Chapter Thirteen
Anger, Prayer and Purpose
Isonzo Front, Austro-Hunagry
Austro-Hungarian Empire
August 1917
Jakob Kuhr smelled misery and death in the air. Wading through the river, he inched forward as stealthily as he could, rifle raised above him. Three other men of the Imperial Common Army, Austrian Germans all, moved with him. They passed through the Isonzo River, the water reaching up to their chest. It was cold, their teeth chattered, but they weathered the discomfort.
Reaching the hilly base of a gently rising mountain, they moved upward, walking with care and patience. It was evening, the sun reaching the mountains and lowering. Kuhr and the men with him had been selected to scout out the area, see if the Italians were moving troops through the area.
For over two years the Italians had thrown their armies against the Austro-Hungarian forces and though they had secured some territory, the losses had been catastrophically high. It was so terrible that it had caused the fall of an Italian government and the people in Italy grew weary of the war.
Serves them right, Kuhr thought. The Italians had been allies with Germany and Austro-Hungary prior to the Great War’s outbreak. Yet when war was declared the Italians made themselves scarce and eventually withdrew from the alliance, then jumped into the Entente camp. Disgraceful, dishonorable, and cowardly.
Since their joining of the war on the other side, the Italians had paid the butcher bill in men and material for practically no gain. Kuhr had seen his friends and comrades butchered, murdered by the Italians so he did not weep at the thought of hundreds of thousands of Italian dead. Better they feel the price of their actions rather than bask in undeserved acclamation.
Kuhr and his fellow Common Army soldiers moved up the hill, watchful for any machinegun nest or sniper. They found none. The hill, fought over during the Tenth Battle of Isonzo, was littered with dead men, broken equipment and dried blood splattered rifles.
Ever since the conquest of Serbia, Kuhr had fought on the Isonzo Front, seeing friends and comrades butchered by Italian guns. His hatred of them ran deep and burned fierce. He despised their mongrel race, a people of liars and backstabbers.
At the hilltop they observed the mountainside, seeing nothing of note, with distant trails of smoke rising into the air in the distance some one kilometer away or less, detailing the location of concentrated Italian forces. Kuhr looked through a detached telescopic scope, once belonging to a now dead Austrian sniper but now the property of himself.
He saw nothing and relayed as much to his fellows.
“Let’s go,” he muttered. Quietly, still so quietly, they withdrew and worked their way northeast back towards Austro-Hungarian lines.
As they were crossing the river was when the first shot was fired. It hit the Common Army soldier in the rear, just behind Kuhr. The man fell without a sound in the rushing tide and was swept away.
“Shit!” yelled another.
“Move! Sniper!” Kuhr yelled, hiking his legs to try and move faster through the current.
Another shot was fired, this time missing Kuhr by a hand’s width. The lead Austrian made it to the shore and turned around to wave them on.
“Come on-”
A bullet smacked into the man’s neck and he fell onto the muddy bank, blood gurgling.
Only two left, Kuhr and his comrade were set to run. But the other man’s conscious stalled him. He turned to aid the mortally wounded Common Army trooper but another sniper shot that whizzed by his head dissuaded him of that idea.
“Hurry or you can join him,” Kuhr hissed as he set off, a final sniper round puffing up dirt and rock nearby. Kuhr ran and did not stop until he was on the other side of the next hill. He leaned back onto the cool wet grass, breath ragged and labored.
“Damn them,” he gasped, his comrade emptying his stomach onto the ground. “Damn them all to hell.”
+ + +
Later, when Kuhr had returned to camp and relayed what he saw and what happened to his superiors, he sat around one of the many camp fires across the Austro-Hungarian camp of the Isonzo Army, dry blankets trying to warm him up. A bowl of watery soup was cradled in his hands, given to him by a field cook when he came back to his company’s section of tents, weary and beaten down in spirit and body. He sipped from it, the flavorless broth warming his belly to some degree.
He stared into the fire, ignoring his comrades' attempts to talk with him for he felt nothing anymore. He had seen such death, destruction, loss, that he was becoming numb to it all. The smell of shit and blood might as well be synonymous to bread and early morning rain.
He hated the Italians, so very much. Hailing from South Tyrol, he knew of their claims and if Italy wasn’t defeated and the war won then his home would be one of their first demands as victor. His father’s bakery would be destroyed, or worse be forced to serve arrogant Italian, further bolstered by their so-called victory.
Staring at the fire, feeling its heat match the one simmering inside him, he bit the inside of his cheek, feeling some pain and eventually the coppery taste of blood.
So he still felt that.
As he stared into the fire, the flickering yellow-orange-red of the flames, he made a promise to himself. Italy would never rule South Tyrol. He wouldn’t let that happen. He refused to let that happen. Even if the land fell to their Mediterranean hordes, it would never belong to them. Better for it to all burn than be the spoils of a victory earned by betrayal and subterfuge.
It would always be Austrian, this he swore to himself.
“That hatred will burn you out, Jakob. It will leave you hollowed out,” said Rudolf, a man who Kuhr had fought beside since Serbia and had proven to be wise counsel and close friendship. “Learn to control, Jakob. Otherwise it will spiral out of control.”
Kuhr stared at him blankly before speaking, tone monotone and deadpan. “It keeps me warm.”
+ + +
Romanian Front
Kingdom of Romania
August 1917
Simon Golmayer, despite his initial reservations when he first received the conscription notice, quite enjoyed the Army. He liked the discipline and the brotherhood. Though he despised the act of killing. Thankfully, after a brief stint on the frontline in which he won a Wound Medal via shrapnel from a Romanian artillery shell, he ended up at First Army headquarters, working as a logistics officer. He never even had to fire his rifle at another human being, other than in the general direction.
His wound and age, as Simon was closer to forty than thirty, excluded him from frontline service. It wasn’t glorious or heroic, but Simon did not care for such things. He just wanted to survive the war, see his family, and serve his country, in that order.
He was good with numbers, his work at the Creditanstalt, earmarked him as something more than just a trooper to fight and likely die in the mud-filled trenches of the Romanian Front. He knew when offensives were being planned, rumor and the word-of-mouth informed him with a fair degree of accuracy, and the multi-hour to multi-day barrages could be heard from the house his logistics unit was barracked in.
Working in the relative safety of the rear was not only beneficial to his health, but it also allowed him to write to his wife and family more frequently, and receive return mail. Looking over divisional requisition forms, which only highlighted the critical shortages the Empire was facing as he would be lucky to send two-thirds of the requested ammo, food, fuel and other supplies, he glanced at the picture his wife had sent of his newborn daughter, only a few months old.
Her name was Hannah, and by his undoubtedly correct and unbiased opinion, she was the most beautiful baby girl in the world. Knowing he had a daughter at long last and that his wife was recovering well boosted his spirits whenever looking at forms and numbers numbed him and the casualty lists saddened him.
When his shift ended and another logistical soldier-clerk arrived to continue, for the war never ceased and nor did the work associated with it continuing, he went to the mess hall to grab some food. A tray of unidentified meat, almost certainly not kosher, but he had long not cared since he entered the Common Army. He did offer a silent prayer to God as forgiveness and began to dig in with gusto despite the bland flavor and less-than-appealing food. He was famished and wanted a full belly before he withdrew to the small hut he and three other soldiers of the divisional logistics unit lived in.
With his stomach sated, Simon handed his empty tray to the trooper assigned with cleanup duty. Out of the mess hall, he began walking to his hut and a smile seemed plastered to his face. He was smiling that he was relatively safe, that his wife was recovering and that he had a baby girl waiting for him at home. All he needed now was for people to come to their senses and realize the war needed to end and then he could return home.
“What are you smiling about, kike? Steal money from some children?” A vicious voice said from the shadows. Simon eyed his surroundings, the street was practically empty at this hour in between shifts. Though he did note several onlookers.
Simon turned towards the man. He knew the voice. This wasn’t the first time.
“Evening, Günther. I see you’ve made yourself comfortable in the piss-ridden shadows there. Remind you of home?”
The Austrian soldier, a large monster of a man stepped out. He was near two meters tall, corded muscle and bottled rage.
“The hell did you say to me, you damn dirty Jew.”
Simon brought his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry, Günther, apologies. I forget I need to speak slower to you. Remind you of home?” Simon said, stretching out the words as if speaking to a simpleminded child.
Günther stormed up to him, Simon barely reached his shoulders and looked up at him. An obvious comparison to David and Goliath crossed his mind.
“You know Günther, if I wanted to steal money from a child I would play cards with you again. Care for another game?”
Günther grabbed his collar with one hand and raised the other as a clenched fist.
“Stop right there, Private Huber,” barked a commanding tone. Lieutenant Peter Käber exited from the shadows of the mess hall, flicking his cigarette to the ground. The lieutenant was young, but he already had bags under his eyes and his gaze carried the weight of a man ten years older. The war had aged him.
Günther went to attention as did Simon but unlike Simon he wasn’t smiling. He was sweating.
“Threatening to strike a fellow soldier, Huber? I’m disappointed.” He exhaled. “One week mess duty and you’re confined to your quarters unless engaged in your daily duty.”
Günther’s jaw clenched, a vein pulsed on his neck visibly. Even in the poor lighting Simon could tell he was flushed with anger.
“Do you understand, private?”
“
Jawohl, mein Herr.”
“Dismissed, Private Huber.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Käber watched Günther walk away. He turned to Simon. “That wasn’t very smart, Private Golmayer. And this isn’t the first time I’ve had to stop this incident from escalating between the two of you.”
He leaned towards Simon, lowering his voice so the handful of onlookers didn’t overhear.
“If you keep antagonizing him he’ll do something that I or another officer cannot stop.” Käber shook his head. “He feels you are an enemy.”
Simon laughed, he couldn’t help it. “He cares more about me being a Jew than I do myself. I’m an Austrian German first and foremost.”
“You may feel that way and I agree with your self-assessment, but Günther is ignorant. He probably never met a Jew before joining the
Landswehr. Ignorance is the breeding ground for hate and hate leads to… terrible things.”
Simon shrugged. “Herr Lieutenant, I’ve dealt with anti-Semitism all my life. I’ve come to the conclusion that if I appear scared and intimidated due to their hate then they will never stop. Putting up a strong front, defying their views and questioning their logic will make them unwilling to confront. They fear people with a spine more than they despise those different than them.”
“For now, perhaps.”
Simon gestured at the retreated Günther. “Sir, it has been my experience that confronting racism and hate head on is the best way to deal with it.”
Käber exclaimed noisily through his nose.
“How you deal with it is up to you, Golmayer. But,” Käber raised a gloved hand, the two missing fingers he lost at the front obvious, “don’t let this feud interfere with your work. This is the Kaiser’s
Landswehr, not some schoolyard. Keep it civil and professional. I will tell this to Huber myself tomorrow, but this is also for you. Don’t antagonize him, don’t engage. Simply leave and report any matters to me. I will handle it. We may not be on the frontlines anymore,” Käber rubbed the two stumps where his fingers used to be without noticing, “but our job here is vital for the war’s prosecution. If we screw up here, then thousands more die at the front. Do not interfere with that. Do you understand, Private Golymayer?”
Simon saluted the man over a decade younger than he and said with all grim seriousness and sincerity. “Yes, sir.”
“Good, now go to your hut. Mail courier came by earlier and I believe you have a letter.” Simon was about to turn away and sprint towards the hut. “Oh, and, Golmayer,” the lieutenant said, stopping Simon in his tracks.
“Sir?”
“Congratulations on the newborn daughter. You must be very happy.”
“I am, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Good, good. In these dark times we need to cling to the happy things as tight and as long as we can. On your way, Golmayer.”
“Sir.”
Simon turned and walked briskly with purpose to his hut. Entering, nodding greetings to the other soldier who was in there, half-asleep looking at a naked woman on a postcard. Simon found two letters on his bunk, which was curious as he typically only received one every week or two.
He opened the one sent earliest by date, and read it. Nothing too different than when he last communicated with Judith. The children were doing well, rationing was getting leaner and stricter but they had food enough to survive and not go hungry.
But the second letter proved entirely different. In it, Simon learned that his oldest sons, the twins Richard and Abraham, had gone to a recruitment center days after turning eighteen and had volunteered for military service, against her fear-driven fervent wishes she added.
Simon sat on the bunk and put his head down into his hands and prayed to God that his sons would never have to see a dying man cry out for his mother nor have fired a gun into a man his empire deemed an enemy. He hoped they would stay safe, oh God how he prayed for that.
Almost without thought, the Tefilat HaDerech slipped from his lips in Hebrew, his pronunciation hesitant and rusty due to lack of practice and usage but it came nonetheless, the words proving to be a comfort.
“Y'hi ratzon milfanekha A-donai E-loheinu ve-lohei avoteinu she-tolikhenu l'shalom v'tatz'idenu l'shalom v'tadrikhenu l'shalom, v'tagi'enu limhoz heftzenu l'hayim ul-simha ul-shalom. V'tatzilenu mi-kaf kol oyev v'orev v'listim v'hayot ra'ot ba-derekh, u-mi-kol minei pur'aniyot ha-mitrag'shot la-vo la-olam. V'tishlah b'rakha b'khol ma'a'se yadeinu v'tit'nenu l'hen ul-hesed ul-rahamim b'einekha uv-einei khol ro'einu. V'tishma kol tahanuneinu ki E-l sho'me'a t'fila v'tahanun ata. Barukh ata A-donai sho'me'a t'fila.”
+ + +
Galicia
Austro-Hungarian Empire
August 1917
Hitler walked stiffly into the forward operating base, located a half kilometer from the front. His back ached yet he tried not to let the pain show. He had to lie and bluff his way out of the hospital, leaving it a month before they recommended. He was getting anxious in the hospital, lying around while the world changed around him. Not even his missives to and from Gustav Gross could hamper his eagerness to return to his regiment. He needed to return to the front, he felt a driving force within him compelling such a return.
Returning to regimental headquarters, many cheered and whooped at his return.
“To the Hero of Hill 53!” one man shouted and the rest followed.
“To the Hero of Hill 53!”
Hitler, somewhat abashed, waved and shook hands as he made his way to the major’s office. Knocking on the door, curious as to why there wasn’t a secretary or adjutant nearby, he heard a voice. “Enter.”
Hitler entered Major Franz Olbrecht’s office, closing the door behind him with only minor discomfort from his back, and noticed that he was a major no longer. Two stars instead of one were on his collar and shoulders. Hitler went to attention.
“
Feldwebel Adolf Hitler reporting for duty, sir.” Hitler snapped a smart salute and waited.
Lieutenant Colonel Olbrecht looked up from what had to have been a mountain of paperwork and nodded. “At ease, sergeant. Congratulations on the promotion.”
Hitler went to an at ease stance. “Thank you, sir. And you as well.”
“Well it's hard to promote dead men, so I guess I’ll take the job,” he remarked dryly. Hand scratching what might have been a signature on a handful of documents before Olbrecht looked up again.
“I wanted to give you a more prestigious one.”
“Sir?”
“And Captain Melnik too. We were both very adamant on it as a matter of fact.”
“I do not understand.”
Olbrecht pointed at Hitler’s chest where his medals were pinned. They would be taken off when returned to actual frontline service but he wore them for now as a source of pride, and quiet boasting.
“We both recommended you for the Military Merit Cross or the Silver Cross. Yet both were denied. It seems a man of lowbirth is not allowed such things,” the lieutenant colonel spat those last words out with poison, surprising Hitler. The man was a nobleman himself yet he seemed to despise his social peers. “So I apologize it is only an Iron Cross, Adolf."
“Don’t be, sir.” Hitler tapped the medal that he had earned by nearly dying to destroy that Russian bunker on Hill 53, “I’m proud of it. I don’t need the gilded awards to know my service to the country.”
“Good man. Still, I wish you had been more appropriately awarded. Regardless, I have to ask you this: Why the hell are you here?”
“Sir?”
You had another month to rest and recuperate in safety back in the capital. Why leave and come back to the front? Do you wish to see hell so soon after it tried its best to kill you?”
Hitler pondered that for a moment, chewing on his words.
“I needed to come back, sir.”
“Why?” Olbrecht seemed genuinely curious.
“Because my friends and comrades are out here fighting and dying to save our people and empire. It did not feel right for me to rest in comfort while they are out here in the cold, drenched in mud and blood, warming themselves with lice infested rags while I slept in clean beds. I knew I may not be able to be on the front directly, at least until the medics here cleared me, but I feel good, sir. I’ll man a machinegun or act as a messenger between the front and rear lines. I want to return to the regiment and resume my duties.”
“How bad is the pain?” Olbrecht lit a cigarette, the match flaring until he waved it out. Hitler hid his discomfort at the stench of the ersatz cigarette smoke. War time rationing and scarcity had also affected the quality of tobacco.
“Neglible, sir.”
“Don't lie to me, Sergeant Hitler,” Olbrecht’s words came out like hot lead. “I saw you wince in pain when you turned to close the door. Now, how bad is the pain? Is it debilitating?
Hitler winced in embarrassment this time but answered truthfully.
“There are good days and bad days. Sudden turning and twisting sends minor spikes of pain in my lower back but it is getting better. I don’t have many spasms anymore and they are far less intense than the days following my surgery.” Olbrecht eyed him. “I’m telling the truth, sir. Honestly.”
“I believe you.” Olbrecht took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled, smoke firing from his nose like a white torrent. “I’m not sending you to the front.”
“Sir, if I may-” Hitler began.
“No you may not. You are not fit for combat duty, sergeant. The mere act of turning causes pain, how will you feel running from cover to cover, diving into foxholes and running uphill into rough terrain. No, combat duty is off the table for now.”
“Then may I act as a courier?”
“A good idea, but the request is denied.” Hitler felt a sense of rejection sweep over him though he tried not to let it show on his face. Olbrecht saw it regardless.
Stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray, Olbrecht pulled out a form from the piles on his desk. “I respect and admire your patriotism and love for the regiment, Adolf. I truly do. Do not take this prevention of rejoining your men as a criticism of you or your abilities, but rather that you can serve better here at regimental headquarters than at the front, until such a time you have fully healed. I have a position in mind as a matter of fact.” Olbrecht slid the form over, a pen resting on top.
Hitler’s interest piqued.
“What position,
Oberstleutnant?”
“My adjutant, Sergeant Hitler.”
