Miscellaneous >1900 (Alternate) History Thread
- Thread starter RMcD94
- Start date
The election was "so close" due to the perfect storm of factors I mentioned. Without them? Clear PV loss by a few points.
coffeebreakcigarette
Banned
PS : In the same TL , how can I get Giorgio Almirante and Enrico Berlinguer as Prime Ministers of Italy?
coffeebreakcigarette
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PPS : What happens if Stalin actually manages to ice Tito? Who would succeed Tito and what would happen to Yugoslavia?
Looking for an excel speadsheet that has every navy ship built after 1900 up to and including WW2
They're all public but it's spread so far apart
Like this but for every ship and every country
They're all public but it's spread so far apart
Like this but for every ship and every country
History Learner
Banned
You missed his point, in that the election was only as close as it was due to a perfect storm for Gore; i.e. he was already getting a lot of lucky breaks. If you look at the polling back then, prior to the DUI scandal it certainly seemed to be leaning Bush.
Windows95
Banned
Most probably Milovan Djilas for a brief period of time before Aleksandr Ranković take over in a palace coup.
“A plague has been loosed upon the continent and it comes in the form of a failed Austrian artist.”
-George Lloyd, Head of the House of Lords, 1940
“The Germans were an ever-present threat, especially after the restoration, but little did I know that the true threat to Europe would come not from the Berlin or Moscow but rather Vienna.”
-General Charles de Gaulle, 1941
-----
“In history there are the defeated and the victor, the conqueror and the conquered, the vanquished and the triumphant. In the Great War our beloved country was defeated by the poor leadership of the Hapsburgs, the ethnic conflict that divided us so terribly into petty squabbles, and the Judeo-Bolshevik forces that sabotaged our nation from within while besetting upon us from without like locusts.
For Austria to not only return to but supersede its former position of power in Europe it must unite the lands of the former empire under the rule of Vienna. Not as an empire ruled by bluebloods and so-called ‘products of high breeding’, as one’s birth into the aristocratic ranks does not gift one strength or credential as so many have erroneously believed throughout history, but rather one’s blood of superior racial stock tempered by war and the struggle against the forces that seek to undermine our nation and its people. Territory once lost must be returned, whether by force of arms or strokes of a pen.
United under the principles and goals of the Party, this Movement shall seize the reins of power and right the wrongs of the past whilst ensuring our dominance in a Europe currently laden with undesirables and damnable ideologies. Only through the cleansing fire of Social Nationalism can we rise like a phoenix from the ashes and reclaim our position as a great power in the world.
-Preamble to The Struggle, Adolf Hitler
coffeebreakcigarette
Banned
Potentially, who could head a Chetnik Yugoslavia? Besides the King and Draza Mihailovic I mean.
Deleted member 103950
What would be the best timeline for a Jerry Brown presidency to be plausible?
These come from the 1905 Brazilian naval bill. It proposed three battleships, three armored cruisers, six destroyers, twelve torpedo boats, three submarines, a fleet collier, and a training ship were all ordered. At the time the Brazilian navy was quite outdated and small in the face of the Argentine and Chilean navies. Both nations had previously signed an agreement which limited their own naval forces, and Brazil wanted to be the best naval force on the continent.
While the three armored cruisers were cancelled shortly after the bill was signed for cost reasons, the contract for the battleships was signed in 1906 with Armstrong-Whitworth. These would have likely been fairly typical predreadnoughts of the period. Four 12' guns, a dozen 6' weapons and a torpedo boat battery of roughly a dozen smaller guns. Speed of around 18 knots.
I will say though that I am not aware of any specifics for these ships, the above is just conjecture. The ships were cancelled soon after they were ordered in favour of the Minas Geraes class dreadnoughts.
Maybe there's an online archive from Jane's or Brassey's? You'd probably have to compile the *.xls yourself though...Looking for an excel speadsheet that has every navy ship built after 1900 up to and including WW2
They're all public but it's spread so far apart
Like this but for every ship and every country
Der Kampf: The Rise and Fall of Austrian Führer
View attachment 571076
For the Fatherland
Tanner L. Patton
Prelude
“A plague has been loosed upon the continent and it comes in the form of a failed Austrian artist.”
-George Lloyd, Head of the House of Lords, 1939
“The Germans were an ever-present threat, especially after the restoration, but little did I know that the true threat to Europe would come not from the Berlin but rather Vienna.”
-Brigadier General Charles de Gaulle, 1941
“In history there are the defeated and the victor, the conqueror and the conquered, the vanquished and the triumphant. In the Great War our beloved country was defeated by the poor leadership of the Hapsburgs, the ethnic conflict that divided us so terribly into petty squabbles, and the Judeo-Bolshevik forces that sabotaged our nation from within while besetting upon us from without like locusts.
For Austria to not only return to but supersede its former position of power in Europe it must unite the lands of the former empire under the rule of Vienna. Not as an empire ruled by bluebloods and so-called ‘products of high breeding’, as one’s birth into the aristocratic ranks does not gift one strength or credential as so many have erroneously believed throughout history, but rather one’s blood of superior racial stock tempered by war and the struggle against the forces that seek to undermine our nation and its people. Territory once lost must be returned, whether by force of arms or strokes of a pen.
United under the principles and goals of the Party, this Movement shall seize the reins of power and right the wrongs of the past whilst ensuring our dominance in a Europe currently laden with undesirables and damnable ideologies. Only through the cleansing fire of Social Nationalism can we rise like a phoenix from the ashes and reclaim our position as a great power in the world.
-Preamble to The Struggle, Adolf Hitler
Prologue
Request Denied
August 1914
Munich, Bavaria
German Empire
“Your request is denied.”
He stood there, dumbstruck, as the seated portly lieutenant looked up from his official papers and shrugged.
“Denied?” he muttered angrily, tiredly. “How, why?”
The Bavarian Army leutnant leaned forward, fingers crossed with a disappointed look on his face.
“Mein herr, you were denied enlistment into the Bavarian Army for two reasons. One is your health. You are as thin and pale as a ghost, good sir, and I doubt you could carry an infantryman's kit into the field without collapsing either from the weight or heart attack. On health grounds alone you would be disqualified from service.”
The Bavarian enlistment officer snorted, either clearing his nose or in contempt.
“The second reason is that you are Austrian, sir. The Austro-Hungarian Empire is an ally of Germany and therefore you, a citizen of said nation, cannot join the armed forces of the German Empire.”
“I will not join an army of mongrel races. I want to join the brave men of Germany!” An idea struck him, “I will write a petition! I will… I will go to another recruitment center in Germany. Bavaria may have denied me, but the Fatherland is hungry for soldiers! Surely one will allow me to enlist. Surely one will take me in.” Desperation seized him as he stood before the seated officer. A manic look befell the sickly man from Austria, causing his dark blue eyes to dart about the room, as if searching for an answer that refused to reveal itself.
The Bavarian officer leaned back into his chair, a scowl upon his face. Behind the sickly dishevelled man stood dozens of other men, far more healthy in appearance and more controlled in manner, awaiting to enlist and fight for King and Kaiser. They shuffled impatiently and many stared daggers at the dark haired Austrian who was delaying their patriotic duty.
“Sir, you attempted to enlist in the Bavarian Army six months ago. You were denied then, just as you are denied now. Nothing has changed.”
The dejected man slammed his hands down on the wooden table separating the two men. “Everything has changed! The world is at war! Soon enough the armies of empires will march across Europe, Africa and Asia. Nations will fall whilst others rise, and glory and honor will be for those who dared to fight in this war, it being the greatest endeavor Mankind has ever faced. We are brothers, you and I. German, Austrian, two sides of the same coin. Our language is the same, our love for Germany is the same. Don’t let pedantics of birth and nationality dilute the German blood that flows through my veins. I may be an Austrian by birth but I am a German by blood. I deserve a chance to fight for the Vaterland and for its people. It is my right. ”
The officer raised an eyebrow, minutely impressed with the passionate fervor of the man before him… but orders were orders, the rules and regulations in place must be followed. Not even an impassioned Austrian could bend the rules.
“I’m sorry, but the answer is the same. You are denied entry into the Bavarian Army and will continue to be denied based on your poor health and foreign citizenship. Neither the Bavarian Army nor the German Army will accept you into its ranks. I, as military representative of His Majesty Ludwig III of the Kingdom of Bavaria and Kaiser Wilhelm II of the German Empire, bid you farewell.”
The Austrian slumped, his soul sapped of its energetic will. He turned and walked out of the recruitment office, eyes downcast at the concrete floor, unable to even look at those men who would go on to fight for Germany.
Germany, the Fatherland he never had. A nation of Germans for Germans, a place he could call home and a country he had come to love in his months of living in Munich. He had hoped that with the outbreak of war the requirements for enlistment would have lowered. But he was wrong, and now he was defeated. What was he to do? He had only a couple of Goldmarks in his pocket, the remnants of his family inheritance, his clothes were worn thin, rough, and patchwork. He had not showered in days and his stomach rumbled from hunger, a minor pain wracking his abdomen.
Grimacing, he turned to walk… somewhere. He didn’t know where to go anymore.
“Hey, you!” called a voice from behind, coming from the recruitment center. The Austrian turned, excited, thinking that at last the officer had come to his senses. But instead of the portly mustachioed officer, a man about his age with dark hair and eyes approached him, a friendly smile on his face.
He noticed the gentleman’s expensive clothes and top hat, and the way he walked, assured as if nothing would ever deny him or be out of reach. The Austrian could almost smell the wealth coming off of the man. While he detested the wealthy elite, many of whom were Jews, he nonetheless smiled and tried to present a friendly face. It was after all what he did to help sell his art down in the <enter district area>.
“Hello,” said the rich man as he neared, holding out his hand. “I must say I loved your speech back there. Really fired up the flames of patriotism in myself! Well done, well done indeed!”
“Oh, umm, thank you. Much obliged, herr-”
“Walter Schulz at your service!” The man took off his hat and gave a small bow while smiling.
Good God, he was like the theatre in the flesh, he thought sardonically.
“Herr Schulz. Thank you for your kind words. They have lifted my spirits somewhat.”
“It’s a damn shame you weren’t admitted. We could use you in the Army. Like you said, you might be an Austrian by birth but you’re a German by blood. And it’ll be that same noble blood that sees our two countries emerge victorious in the months ahead.”
“Thank you, that means a great deal to me,” he said, truly touched by the man’s comments. A brief silence existed between them, the nearly-penniless Austrian not knowing what to say and the rich German having spoken his piece.
“Well I’m sure you’re busy, Herr Schulz, and I must be off as well. I have… other matters to attend to.”
Schulz’s eyes flicked over his appearance and a look of pity flashed over the well-to-do German’s face.
“I see, yes, of course, I’m sure you are quite busy.” Schulz went for another handshake but with the opposite hand, it having emerged from his pocket. The Austrian shook it awkwardly, eager to end this odd meeting, and felt something in the man’s palm slip into his. He looked at it and saw a fifty Goldmark banknote. His eyes widened and he stared up at the taller man.
“I-” his tongue felt stiff and dry so he swallowed. “I don’t know what to say other than thank you.” The relief and honesty in those words poured forth with conviction.
“That’s more than enough for me. While you may not be able to fight for Germany directly, perhaps you could do so indirectly by joining your nation’s army. Our countries share the same enemies after all. You would still be fighting for Germany, if indirectly. I overheard your comment about fighting beside mongrels races, but better to fight beside the Slav and Magyar then to not fight at all, eh?”
The Austrian nodded, realizing the truth of the words.
“Use that,” Schulz gestured towards the banknote, “to eat a hot meal, stay in a comfortable hotel tonight, and take a first-class ticket to Vienna.”
A tear formed in the Austrian’s eye that he was quick to blink away. “Thank you so much, this… this has saved me.”
Schulz nodded, understanding. As the German turned away, bidding farewell with a wave, he stopped mid-turn.
“I apologize, mein freund. I never asked your name.”
“Ah, the fault is mine, I forgot to give it. My mind was a whirlwind of emotion.”
Schulz laughed. “I’m sure it was. So what is your name?”
The destitute, dejected, recently elevated from impoverished by the fifty mark banknote painter from Austria scratched his cheek and locked his blue eyes with Schulz’s hazel.
“My name is Adolf Hitler, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
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 labelling 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.
Crestling 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 we 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.
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. “My pa, he said that the shaking wasn’t nerves or fear. It was adrenaline, or at least most of it is.”
Hitler looked at his squad mate 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.” Lohr 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.
Chapter Two
Trench Raid
September 1914
Carpathian Front
Austro-Hungarian Empire
Lieutenant Tamás Horváth crawled through the cold mud, quietly, hearing only the sound of breathing, the rustle of grass being trampled, and a dozen men trying their best to sneak their way to Russian lines.
Overhead the moon was covered by thick clouds. It would rain soon, he thought. Best to begin before that happened.
“Here,” he muttered to his men, the words repeated softly to those at the back.
They were near the forward foxholes and preliminary trenches of the Russian lines. They could hear chatter not far away, jovially spoken Russian whilst the smell of cigarette and campfire smoke drifted upon the wind.
Horváth looked at the men he led, a mix-mash of Hungarian, Czech and Bosnian, a typical unit within the Common Army.
“You know what to do.”
Horváth pulled out a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and waited two seconds, sweat beading down his face despite the cool night air.
As the third second began he threw the grenade into the closest foxhole of Russians. The explosion drowned out the scream of the men inside, their foxhole turning into a slaughterhouse of ruined cloth, bent metal and shredded meat.
“Go!”
Horváth’s men stormed the closest trench line, using their rifles butts and bayonets to silence the few half-ready men. Some shots were fired but in the close confines of the trench it was difficult to aim and fire properly.
A group of Russians spilled out from a bunker. Horváth fired his rifle and chambered a new round, firing again. The first missed, hitting the sandbag wall next to the opening but the second hit true, slamming into a Russian trooper’s chest, throwing him back into his comrades who suddenly found a corpse slumped on them.
An officer’s cap was spotted amongst the confused and frightened Russians.
“There’s one! Grab him!” bellowed the Bosnian Davud in thickly accented German, the common language amongst the Empire’s Common Army. Ironic that Slavs and Magyars best way to communicate with one another was a language native to none of them.
The struggle continued, but eventually the Russians were overwhelmed. The officer was brought before Horváth. The Magyar officer looked at the Russian officer, noting his captain’s pins.
“You’ll do.” Horváth grabbed the man’s arm roughly but was surprised when the Russian shook free and glared at him.
The Russian stiffened. “I am Mikhail Stefannovich Petrovnik, son and heir to Baron Stefann Peterovich Petrovnik. As a noble and a gentleman you shall not handle me as if I were a child.”
Horváth cocked an eyebrow. “Your Hungarian isn’t half bad for a foreign blueblood, but,” Horváth punched the Russian noble in the nose, knocking him back, blood and snot dripping down his nose, “I never much cared for aristocrats from my country and even less about those from my nation’s enemies. So shut the fuck up and do as I say. Understand?”
The Russian’s gray eyes were wide in shock that a Magyar commoner would dare lay a finger on him. The Common Army unit gathered up the Russian officer and several sheets of paper that were locked in a watertight briefcase. Horváth and his men left the Russian forward trench, leaving behind two of their own to join the dozen Ivans they had killed.
The whole engagement took less than five minutes. By the time Russian reinforcements arrived Horváth and his men were long gone.
When they returned to Austro-Hungarian lines, the Russian noble was handed to several officers of the Evidenzbureau who strong armed him to the rear lines where undoubtedly a car waited to take him to a more appropriate location for interrogation. The briefcase was also handed to the intelligence officers, who nodded their thanks and promptly left.
Lieutenant Horváth walked wearily the small forward bunker he and several other officers claimed as their own, greeting his fellows who were able to avoid being volunteered for the raid party, and collapsed in his cot, exhausted, still covered in mud and smelling of gunpowder.
Chapter Three
From the East They Come
Vienna, Austria
Austro-Hungarian Empire
November 1914
Simon Golmayer was typically a man of easy demeanour and quiet wit, but ever since the war had started and the quality of coffee had plummeted he found himself quick to frustration and annoyed retorts.
Scowling as he set down his cup of ersatz coffee, he continued reading the Wiener Zeitung. News from the front was dire and ever growing.
The fortress-city of Primessel in Galicia, relieved by a combined Austron-Hungarian and German offensive only the month before, had now been put under siege a second time with the soldiery of the Central Powers thrown back in defeat. Nearly 120,000 Austro-Hungarian soldiers were trapped in the city with casualties rumored to be extensive. Not even the government’s official statements in the Zeitung could fully gloss over what a catastrophe it was and what the war had become.
“Dear, eat your breakfast.”
Simon looked up at his wife, Judith, and sighed under her steely gaze that appeared to all to be gentle. His wife was very strict that he and their children eat.
“Very well,” he muttered, starting to eat the plate of eggs, bread and fruit before him. Meat was an increasing rarity in Vienna, and though the Golmayers were a respectable upper-class family, they did not wish to spend frivolously on overpriced meat of low quality. Whe Judith and Simon had married they were near-penniless, but years of hard work had seen him rise to a prestigious banking position and her a talented weaver who sold her goods to many of their neighbors for a fair price.
Judith smiled as he ate and returned to cutting up the food for their youngest child, Felix, who was but one and adamantly refused the goop-like food Judith held in a spoon for him to eat.
His other two sons, Abraham and Richard, had devoured their food as befitting boys on the cusp of manhood. Both were fifteen, twins, and were tall and gangly looking, though Simon knew they would fill out in time.
Simon finished his meal, wiped his mouth, making sure nothing lingered in his mustache. Rising, he walked over to Judith who still struggled to feed Felix, and kissed her cheek. He kissed the top of Felix’s head which was beginning to thicken with hair and walked around to the twins, tousling their hair as he walked by, both complaining but enduring the morning routine.
They waved as he left via the front door, briefcase in one hand, the other putting his top hat on his head of thick black hair. Simon walked at a steady pace through Leopoldstadt, the well-to-do Second District of Vienna. Houses and flats were the norm, typically inhabited by high-middle to upper-class families. Simon walked along his traditional route to Stubenviertel Gate. He nodded and exchanged pleasantries with the regulars he met on his walk to work.
“Good morning, Simon!” his friend and work associate Fritz Hanke said, walking briskly down his own home steps.
“Good morning, Fritz.”
Simon waited as Fritz joined him. The two shook hands and proceeded on their way.
“Did you read the Zeitung this morning?” Fritz asked as they made their way closer to Innere Stadt, the Inner City.
“I did, I did. Tragic news about Premissel.”
Fritz nodded. “The war… it’s not what we expected,” he stated.
“No,” Simon said, “the ‘short victorious war’ has turned into a meat grinder. Whispers at the bank are that half a million men are dead or wounded from the Empire alone and we aren’t even in December just yet. Some say more, others say less, but regardless it is terrible what our boys are facing over there against the Russians to the east and the Serbians to the south.”
“Not to mention that some things here at home are going down hill. Coffee, cigarettes, tea, meat, all of it has degraded in quality or increased in price, sometimes both.”
“By God, you can say that again about the coffee! And you can take that to the bank.”
The two men chuckled at the joke as they neared Stubenviertel Gate. Though it bore the name gate, Stubenviertel Gate was in fact nothing more than a minor checkpoint and crossway from Leopoldstadt to Innere Stadt. Encircling the Inner City was the Ringstraße, the large paved roadways built decades ago to replace the city walls.
As the two men neared the gate a commotion was garnering a large crowd of onlookers, many of them well dressed Austrian men and women of standing.
“Get out of here! Go on, move!” yelled a gray uniformed policeman who shoved a man dressed in rags and covered in dirt, a sharp contrast to the dresses and suits of the Viennese elite.
The man stumbled onto the ground, slipping into a small puddle of water, eliciting a laugh from the onlookers. A handful of coins scattered across the ground, which the man quickly scraped up in a desperate frenzy. He was of dark complexion, wore dark almost funeral-like black clothes with more holes and patches in them than any Simon had ever seen, and his long beak of a nose belied his race.
“Good sirs, help me,” he held out a hand palm upright toward Simon and Fritz, but it was smacked away by the policeman’s square-headed cudgel.
“You don’t belong here, Ostjuden,” the cop snarled who grabbed the man by the arm and manhandled him away from the crowd, two other officers nearby joining him as if the ragged man was a credible threat to society.
Simon grabbed Fritz’s arm, guiding him away as his friend tensed. Fritz resisted for a moment as if to interject himself and hail down the policemen, but Simon escorted him through the assembled crowd, passing through the gate cordon and walking over the Ringstraße, joining the bustle of crowds in the midst of the morning rush. Horse carriages and the occasional rare car, usually bearing military or state markings filled the streets while the sidewalks were filled with hundreds as they went about their day.
They walked in silence for a few moments, Simon seeing Fritz glance at him, open his mouth but then clamp it shut as if not knowing what to say or how to say it.
“What?” Simon asked, irritated after the third glance.
“I was going to help that man. Clearly he was in desperate need. Why didn’t you let me aid him?”
“He’s not from here, not like us. The war has caused many of his people to flee to Vienna these past months. The city would be better off without them.”
Fritz shook his head and stopped his friend. “They’re your people, Simon.”
Simon let go of his friend’s arm, annoyed. Damn the lack of good coffee! “I am Jewish by birth and by faith, but I am not that kind of Jew. They are Orthodox, clinging to the past and archaic traditions, while I am a modern Austrian Jew. I speak German first and foremost, and I call Vienna my home, not some long-fled patch of dirt in the Middle East. So please, don’t bundle us together as an inseparable one. What if I had said all Austrians were in fact Germans, eh?”
Fritz nodded, apparently understanding. “I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”
“Of course. Now, let’s get to work before we’re late. Herr Rothschild would not be happy if two of his senior-level accountants were late. If we are, I’m blaming you.”
“Hah! But what if I blame you instead?” Fritz joked, with the two laughing off their awkward moment, as they proceeded further into the Inner City. Though Fritz quickly became at ease, the mental image of the poor Galician Orthodox Jew holding out his hand for help haunted Simon for the rest of the day.
Chapter Four
A Rare Victory
Carpathian Front
Austro-Hungarian Empire
November 1914
As the sun rose on the sixteenth of November, the penned up fury of an empire humiliated was unleashed. Hundreds of artillery cannons fired, as varied as the Austro-Hungarian soldiery that readied across the Carpathian Front. Austrians, Hungarians, Slovenes, Poles, Czechs, Slovaks, loyal Serbs, Croats, Italians and Ruthenians comprised the Third and Fourth Army.
For half the day, well into the sun rising and reaching its peak at noon though it was hard to tell with the thick snow-laden clouds prevalent over Galicia that day, the Austro-Hungarian Empire unloaded thousands of artillery shells into the Russian held lines, aimed at the forward trenches, the second trenches and at the bunkers spaced along the frontline. The Russians responded in kind, churning up No Man’s Land even more with their cannons and field guns, with less than half falling on the Hapsburg lines.
Screams cried out but were not heard by the falling rain of metal and its following piercing wails. Medics scrambled to find the wounded amidst the carnage, running alongside the trenchworks to better navigate as the trenches themselves were filled with mud, equipment and terrified men. The earth shook as dust filled the air, obstructing the view.
Shortly after noon the Austro-Hungarian barrage ended, the barrels hissing as the crews lathered them in water soaked towels to cool the metal before they warped from the heat. Moments later the Russians ceased firing as well and an eerie silence filled the air.
Hitler sat in the overcrowded bunker, breathing a sigh of relief that they had not been hit directly as they all would have died, both from the blast or the trauma. The bunker stank of sweat, unwashed bodies and piss.
“You ok, Adi?”
Hitler looked at Paul Lutjens and nodded, continuing to breath through his mouth so as to limit the sensory overload.
“I’m fine, Paul.”
“Your hands.”
Hitler looked at his hands which were shaking slightly. He grabbed the rifle laying between his legs to stop them from doing so.
“I’m fine.” His friend looked at him with a sidelong glance but said nothing.
“Alright,” Major Olbrecht said, standing up from near the door. We have five minutes, move out.”
The men shuffled out of the bunker, filling the trenches, sitting on the floor or on the ramparts, crouched to avoid a sniper’s shot. Men stretched, packs and equipment donned back on, helmets buckled and secured.
Hitler, Lutjens, and the other Landwehr soldiers readied.
“Fix bayonets!” came the call, repeated and echoed through the trench. Hitler fastened it to the barrel, sliding and locking it in place. The dust was beginning to settle. He hoped it would rain to clean the air, but it would more than likely snow. Despite the freezing temperatures, the winter was showing the General Staff that the lower temperatures allowed the ground to harden and the mud to, thankfully, lessen. But firmer ground made the blueblood officers feel that mass infantry charges were effective.
For weeks, since the Germans defeat at the Battle of Vistula River, the Imperial General Staff had been planning an offensive to relieve Premissel which was surrounded by the Russians once more.
And now they began what they hoped to be a crippling offensive into the Russian flanks, focused as the Russians were on the Germans. The Slavs had thinned their lines of veteran divisions to bolster their front in Congress Poland facing Field Marshal von Hindenburg. With the Battle of Łódź holding the attention of both Germany and Russia on the Eastern Front, General von Hötzendorf began the offensive.
The word came and the whistles blew.
“Up! Over the top!” Olbrecht and the other officers yelled, blowing their whistles as they ascended the ladders or climbed atop the trench. Flags were carried and hung limply until the bearers began running. Hitler climbed the ladder and began running with the thousands of other soldiers, sprinting to the Russian lines. Lutjens ran beside him, their breath fogging in the air.
-----------------------
Author's Note: This is a timeline I'm working on. I've done quite a bit of worldbuilding, I'm just now working on writing the story itself. The first three chapters are largely good to go, while the fourth is still be written and needs editing.
It would be a huge help if anyone could review and offer suggestions and constructive feedback. I'm not the best writer, and I am constantly trying to improve myself, so any pointers to better my writing or the story would be more than welcome.
I know this story may not be overly realistic, but I am trying to create a world that has a very different 1930s and 1940s. To get to that point and Hitler's rise to power in Austria, I felt I needed to go back to WW1. The WW1 section won't be very extensive but will show Hitler's slight changing views due to his circumstances and will introduce characters that will play apart in the story to come, some who will be key players, others who will be bystanders and minor participants.
Hope you enjoy!
View attachment 571076
For the Fatherland
Tanner L. Patton
Prelude
“A plague has been loosed upon the continent and it comes in the form of a failed Austrian artist.”
-George Lloyd, Head of the House of Lords, 1939
“The Germans were an ever-present threat, especially after the restoration, but little did I know that the true threat to Europe would come not from the Berlin but rather Vienna.”
-Brigadier General Charles de Gaulle, 1941
“In history there are the defeated and the victor, the conqueror and the conquered, the vanquished and the triumphant. In the Great War our beloved country was defeated by the poor leadership of the Hapsburgs, the ethnic conflict that divided us so terribly into petty squabbles, and the Judeo-Bolshevik forces that sabotaged our nation from within while besetting upon us from without like locusts.
For Austria to not only return to but supersede its former position of power in Europe it must unite the lands of the former empire under the rule of Vienna. Not as an empire ruled by bluebloods and so-called ‘products of high breeding’, as one’s birth into the aristocratic ranks does not gift one strength or credential as so many have erroneously believed throughout history, but rather one’s blood of superior racial stock tempered by war and the struggle against the forces that seek to undermine our nation and its people. Territory once lost must be returned, whether by force of arms or strokes of a pen.
United under the principles and goals of the Party, this Movement shall seize the reins of power and right the wrongs of the past whilst ensuring our dominance in a Europe currently laden with undesirables and damnable ideologies. Only through the cleansing fire of Social Nationalism can we rise like a phoenix from the ashes and reclaim our position as a great power in the world.
-Preamble to The Struggle, Adolf Hitler
Prologue
Request Denied
August 1914
Munich, Bavaria
German Empire
“Your request is denied.”
He stood there, dumbstruck, as the seated portly lieutenant looked up from his official papers and shrugged.
“Denied?” he muttered angrily, tiredly. “How, why?”
The Bavarian Army leutnant leaned forward, fingers crossed with a disappointed look on his face.
“Mein herr, you were denied enlistment into the Bavarian Army for two reasons. One is your health. You are as thin and pale as a ghost, good sir, and I doubt you could carry an infantryman's kit into the field without collapsing either from the weight or heart attack. On health grounds alone you would be disqualified from service.”
The Bavarian enlistment officer snorted, either clearing his nose or in contempt.
“The second reason is that you are Austrian, sir. The Austro-Hungarian Empire is an ally of Germany and therefore you, a citizen of said nation, cannot join the armed forces of the German Empire.”
“I will not join an army of mongrel races. I want to join the brave men of Germany!” An idea struck him, “I will write a petition! I will… I will go to another recruitment center in Germany. Bavaria may have denied me, but the Fatherland is hungry for soldiers! Surely one will allow me to enlist. Surely one will take me in.” Desperation seized him as he stood before the seated officer. A manic look befell the sickly man from Austria, causing his dark blue eyes to dart about the room, as if searching for an answer that refused to reveal itself.
The Bavarian officer leaned back into his chair, a scowl upon his face. Behind the sickly dishevelled man stood dozens of other men, far more healthy in appearance and more controlled in manner, awaiting to enlist and fight for King and Kaiser. They shuffled impatiently and many stared daggers at the dark haired Austrian who was delaying their patriotic duty.
“Sir, you attempted to enlist in the Bavarian Army six months ago. You were denied then, just as you are denied now. Nothing has changed.”
The dejected man slammed his hands down on the wooden table separating the two men. “Everything has changed! The world is at war! Soon enough the armies of empires will march across Europe, Africa and Asia. Nations will fall whilst others rise, and glory and honor will be for those who dared to fight in this war, it being the greatest endeavor Mankind has ever faced. We are brothers, you and I. German, Austrian, two sides of the same coin. Our language is the same, our love for Germany is the same. Don’t let pedantics of birth and nationality dilute the German blood that flows through my veins. I may be an Austrian by birth but I am a German by blood. I deserve a chance to fight for the Vaterland and for its people. It is my right. ”
The officer raised an eyebrow, minutely impressed with the passionate fervor of the man before him… but orders were orders, the rules and regulations in place must be followed. Not even an impassioned Austrian could bend the rules.
“I’m sorry, but the answer is the same. You are denied entry into the Bavarian Army and will continue to be denied based on your poor health and foreign citizenship. Neither the Bavarian Army nor the German Army will accept you into its ranks. I, as military representative of His Majesty Ludwig III of the Kingdom of Bavaria and Kaiser Wilhelm II of the German Empire, bid you farewell.”
The Austrian slumped, his soul sapped of its energetic will. He turned and walked out of the recruitment office, eyes downcast at the concrete floor, unable to even look at those men who would go on to fight for Germany.
Germany, the Fatherland he never had. A nation of Germans for Germans, a place he could call home and a country he had come to love in his months of living in Munich. He had hoped that with the outbreak of war the requirements for enlistment would have lowered. But he was wrong, and now he was defeated. What was he to do? He had only a couple of Goldmarks in his pocket, the remnants of his family inheritance, his clothes were worn thin, rough, and patchwork. He had not showered in days and his stomach rumbled from hunger, a minor pain wracking his abdomen.
Grimacing, he turned to walk… somewhere. He didn’t know where to go anymore.
“Hey, you!” called a voice from behind, coming from the recruitment center. The Austrian turned, excited, thinking that at last the officer had come to his senses. But instead of the portly mustachioed officer, a man about his age with dark hair and eyes approached him, a friendly smile on his face.
He noticed the gentleman’s expensive clothes and top hat, and the way he walked, assured as if nothing would ever deny him or be out of reach. The Austrian could almost smell the wealth coming off of the man. While he detested the wealthy elite, many of whom were Jews, he nonetheless smiled and tried to present a friendly face. It was after all what he did to help sell his art down in the <enter district area>.
“Hello,” said the rich man as he neared, holding out his hand. “I must say I loved your speech back there. Really fired up the flames of patriotism in myself! Well done, well done indeed!”
“Oh, umm, thank you. Much obliged, herr-”
“Walter Schulz at your service!” The man took off his hat and gave a small bow while smiling.
Good God, he was like the theatre in the flesh, he thought sardonically.
“Herr Schulz. Thank you for your kind words. They have lifted my spirits somewhat.”
“It’s a damn shame you weren’t admitted. We could use you in the Army. Like you said, you might be an Austrian by birth but you’re a German by blood. And it’ll be that same noble blood that sees our two countries emerge victorious in the months ahead.”
“Thank you, that means a great deal to me,” he said, truly touched by the man’s comments. A brief silence existed between them, the nearly-penniless Austrian not knowing what to say and the rich German having spoken his piece.
“Well I’m sure you’re busy, Herr Schulz, and I must be off as well. I have… other matters to attend to.”
Schulz’s eyes flicked over his appearance and a look of pity flashed over the well-to-do German’s face.
“I see, yes, of course, I’m sure you are quite busy.” Schulz went for another handshake but with the opposite hand, it having emerged from his pocket. The Austrian shook it awkwardly, eager to end this odd meeting, and felt something in the man’s palm slip into his. He looked at it and saw a fifty Goldmark banknote. His eyes widened and he stared up at the taller man.
“I-” his tongue felt stiff and dry so he swallowed. “I don’t know what to say other than thank you.” The relief and honesty in those words poured forth with conviction.
“That’s more than enough for me. While you may not be able to fight for Germany directly, perhaps you could do so indirectly by joining your nation’s army. Our countries share the same enemies after all. You would still be fighting for Germany, if indirectly. I overheard your comment about fighting beside mongrels races, but better to fight beside the Slav and Magyar then to not fight at all, eh?”
The Austrian nodded, realizing the truth of the words.
“Use that,” Schulz gestured towards the banknote, “to eat a hot meal, stay in a comfortable hotel tonight, and take a first-class ticket to Vienna.”
A tear formed in the Austrian’s eye that he was quick to blink away. “Thank you so much, this… this has saved me.”
Schulz nodded, understanding. As the German turned away, bidding farewell with a wave, he stopped mid-turn.
“I apologize, mein freund. I never asked your name.”
“Ah, the fault is mine, I forgot to give it. My mind was a whirlwind of emotion.”
Schulz laughed. “I’m sure it was. So what is your name?”
The destitute, dejected, recently elevated from impoverished by the fifty mark banknote painter from Austria scratched his cheek and locked his blue eyes with Schulz’s hazel.
“My name is Adolf Hitler, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
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 labelling 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.
Crestling 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 we 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.
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. “My pa, he said that the shaking wasn’t nerves or fear. It was adrenaline, or at least most of it is.”
Hitler looked at his squad mate 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.” Lohr 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.
Chapter Two
Trench Raid
September 1914
Carpathian Front
Austro-Hungarian Empire
Lieutenant Tamás Horváth crawled through the cold mud, quietly, hearing only the sound of breathing, the rustle of grass being trampled, and a dozen men trying their best to sneak their way to Russian lines.
Overhead the moon was covered by thick clouds. It would rain soon, he thought. Best to begin before that happened.
“Here,” he muttered to his men, the words repeated softly to those at the back.
They were near the forward foxholes and preliminary trenches of the Russian lines. They could hear chatter not far away, jovially spoken Russian whilst the smell of cigarette and campfire smoke drifted upon the wind.
Horváth looked at the men he led, a mix-mash of Hungarian, Czech and Bosnian, a typical unit within the Common Army.
“You know what to do.”
Horváth pulled out a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and waited two seconds, sweat beading down his face despite the cool night air.
As the third second began he threw the grenade into the closest foxhole of Russians. The explosion drowned out the scream of the men inside, their foxhole turning into a slaughterhouse of ruined cloth, bent metal and shredded meat.
“Go!”
Horváth’s men stormed the closest trench line, using their rifles butts and bayonets to silence the few half-ready men. Some shots were fired but in the close confines of the trench it was difficult to aim and fire properly.
A group of Russians spilled out from a bunker. Horváth fired his rifle and chambered a new round, firing again. The first missed, hitting the sandbag wall next to the opening but the second hit true, slamming into a Russian trooper’s chest, throwing him back into his comrades who suddenly found a corpse slumped on them.
An officer’s cap was spotted amongst the confused and frightened Russians.
“There’s one! Grab him!” bellowed the Bosnian Davud in thickly accented German, the common language amongst the Empire’s Common Army. Ironic that Slavs and Magyars best way to communicate with one another was a language native to none of them.
The struggle continued, but eventually the Russians were overwhelmed. The officer was brought before Horváth. The Magyar officer looked at the Russian officer, noting his captain’s pins.
“You’ll do.” Horváth grabbed the man’s arm roughly but was surprised when the Russian shook free and glared at him.
The Russian stiffened. “I am Mikhail Stefannovich Petrovnik, son and heir to Baron Stefann Peterovich Petrovnik. As a noble and a gentleman you shall not handle me as if I were a child.”
Horváth cocked an eyebrow. “Your Hungarian isn’t half bad for a foreign blueblood, but,” Horváth punched the Russian noble in the nose, knocking him back, blood and snot dripping down his nose, “I never much cared for aristocrats from my country and even less about those from my nation’s enemies. So shut the fuck up and do as I say. Understand?”
The Russian’s gray eyes were wide in shock that a Magyar commoner would dare lay a finger on him. The Common Army unit gathered up the Russian officer and several sheets of paper that were locked in a watertight briefcase. Horváth and his men left the Russian forward trench, leaving behind two of their own to join the dozen Ivans they had killed.
The whole engagement took less than five minutes. By the time Russian reinforcements arrived Horváth and his men were long gone.
When they returned to Austro-Hungarian lines, the Russian noble was handed to several officers of the Evidenzbureau who strong armed him to the rear lines where undoubtedly a car waited to take him to a more appropriate location for interrogation. The briefcase was also handed to the intelligence officers, who nodded their thanks and promptly left.
Lieutenant Horváth walked wearily the small forward bunker he and several other officers claimed as their own, greeting his fellows who were able to avoid being volunteered for the raid party, and collapsed in his cot, exhausted, still covered in mud and smelling of gunpowder.
Chapter Three
From the East They Come
Vienna, Austria
Austro-Hungarian Empire
November 1914
Simon Golmayer was typically a man of easy demeanour and quiet wit, but ever since the war had started and the quality of coffee had plummeted he found himself quick to frustration and annoyed retorts.
Scowling as he set down his cup of ersatz coffee, he continued reading the Wiener Zeitung. News from the front was dire and ever growing.
The fortress-city of Primessel in Galicia, relieved by a combined Austron-Hungarian and German offensive only the month before, had now been put under siege a second time with the soldiery of the Central Powers thrown back in defeat. Nearly 120,000 Austro-Hungarian soldiers were trapped in the city with casualties rumored to be extensive. Not even the government’s official statements in the Zeitung could fully gloss over what a catastrophe it was and what the war had become.
“Dear, eat your breakfast.”
Simon looked up at his wife, Judith, and sighed under her steely gaze that appeared to all to be gentle. His wife was very strict that he and their children eat.
“Very well,” he muttered, starting to eat the plate of eggs, bread and fruit before him. Meat was an increasing rarity in Vienna, and though the Golmayers were a respectable upper-class family, they did not wish to spend frivolously on overpriced meat of low quality. Whe Judith and Simon had married they were near-penniless, but years of hard work had seen him rise to a prestigious banking position and her a talented weaver who sold her goods to many of their neighbors for a fair price.
Judith smiled as he ate and returned to cutting up the food for their youngest child, Felix, who was but one and adamantly refused the goop-like food Judith held in a spoon for him to eat.
His other two sons, Abraham and Richard, had devoured their food as befitting boys on the cusp of manhood. Both were fifteen, twins, and were tall and gangly looking, though Simon knew they would fill out in time.
Simon finished his meal, wiped his mouth, making sure nothing lingered in his mustache. Rising, he walked over to Judith who still struggled to feed Felix, and kissed her cheek. He kissed the top of Felix’s head which was beginning to thicken with hair and walked around to the twins, tousling their hair as he walked by, both complaining but enduring the morning routine.
They waved as he left via the front door, briefcase in one hand, the other putting his top hat on his head of thick black hair. Simon walked at a steady pace through Leopoldstadt, the well-to-do Second District of Vienna. Houses and flats were the norm, typically inhabited by high-middle to upper-class families. Simon walked along his traditional route to Stubenviertel Gate. He nodded and exchanged pleasantries with the regulars he met on his walk to work.
“Good morning, Simon!” his friend and work associate Fritz Hanke said, walking briskly down his own home steps.
“Good morning, Fritz.”
Simon waited as Fritz joined him. The two shook hands and proceeded on their way.
“Did you read the Zeitung this morning?” Fritz asked as they made their way closer to Innere Stadt, the Inner City.
“I did, I did. Tragic news about Premissel.”
Fritz nodded. “The war… it’s not what we expected,” he stated.
“No,” Simon said, “the ‘short victorious war’ has turned into a meat grinder. Whispers at the bank are that half a million men are dead or wounded from the Empire alone and we aren’t even in December just yet. Some say more, others say less, but regardless it is terrible what our boys are facing over there against the Russians to the east and the Serbians to the south.”
“Not to mention that some things here at home are going down hill. Coffee, cigarettes, tea, meat, all of it has degraded in quality or increased in price, sometimes both.”
“By God, you can say that again about the coffee! And you can take that to the bank.”
The two men chuckled at the joke as they neared Stubenviertel Gate. Though it bore the name gate, Stubenviertel Gate was in fact nothing more than a minor checkpoint and crossway from Leopoldstadt to Innere Stadt. Encircling the Inner City was the Ringstraße, the large paved roadways built decades ago to replace the city walls.
As the two men neared the gate a commotion was garnering a large crowd of onlookers, many of them well dressed Austrian men and women of standing.
“Get out of here! Go on, move!” yelled a gray uniformed policeman who shoved a man dressed in rags and covered in dirt, a sharp contrast to the dresses and suits of the Viennese elite.
The man stumbled onto the ground, slipping into a small puddle of water, eliciting a laugh from the onlookers. A handful of coins scattered across the ground, which the man quickly scraped up in a desperate frenzy. He was of dark complexion, wore dark almost funeral-like black clothes with more holes and patches in them than any Simon had ever seen, and his long beak of a nose belied his race.
“Good sirs, help me,” he held out a hand palm upright toward Simon and Fritz, but it was smacked away by the policeman’s square-headed cudgel.
“You don’t belong here, Ostjuden,” the cop snarled who grabbed the man by the arm and manhandled him away from the crowd, two other officers nearby joining him as if the ragged man was a credible threat to society.
Simon grabbed Fritz’s arm, guiding him away as his friend tensed. Fritz resisted for a moment as if to interject himself and hail down the policemen, but Simon escorted him through the assembled crowd, passing through the gate cordon and walking over the Ringstraße, joining the bustle of crowds in the midst of the morning rush. Horse carriages and the occasional rare car, usually bearing military or state markings filled the streets while the sidewalks were filled with hundreds as they went about their day.
They walked in silence for a few moments, Simon seeing Fritz glance at him, open his mouth but then clamp it shut as if not knowing what to say or how to say it.
“What?” Simon asked, irritated after the third glance.
“I was going to help that man. Clearly he was in desperate need. Why didn’t you let me aid him?”
“He’s not from here, not like us. The war has caused many of his people to flee to Vienna these past months. The city would be better off without them.”
Fritz shook his head and stopped his friend. “They’re your people, Simon.”
Simon let go of his friend’s arm, annoyed. Damn the lack of good coffee! “I am Jewish by birth and by faith, but I am not that kind of Jew. They are Orthodox, clinging to the past and archaic traditions, while I am a modern Austrian Jew. I speak German first and foremost, and I call Vienna my home, not some long-fled patch of dirt in the Middle East. So please, don’t bundle us together as an inseparable one. What if I had said all Austrians were in fact Germans, eh?”
Fritz nodded, apparently understanding. “I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”
“Of course. Now, let’s get to work before we’re late. Herr Rothschild would not be happy if two of his senior-level accountants were late. If we are, I’m blaming you.”
“Hah! But what if I blame you instead?” Fritz joked, with the two laughing off their awkward moment, as they proceeded further into the Inner City. Though Fritz quickly became at ease, the mental image of the poor Galician Orthodox Jew holding out his hand for help haunted Simon for the rest of the day.
Chapter Four
A Rare Victory
Carpathian Front
Austro-Hungarian Empire
November 1914
As the sun rose on the sixteenth of November, the penned up fury of an empire humiliated was unleashed. Hundreds of artillery cannons fired, as varied as the Austro-Hungarian soldiery that readied across the Carpathian Front. Austrians, Hungarians, Slovenes, Poles, Czechs, Slovaks, loyal Serbs, Croats, Italians and Ruthenians comprised the Third and Fourth Army.
For half the day, well into the sun rising and reaching its peak at noon though it was hard to tell with the thick snow-laden clouds prevalent over Galicia that day, the Austro-Hungarian Empire unloaded thousands of artillery shells into the Russian held lines, aimed at the forward trenches, the second trenches and at the bunkers spaced along the frontline. The Russians responded in kind, churning up No Man’s Land even more with their cannons and field guns, with less than half falling on the Hapsburg lines.
Screams cried out but were not heard by the falling rain of metal and its following piercing wails. Medics scrambled to find the wounded amidst the carnage, running alongside the trenchworks to better navigate as the trenches themselves were filled with mud, equipment and terrified men. The earth shook as dust filled the air, obstructing the view.
Shortly after noon the Austro-Hungarian barrage ended, the barrels hissing as the crews lathered them in water soaked towels to cool the metal before they warped from the heat. Moments later the Russians ceased firing as well and an eerie silence filled the air.
Hitler sat in the overcrowded bunker, breathing a sigh of relief that they had not been hit directly as they all would have died, both from the blast or the trauma. The bunker stank of sweat, unwashed bodies and piss.
“You ok, Adi?”
Hitler looked at Paul Lutjens and nodded, continuing to breath through his mouth so as to limit the sensory overload.
“I’m fine, Paul.”
“Your hands.”
Hitler looked at his hands which were shaking slightly. He grabbed the rifle laying between his legs to stop them from doing so.
“I’m fine.” His friend looked at him with a sidelong glance but said nothing.
“Alright,” Major Olbrecht said, standing up from near the door. We have five minutes, move out.”
The men shuffled out of the bunker, filling the trenches, sitting on the floor or on the ramparts, crouched to avoid a sniper’s shot. Men stretched, packs and equipment donned back on, helmets buckled and secured.
Hitler, Lutjens, and the other Landwehr soldiers readied.
“Fix bayonets!” came the call, repeated and echoed through the trench. Hitler fastened it to the barrel, sliding and locking it in place. The dust was beginning to settle. He hoped it would rain to clean the air, but it would more than likely snow. Despite the freezing temperatures, the winter was showing the General Staff that the lower temperatures allowed the ground to harden and the mud to, thankfully, lessen. But firmer ground made the blueblood officers feel that mass infantry charges were effective.
For weeks, since the Germans defeat at the Battle of Vistula River, the Imperial General Staff had been planning an offensive to relieve Premissel which was surrounded by the Russians once more.
And now they began what they hoped to be a crippling offensive into the Russian flanks, focused as the Russians were on the Germans. The Slavs had thinned their lines of veteran divisions to bolster their front in Congress Poland facing Field Marshal von Hindenburg. With the Battle of Łódź holding the attention of both Germany and Russia on the Eastern Front, General von Hötzendorf began the offensive.
The word came and the whistles blew.
“Up! Over the top!” Olbrecht and the other officers yelled, blowing their whistles as they ascended the ladders or climbed atop the trench. Flags were carried and hung limply until the bearers began running. Hitler climbed the ladder and began running with the thousands of other soldiers, sprinting to the Russian lines. Lutjens ran beside him, their breath fogging in the air.
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Author's Note: This is a timeline I'm working on. I've done quite a bit of worldbuilding, I'm just now working on writing the story itself. The first three chapters are largely good to go, while the fourth is still be written and needs editing.
It would be a huge help if anyone could review and offer suggestions and constructive feedback. I'm not the best writer, and I am constantly trying to improve myself, so any pointers to better my writing or the story would be more than welcome.
I know this story may not be overly realistic, but I am trying to create a world that has a very different 1930s and 1940s. To get to that point and Hitler's rise to power in Austria, I felt I needed to go back to WW1. The WW1 section won't be very extensive but will show Hitler's slight changing views due to his circumstances and will introduce characters that will play apart in the story to come, some who will be key players, others who will be bystanders and minor participants.
Hope you enjoy!
@Tanner151 - while I cannot give you any idea of plausibility, I can say that I have enjoyed the read and encourage you to keep building this. Hitler in charge of a surviving A-H Empire is intriguing to me.
I would suggest it not be a 'Central Powers' win timeline either- perhaps a 'peace with honour' is made? Or a peace deal that does not dismember the Empire somehow - perhaps the W. Allies are convinced a strong A-H is needed to balance USSR and Germany?
You are perhaps also ready for your own thread on this?
I would suggest it not be a 'Central Powers' win timeline either- perhaps a 'peace with honour' is made? Or a peace deal that does not dismember the Empire somehow - perhaps the W. Allies are convinced a strong A-H is needed to balance USSR and Germany?
You are perhaps also ready for your own thread on this?
Thank you!
The A-H empire will collapse as per OTL. Hitler being an Austrian soldier rather than a German soldier does not have significant butterflies for WW1 itself. Things start to change in the post-war when he joins a far right wing party and eventually creates his own, the ÖSNVP.
When Social Nationalist Austria begins to expand, a lot of former territories of the Empire will either be directly annexed or incorporated as a protectorate with their foreign affairs and military seconded to Vienna.
And a major reason for Austria’s early successes is because the Entente, namely France, encourages/allows Austria’s expansion to counter Germany.
Hitler here is a pan-Germanist, but desires it to be led by Austrian Germans (him) and not Berlin.
Once I have a few more chapter written, I will create it’s own thread.
I've enjoyed it so far and I think your analysis of the limited impact of Hitler being in one army instead of another is correct.
As @Ogrebear hinted above, I think you would be better posting anything more in its own thread, not here (but please post a link here, so we don't miss it!). I suggest that once you have a few more chapters done, create the thread, then post one or two of the chapters you've already done here. You'll probably (hopefully) get some feedback from other members of the forum at that point. Then you can post the other chapters every few days / week, with any changes which you think are needed based on any feedback you get. If you keep writing a bit ahead of what you post, then you just need to tweak your already-written pieces before posting, which can help with maintaining regular updates. That's what's most likely to keep people interested.
(I say this based on what I've seen in other threads and suggested by popular writers - I haven't actually done this myself!)
Thanks for the feedback! Once I have maybe ten chapters I’ll start posting. I’m excited to see what the community’s Reactions and feedback will be. Hoping it’s constructive and/or positive.
