. Though many cities in Carinthia were German-speaking, much of the countryside, especially in south-eastern Carinthia, was ethnic Slovene. A plebiscite would be close. Too risky, perhaps.
The meeting of the various leaders and factions concerned about Carinthia’s fate left, none too pleased with the verdict though the Yugoslavs were more vocal about their displeasure as they felt that their so-called “crusade for self-determination” was being punished. And so it should, Hitler mused. The Slovenes were vultures, biting away at Austria in its weakened form, something they would never have done even a year prior when Austro-Hungary had been one of the largest and most powerful empires in Europe.
Hitler swore to himself that though the Empire had fallen, and with it the aristocratic fools who had led it, Austria would rise once again from the ash heap of defeat and reclaim its throne as a Great Power of Europe, the bastion of civilization and order for the world.
Franz Olbrecht walked beside Hitler, the other section leaders following behind. It was cloudy overhead, likely soon to snow.
“Now that things are settled, what are we going to do, Adi?”
“We’ll keep training the men, we cannot afford for them to become lazy or lose sight of why we are here. We also need to be seen helping German-speaking families in the city, and make sure photos and reports of such things reach far and wide in Carinthia and disseminate elsewhere in Austria. If there is not to be war, then we must show the Front that we have aided our brothers and sisters while they sat on their asses. I will not return to Vienna a man who accomplished nothing.”
Olbrecht was silent.
“Don’t worry, Franz. This peace, this plebiscite, is temporary, a rag to stem the bleeding. There will be fighting soon enough, and there we will prove ourselves to the Front and to these South Slav barbarians feigning nationhood. There will come a time when people will hear the name Kampfgruppe Wolf and will either cheer on in triumph as patriots or tremble in dreadful fear for the traitors and backstabbers that they are.”
“Forward to Victory, Franz,” Hitler said.
“Forward to Victory,” Olbrecht, replied, the men behind them repeating the mantra.
Marburg an der Drau, German-Austria
Republic of German-Austria
April 1919
Republic of German-Austria
April 1919
Franz Olbrecht heaved dirt onto the road, padding it down with his shovel. After doing so several more times, he paused to wipe the sweat off his brow and take a deep swig of water from a canteen nearby. Other men of Kampfgruppe Wolf had done the same once or twice in the several hours since they had started their ad hoc repair to one of the minor roads leading into Marburg an der Drau.
Hitler, or the Commander as most in the Kampfgruppe had begun to address him, had called such menial tasks as beneficial labor and a test of “spirit and commitment to the Austrian Volk.” Olbrecht was unaccustomed to doing such base tasks since the war but he had returned to it with ease. He had even convinced Hitler to partake in such things several times to inspire the men.
“They don’t want a commander, Adi, they want a leader,” he had remarked several days after the Kampfgruppe began its new initiative, the plebiscite itself scheduled to take place next year. And Hitler, inspired by his friend and former superior, had dug ditches, repaired roads, and travelled to a dozen small villages in the area to offer assistance, all the while calling for Austrian unity, detailing the importance of the plebiscite’s outcome, and the ethnic and economic repercussions that will follow if southeastern Carinthia voted to join Yugoslavia.
Olbrecht looked around, seeing nearly sixty men of Kampfgruppe Wolf working on the road, with a dozen others were on the lookout. Slovene partisans were rare but not unheard of. Thankfully no Wolf member had been killed or kidnapped, but Hitler and Olbrecht did not want a single one so ensured every work detail had ample security. Even those doing the work had rifles, pistols and knives within easy reach if need be.
A little over two months of this community outreach had done wonders. The locals had helped front up the cost of the Kampfgruppe functioning, donating food, drink, clothing and lodging to the near-penniless group thanks to their work and Hitler’s charisma. The money Olbrecht and von Schönerer had supplied had dried up, with nothing more coming from Vienna or Linz. Olbrecht had written to his sisters, asking for more but they had replied there was nothing more to give, the family finances nearly depleted in their entirety.
Olbrecht had expected many of the Kampfgruppe men to leave and return home, but many were unemployed veterans, yearning for purpose. And Hitler had promised purpose and delivered upon it though admittedly it wasn’t in the form many envisioned, as they had pictured a rifle in hand rather than a shovel or spade. Yet it was a purpose and they received food and lodging in return. For many, that was enough... for now.
Wiping his brow once more, Olbrecht went back to work. Once the shift was done, he would bathe and join Hitler at city hall to discuss with the mayor and his councilors about reforming the Schutzwehr to protect Marburg. If that failed, either due to lack of funds or fear of Yugoslav intervention, Hitler would offer Wolf membership to any local men who desired to be a part of something greater than themselves.
Olbrecht had just begun to dig into the ditch for more dirt when he heard distant thumps followed by a piercing wail that he had not forgotten.
“Incoming! Get down!” he yelled, throwing himself into the ditch, pleased to see most of the men mirrored the movement. Only three men were standing when the artillery shells impacted, either someone who had not fought in the war or paralyzed by fear. They were torn apart by shrapnel, their blood matting the dirt and turning it into a red mud Olbrecht was overly familiar with.
The barrage lasted only a few minutes but when it ended, Olbrecht could hear in the distance the engine roar of trucks and the screaming bellows of men being sent into battle. One of the Wolf men at the far end of the work line rose and looked further down the smoke-encased road for a better view.
“Yugoslavians!” he yelled, though anything further was cut short by rifle fire, two bullets hitting the man in the chest and he collapsed to the ground, dead.
“The Yugoslavs have breached the peace!” Olbrecht yelled. “Grab your weapons and make your way to the city! We’re too exposed here.”
Olbrecht turned to run into Marburg but then he saw men emerging from the treeline, rifles raised and hate in their eyes.
“Fuck…” Olbrecht said.
The Yugoslavs fired their rifles.
Hitler, or the Commander as most in the Kampfgruppe had begun to address him, had called such menial tasks as beneficial labor and a test of “spirit and commitment to the Austrian Volk.” Olbrecht was unaccustomed to doing such base tasks since the war but he had returned to it with ease. He had even convinced Hitler to partake in such things several times to inspire the men.
“They don’t want a commander, Adi, they want a leader,” he had remarked several days after the Kampfgruppe began its new initiative, the plebiscite itself scheduled to take place next year. And Hitler, inspired by his friend and former superior, had dug ditches, repaired roads, and travelled to a dozen small villages in the area to offer assistance, all the while calling for Austrian unity, detailing the importance of the plebiscite’s outcome, and the ethnic and economic repercussions that will follow if southeastern Carinthia voted to join Yugoslavia.
Olbrecht looked around, seeing nearly sixty men of Kampfgruppe Wolf working on the road, with a dozen others were on the lookout. Slovene partisans were rare but not unheard of. Thankfully no Wolf member had been killed or kidnapped, but Hitler and Olbrecht did not want a single one so ensured every work detail had ample security. Even those doing the work had rifles, pistols and knives within easy reach if need be.
A little over two months of this community outreach had done wonders. The locals had helped front up the cost of the Kampfgruppe functioning, donating food, drink, clothing and lodging to the near-penniless group thanks to their work and Hitler’s charisma. The money Olbrecht and von Schönerer had supplied had dried up, with nothing more coming from Vienna or Linz. Olbrecht had written to his sisters, asking for more but they had replied there was nothing more to give, the family finances nearly depleted in their entirety.
Olbrecht had expected many of the Kampfgruppe men to leave and return home, but many were unemployed veterans, yearning for purpose. And Hitler had promised purpose and delivered upon it though admittedly it wasn’t in the form many envisioned, as they had pictured a rifle in hand rather than a shovel or spade. Yet it was a purpose and they received food and lodging in return. For many, that was enough... for now.
Wiping his brow once more, Olbrecht went back to work. Once the shift was done, he would bathe and join Hitler at city hall to discuss with the mayor and his councilors about reforming the Schutzwehr to protect Marburg. If that failed, either due to lack of funds or fear of Yugoslav intervention, Hitler would offer Wolf membership to any local men who desired to be a part of something greater than themselves.
Olbrecht had just begun to dig into the ditch for more dirt when he heard distant thumps followed by a piercing wail that he had not forgotten.
“Incoming! Get down!” he yelled, throwing himself into the ditch, pleased to see most of the men mirrored the movement. Only three men were standing when the artillery shells impacted, either someone who had not fought in the war or paralyzed by fear. They were torn apart by shrapnel, their blood matting the dirt and turning it into a red mud Olbrecht was overly familiar with.
The barrage lasted only a few minutes but when it ended, Olbrecht could hear in the distance the engine roar of trucks and the screaming bellows of men being sent into battle. One of the Wolf men at the far end of the work line rose and looked further down the smoke-encased road for a better view.
“Yugoslavians!” he yelled, though anything further was cut short by rifle fire, two bullets hitting the man in the chest and he collapsed to the ground, dead.
“The Yugoslavs have breached the peace!” Olbrecht yelled. “Grab your weapons and make your way to the city! We’re too exposed here.”
Olbrecht turned to run into Marburg but then he saw men emerging from the treeline, rifles raised and hate in their eyes.
“Fuck…” Olbrecht said.
The Yugoslavs fired their rifles.
+ + +
The Yugoslavs, frustrated by the multinational and lawful decision for plebiscite over territory they believed to be theirs, have launched an offensive into south-eastern Carinthia that had obviously been readied for weeks. Rudolf Maister’s forces, made up largely of Slovenian elements, attacked in the morning hours of April 29th, likely intending to take all Carinthian land the Butcher of Marburg claimed months ago. It is unknown if the League of Nations or Entente will intervene directly, though both organizations had issued diplomatic protests to the South Slav kingdom and as of yet there has been no response from Belgrade. In the offensive’s opening hours, significant stretches of land have come under the Yugoslavian yoke, though there are notable holdouts and resistance against the attackers is high...
-excerpt from the April 30th, 1919 issue of the Kleine Zeitung in Graz and Klagenfurt
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Released only three weeks later than planned...
Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy this. Things are getting heated up in Carinthia and the second phase of the Austro-Slovene conflict has erupted!
If you have any feedback, critiques or thoughts please share. The Der Kampf community has proven vital to helping iron out issues and help me build my road map more thoroughly than it was originally.
I'm also considering creating a Discord channel for Der Kampf so people can discuss various things there and so I can give project updates etc w/o having to post here directly. Still debating it at the moment.
In the future, once we get to the alt-WW2 I would love to see a HOI4 Der Kampf mod and a TvTropes page. Those are milestones I'd like to reach with the community's help.
Also, I've now hit 250 pages of story on my Google Docs. Once I reach the point where Hitler leaves the NLF and creates the OSNVP, that will be the end of "Book 1: For the Fatherland." I'll edit, polish and possibly expand on it and sell it as an Amazon eBook. It'll be a while, but that is a goal.
Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy this. Things are getting heated up in Carinthia and the second phase of the Austro-Slovene conflict has erupted!
If you have any feedback, critiques or thoughts please share. The Der Kampf community has proven vital to helping iron out issues and help me build my road map more thoroughly than it was originally.
I'm also considering creating a Discord channel for Der Kampf so people can discuss various things there and so I can give project updates etc w/o having to post here directly. Still debating it at the moment.
In the future, once we get to the alt-WW2 I would love to see a HOI4 Der Kampf mod and a TvTropes page. Those are milestones I'd like to reach with the community's help.
Also, I've now hit 250 pages of story on my Google Docs. Once I reach the point where Hitler leaves the NLF and creates the OSNVP, that will be the end of "Book 1: For the Fatherland." I'll edit, polish and possibly expand on it and sell it as an Amazon eBook. It'll be a while, but that is a goal.
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No worries! I know we’ve all been dealing with stuff, so take it a bit at s time