Chapter One
A Second Chance
September 1914
Carpathian Mountains
Austro-Hungarian Empire
It was to be, Hitler concluded privately in his tent, a time of reflection. It had been over a month since the charitable Schulz had provided the means for him to return to his homeland and join its ranks. He had spent the days traveling from Munich to Linz, having decided to try his luck there rather than Vienna, sleeping well and eating better. He had put on some weight and a healthy color to him, as well as a vigor obvious to all. It had helped land him in his current state.
While he had been previously disqualified from conscription due to his health, he was not denied a second time like he was in Munich. This time the Austro-Hungarian Army welcomed its newest volunteer and slotted him into the
Landwehr, the German-speaking Territorial Army of Cisleithania. Thus Hitler became a private in the 87th
Landwehr Infantry Brigade, 21st Regiment (Sankt Pölten).
Training had been quick, mostly learning how to march, salute, aim and fire a gun as well as clean it, and there Hitler had gained more strength, eating the plentiful albeit bland food the Army provided. As his health improved it had come to match his hawkish persona, his patriotic drive now being able to be pursued in full force. Austria may not be Germany, but it was home. Perhaps he would view it as his Fatherland, in time.
But not only was it a time of reflection on his improving health and the pride he displayed wearing the pike grey uniform of the
Landwehr, but also a reflection on Austro-Hungary thus far in what some were labeling the Great War. Unlike his own pathway through life the past month, the path the Dual Monarchy of the Hapsburgs underwent was much less savory. Disastrous, truth be told.
Many had predicted a short victorious war, one in which the Austro-Hungarians would stall the Russians in the east while simultaneously quelling the unruly South Slavs. Those predictions turned to ashen hopes as several defeats against the Russians in Galicia threw the Empire on its heels.
Only the quick thinking of the German Army and the bravery of the Austrian soldier staved off an irrecoverable blow long enough for the front lines to stabilize along the Carpathian Mountains. But already so much had been lost. Eastern Galicia and Northern Bukovina were now in Russian hands, Premissel was surrounded and besieged, and casualties for Austro-Hungary numbered in the hundreds of thousands. The “short victorious war” had nearly been the undoing of the Empire in the first six weeks of hostilities.
The Battle of Tannenberg in East Prussia may have destroyed an entire Russian army, but the Battle of Lemberg hemorrhaged the Austro-Hungarian Army of its trained officer corps and veteran soldiers. It was on this front that the 87th Infantry Brigade was deployed alongside a dozen other brigades to help replenish the greatly depleted forces under the command of Field Marshal Conrad von Hötzendorf.
Attached to the Third Army under the Croat Baron Boroëvić von Bojna, the 21st
Landwehr Infantry Regiment settled in alongside the other regiments of the 87th, digging tertiary trenches some distance from the frontline, showcasing High Command’s lack of faith in holding the current positions, and readying itself for the inevitable Russian assaults that were sure to come.
Hitler sat in his tent, his squadmates snoring beside him on their pallets, looking out through its opening as it rained. Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning crackled across the sky. While some in the camp complained about the weather, or whispered it was God’s anger at the succession of military defeats, Hitler felt peace. He wondered if the Vikings of old had felt this calm during a storm. The thunder was the sound of Thor beating his anvil, tempering a new weapon, the lightning the sparks from his strike. The weapon was the vengeance of the Austrian people, ready to make right the wrongs that had so recently transpired.
It would be in the next few days, he thought, before battle was joined. Where Austrian might would face off against Russian savage and avenge the disastrous month that preceded it.
Clutching his M1895, he stared out into the storm and it stared back.
+ + +
Days later, the 87th Brigade marched in full strength to the front, with Hitler marching alongside his comrades in the 21st Regiment. They marched from the rear echelons towards the rapidly expanding primary and secondary trench network that was quickly becoming a hallmark on the Carpathian Front, and in truth was becoming a staple of the war as a whole. News of the German defeat at the Battle of the Marne was sweeping through the ranks, as were reports of vast entrenchments by both sides beginning to form in northern France.
Not even the news that the Germans had secured a significant amount of French industry, thereby affecting the French war effort, could alleviate the mood setting into the Austro-Hungarian Army. The men of the 21st marched proudly into the trenchworks, passing by trench lines far more extensive and formidable than the ones they had dug several kilometres away just a few days before. The trenches were bolstered with countless foxholes bristling with machineguns, mortars, while dedicated artillery positions were frequent alongside the supply depots needed to feed such an army, both the men and the weapons they fielded. They passed columns of men heading to the rear, tired and dirty. They were not far in the trenchworks when the cat calls came, largely from the withdrawing soldiers.
“Look at these clean boys, so young and eager,” laughed an Austrian whose dirty appearance and ragged look contrasted sharply with the 21st. Mud and dried blood caked his uniform. His comrades laughed, hollow and almost desperate.
Two other men, Hungarians, leaned on their rifles, sneering and spoke German in thick accents. “Did you lose your mommies? You all look like you are barely old enough to shave and… is that milk I see dropping from your mouth?!” they pointed and derided a young trooper, aged eighteen whose pale complexion darkened with fury.
Before the situation could deteriorate, an officer approached. He was dirty as well, but he did not let it bring him down like it did the common man. He seemed to excel, standing erect and walking with lethal confidence.
He walked over to the two Hungarians, spoke to them in their godawful language. The two men were humbled and withdrew, but the officer was not done yet. He turned, saw the Austrians continuing to jeer the newcomers and promptly marched and berated them in German.
“You fools, these are our comrades. They may be new to this, but they’ll learn soon enough. Cease your derision and keep marching.”
The Austrian trooper nodded before joining his fellows as they continued marching away. The officer turned to the 21st. “My name is Major Wilhelm Boehler. Welcome to hell.”
+ + +
Major Boehler directed our regimental commander, Major Olbrecht, to the section of the trenches we were to man while the rest of the 87th plugged in the gaps elsewhere along the frontline. The soldiers they replaced were of the Common Army, the largest land force in the Empire and as ethnically varied as the Empire itself. Austrian soldiers took orders from Slavic commanders whilst fighting beside Hungarians. It was supposed to show the unity of the Empire, instead it showed an army that fielded most of Austro-Hungary’s manpower yet was not as well equipped when compared to the Austrian
Landwehr or Hungarian
Honvéd.
This was the mixing of races that Hitler abhorred, though he privately admired the brotherhood he saw on display. A man with a bandaged face was led by a comrade, while three men walked side by side speaking a mix-mash of German, Hungarian and… Slovenian perhaps? It was obvious those they replaced were relieved that they had lived another day and would have some time behind the lines to sleep peacefully and bathe to be rid of lice and the odor of death and smoke that seemed to permeate everything here.
They walked into the trenches and were aghast at the state of it. Puddles of water turned the floor to liquid mud that sucked on the boots and filled them with cold dirty cold water. Rats were running to and fro, squeaking as they scuttled away. Carved into the sides of the trenches were little hovels to lay down but were obviously better suited for more of a hunch-like position than proper laying down, while every few hundred metres was a bunker, slabs of cement and wood plaster with opening towards the northeast where Russian lines resided, machinegun barrels poking out, ready to fire. This misery is what the 21st settled in, dismayed at their new lodgings.
It quickly became home.
Major Olbrecht scowled and after a quiet but likely furious discussion with Major Boehler he walked away, resigned.
“Settle in men! Clean the trenches to the best of your ability, firm up the mudwalls with wood so they don’t collapse on us, and dig proper latrines. Ready yourselves, Ivan could attack at any time.”
+ + +
Olbrecht’s words soon proved prophetic. Two days later the Russians attacked. It was late in the afternoon, hoping to catch the Austro-Hungarian positions unaware after a day of little more than infrequent potshots. Artillery thundered, hundreds of pieces unloading shells onto the Empire’s lines.
Hitler was startled awake. He had dozed off in one of the wall hovels, his pencil and sheet of paper falling off of him into the trench floor, his failed attempts at facial realism being further ruined by the mud.
Looking at his squadmates, he tried to speak but the artillery was so loud and so all encompassing the only thing that came out was a terrified scream. A piercing wail approached, the men half-frozen in fear and uncertainty. The shell detonated on the rim of the trench wall, showering Hitler with mud. His squadmate, Hans Stückel, was not so lucky. A shard of metal was lodged in Stückel’s throat and despite having his hands around it to stem the bleeding, blood was leaking through at an alarming rate.
“Adi…” Stückel coughed and died, his eyes staring up into the red-tinged sky.
Hitler threw up, noisily and messily. He and Stückel had been acquaintances at best, but the camaraderie that had been developing was now forever quashed. He slipped into his hovel and sat there staring at his comrade’s corpse as the barrage continued.
For three hours Russian explosive steel fell from the sky, killing a few dozen and reshaping the landscape. Within moments after the beginning of the Russian barrage, the Austro-Hungarian artillery batteries replied in kind, with the deadly bombardment making only the soldier in the trench miserable, fear-ridden for his life, and eager for the rumbles of shell impacts and the piercing wail of their passing to stop.
With the three hours ending the sun began to set over the horizon, with it blaring from behind Austro-Hungarian lines. Yet this would not have been as advantageous as it would have been in flatter country. The trench the 21st Regiment occupied was in hilly country, not far from the Russian controlled pass in the Carpathians that they had seized in the initial offensives of the war. Therefore the Russians that came spilling forth from their own trench lines, whistles bleating sharply to rouse the men and instill discipline, would not have the sun in their eyes as they advanced up the hill to the Austria-held lines.
Major Olbrecht moved into the trench from the bunker he had waited out the bombardment, pistol in hand.
“Ready yourselves! Here they come!” He leaned down to Stückel, closed the dead man’s eyes with his hands and then grabbed the deceased private’s rifle. Holstering his pistol, the major took up the slot next to Hitler. Hundreds of Austrian men readied themselves, their rifles aimed at the encroaching Russians.
They came in their hundreds and then their thousands, an ever growing horde of khaki-clad Slavs.
“Hold, men! Hold!” Obrecht yelled, voice hoarse from the smoke and strained from the effort. He coughed. “Hold!”
Hitler aimed at the center mass of a Russian and waited, hand shaking, wavering his bead on the man.
“Hold!”
The Russians were around a hundred metres away now. Mortars were being fired from Austro-Hungarian lines, felling some and causing more to seek cover but the vast majority still advanced, yelling bravado as they suppressed their fear by charging forward.
“Fire!”
Hundreds of M1895s fired alongside a half-dozen machineguns. The Austrian firepower cut through the Russians like a scythe through wheat, blood spraying in the air, appearing as a pink mist, while the Mosin-Nagant hefting soldiers fell like dolls thrown by a disgruntled child.
Hitler fired and pulled back the straight bolt, the empty casing flying into the air. He slammed it forward, loading a new round into the chamber. He took aim and fired again.
On and on he fired his weapon, reloading when the last casing flew out. Again and again in what felt like eternity but eventually the Russians retreated, whistles heralding their withdrawal. They never advanced within fifty meters of the trench, the wall of lead having halted them in their tracks.
A Russian rose from the ground, limping as he ran away. Hitler raised his rifle but did not fire. There was no point. He lowered his rifle and took a deep breath, shaking.
“It isn’t fear,” Paul Lutjens said, his comrade who stood on the rampart beside him, looking out over at the field of death. His light brown hair was matted and darkened with sweat, face flushed red and marred by dirt. “My pa, he said that the shaking wasn’t nerves or fear. It was adrenaline, or at least most of it is.”
Hitler glanced at Lutjens before looking at the long cooled corpse of Hans Stückel.
“Shame,” Lutjens said. “Hans has a girl back in Linz. She’ll find out soon enough when his family does.” Lutjens rubbed his brow of sweat. “Another one fallen for the Fatherland.”
“For the Fatherland,” Hitler mumbled before stumbling down onto the trench floor, relieved to have survived.
