TO GAIN THE FUTURE
CHAPTER ONE
Reichskanzlei, Berlin
All were nervous. All in all, eighteen men of the General Staff had assembled in the Fuhrur’s office in the heart of the Chancellery, all in various uniforms adorned with medals atop the breast. Even after all these years of trying to treat the rivalry, including the very creation of a General Staff, the men of the Wehrmacht and the SS stood in two separate groups.
General Klaas Wolfram, commander of the Fallschirmjäger, was stood with the former, occasionally trading glances at the black uniformed men across the room. It was hard to even identify them, so huge was the Fuhrur’s office. It was modelled on the Hall of Mirrors yet was easily double its value in magnificence. Vast Renaissance-style paintings adorned its arched ceiling depicting the capture of Moscow, the 1871 proclamation of William I as Emperor, and of course Hitler himself, shown addressing the adoring faithful at a massive party rally in Nuremberg.
From these ceilings hung dozens of massive opulent chandeliers, while along both sides of the room stood gargantuan golden statues depicting German heroes of old; Bismarck, Holy Roman Emperors such as Otto I or Frederick II, and obviously Hitler himself, who stood at the head of the room, superior to all others, his arms crossed as he glared down the great expanse. The walls were adorned with many other golden trinkets too numerous to list. At the feet of Hitler’s statue stood the desk of the Fuhrur. It was a red throne with a grand desk, exquisitely crafted. All this was merely referred to with such modesty as the Fuhrur’s Office.
Wolfram stood with his arms crossed, listening to the mutterings of his colleagues but not really paying attention. His mind was elsewhere; these meetings were a dime a dozen, the Fuhrur demanding several a week. He expected nothing different today. The one difference was that they almost never took place here, but it was a detail Wolfram was uninterested in. Besides, Hitler Day was coming up, and his time was being sucked up by his planning the paratroopers’ role in the Berlin parades. He would have much preferred to be in the field with his men, though such an expression was rather antiquated; the Reich’s parachutists hadn’t seen action since 1975, in the Spanish intervention which had ended in humiliation and cost Wolfram’s predecessor his job, and his life if he hadn’t defected to the Swiss.
Regardless, no-one in the Reich, least of all Wolfram, doubted the magnificence of the Fallschirmjäger’s training. Wolfram considered himself fairly independent from the Party hysteria, so trusted his judgement. Not that he wasn’t a committed Nazi of course; the Hitler Youth had been more of a home to him than his broken family, and he was just as appreciative of the Reich’s racial purity as anyone, especially when looking across the ocean to see the nigger riots in the socially rotten United States. But the military wasn’t the place for politics. That much he’d say openly, and it was damn well daring to do so.
The general was interrupted from his musings by a nudge on his arm. He turned to look at the commander of the Abwehr, General Augustus Buhr, a stocky man who looked like he’d be more at home as a bank manager, especially with those round spectacles.
Despite being the most secretive man imaginable, the irony was that he was also the only one in the room whom Wolfram could really consider to be a friend. Perhaps they were united by their shared distaste for ideology within the military; they’d both stood up to the Fuhrur against naming a new service medal after him, and earned a little more respect from the men around them for it. Not that their protests had any effect. What was a Fuhrur without stubbornness?
“How’s Döberitz?” asked Buhr, referring to the primary training centre for the paratroopers, just outside Berlin.
“I’m surprised you don’t know,” replied Wolfram sarcastically. Buhr knew everything, even if the Abwehr certainly didn’t.
“I definitely know about the crash. Damn shame, Klaas, damn shame,” he said with what sounded like sincere sadness. “How many lost?”
“Twenty,” said Wolfram bitterly. “I could feel the smirks of these damned zombies from a hundred miles away,” referring to the rest of the generals around them.
“Don’t let it drag you down. Even if they don’t die by enemy fire, they still die in service to the Reich. Their families should be proud,” said Buhr encouragingly.
“Even if I’m not,” replied Wolfram. He really didn’t want to talk about this. Losing men was bad enough, but when it was as embarrassing as a faulty aircraft engine it was even worse.
“Well if you’re looking for someone to blame, blame him,” muttered Buhr, his voice lowered. He gestured subtly towards Generalfeldmarschall Ferdinand Stueck, commander of the Luftwaffe, who was engaged in an apparently hilarious exchange with someone whose back was to Wolfram. “He provides the aircraft and the engineers, does he not?”
“It’s easier to not make a big song and dance about it,” replied Wolfram. “The Fuhrur was more confused about why I’d write to the families to express my sorrow. He felt I should have been detached.” Buhr sighed and shook his head.
“Yes, well that man’s detached in every sense of the word.” Wolfram stared at Buhr. He’d gone too far. Buhr raised an eyebrow. “Don’t act like you don’t think it, Klaas,” he said with an accusative finger pointed at his chest.
“If you want to engage in heresy,” Wolfram whispered angrily, “do it in your own time and definitely don’t do it in the Fuhrur’s office while surrounded by generals, for Hitler’s sake!” He neglected to reflect on the irony that to use the Iron Wolf’s name in vain was itself a far greater heresy. Buhr simply smiled.
“I’m just bored,” he replied innocently, crossing his arms. “The Fuhrur’s always late. Takes after his grandfather. But this isn’t a rally, punctuality is somewhat expected when meeting with the heads of your military. I think he tries to be the Iron Wolf too much.”
Wolfram was just ignoring him at this point. He’d seen the Reichsführer glance at him from across the room and feared that somehow they’d been heard. And as it happened, he then strode confidently towards the pair of them.
Reichsführer Leopold Zephyrus, commander of the SS and right hand to the Fuhrur, greeted them with a raised hand.
“Heil,” he said politely. Buhr and Wolfram repeated the greeting, Buhr with poorly disguised disdain. “I heard about the men you lost,” said Zephyrus. He said it with sincerity, but Wolfram felt only malice.
“So did I,” Wolfram replied sarcastically. Zephyrus smirked, as did Buhr. “I don’t see you often at these meetings,” Wolfram said. “Something special planned?”
“You’ll see,” was Zephyrus’ coded response. Wolfram frowned. Maybe there was something else to this meeting. Zephyrus then immediately confirmed it. “What I can tell you is that the Fuhrur has something special planned. Not just for us in this room, but for the whole world.”
Wolfram glanced at Buhr, to see him looking at the floor.
“You know about this,” said Wolfram accusingly. Buhr looked up at him, smiling.
“I command the Reich’s foreign intelligence force. When one holds that position, being informed is usually beneficial.”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” replied Zephyrus. The exchange would surely have gone on were the great doors at the rear end of the room not to open, allowing a uniformed figure to appear.
“Gentlemen, the Fuhrur!” he shouted. All went silent, and the man turned to the side, standing stock still. Then, the Fuhrur emerged.
Even from this distance, his eagle-like glare was visible. He dressed in the same plain brown suit his father, and his father before him, had done. His only military adornment was the Iron Cross on his breast, won amid the failure of the Spanish intervention. Wolfram had looked into the records of the units he commanded and found that he had never even been in combat during the conflict. He was perhaps the only other person in the world who knew, and he had no intention of spreading it.
Like his father, the Fuhrur had stubbly brown hair, but decisively more handsome features, with a well-defined jawline, smooth unblemished skin, a hook nose, and those wide, unnervingly green eyes.
In unison, the generals before him raised their arms and, as one, shouted “Heil!” The Fuhrur calmly raised his hand in response as he walked, no, marched down the hall towards them. Zephyrus stepped forward to be the first to greet him. Both exchanged another pair of raised hands.
“Heil my Fuhrur,” began Zephyrus, as he had done many times before. He spoke with a lowered voice so the others could not hear, knowing they were all watching anxiously.
“My loyal Leopold,” replied the Fuhrur, “are they ready?”
“Always,” was Zephyrus’ instant response. “I’ve always been afraid that some of the staff have forgotten the glory of war. It’s time they remembered.” The Fuhrur simply nodded, not smiling, as he almost never did. He then stepped towards his desk and sat, his hands clasping together over the ridiculously loud desk. The generals all assembled together before him, paying rapt attention.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “thank you for being here.” Wolfram felt like he detected contempt in his leader’s voice. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
“We are all busy men, so I won’t keep you long,” continued the Fuhrur, his voice the lone sound in the room besides the heavy breathing of one of his generals, Germany’s highest ranking victim of bronchitis. The Fuhrur inhaled deeply before continuing. “As you know, the West is in turmoil. They are characterised by decline. America has reaped what it sows; the Jews of Wall Street who promised great wealth have failed, and spiralled them into deep recession. Their belief in multi-ethnic society is discredited daily. One only has to watch the Negro riots over the last week in Los Angeles to recognise that. The same is true of the British; they have even begun demolishing some of their invasion defences to save money.”
“Where is all this leading?” Wolfram thought to himself nervously. But he already knew the answer.
“For decades, our fierce Reich has stood impervious to outside action. We wiped out the Bolsheviks, and when the West tried to stop us we expelled them from France too. That glory belongs to us, and us alone. But now…” he paused. “…our glory is fading.” There were several exchanges of glances among the generals. “As they forget the salvation of the war, our people are more vulnerable to society’s vices, and through that they lose their commitment to the nation, instead becoming as self-serving as those across the ocean. The war was the greatest thing which ever happened to the German people. It gave them purpose. It united them all. A renewal, nay, a revolution is needed to bring back that spirit for a thousand years.” Buhr dared to interrupt.
“My Fuhrur…” he began, more nervously than Wolfram had ever heard him. The Fuhrur’s eyes shot right to him, but he did not prevent him from speaking. “You are suggesting that we embark on war.” The Fuhrur smirked, but it was a smile poorly concealing anger.
“I am suggesting that we complete what my grandfather began. Our Order stretches from the Pyrenees to the Bering Strait. Yet the world laughs at us. It laughs at me.” He suddenly stood, and was now glaring at the men before him. “And they aren’t the only ones.” Wolfram felt a sharp twitch in his stomach.
“I am no fool,” said the Fuhrur, raising his voice. “I know the truth. Even if it might be whispered, it continues to be thought, and the mere thought of it is an insult to everything my family has worked for. In streets, army barracks, and government buildings, the same thing is said; that I can never match my predecessors!” Now he was shouting.
The generals in front of him stood still, but glances towards their hands by Wolfram registered that many were trembling. So were his. Was this how a liquidation would begin?
“This is the truth,” the Fuhrur continued. “My father did not spend a day in uniform. He only commanded troops to send them to failure. I was witness to that failure when I was told to scamper home from Madrid right at the moment when we were on the cusp of victory!” Now his shouts were bringing back memories. Memories of another man who had stood where he stood.
“And my grandfather…” the Fuhrur shuddered, perhaps pained by speaking ill of him, or perhaps by having to think of him at all, “…was but a lowly Corporal. He did not earn what I have earned!” he bellowed, pointing at the Iron Cross which gleamed on his suit. “The German people worship him, the... Iron Wolf.” He looked up, at the portrait of his grandfather on the ceiling. “He was no wolf.” This was treachery. Heresy. Yet it was from the mouth of the Fuhrur. Wolfram felt like his very faith was being torn from him. The air of the room felt colder.
“I want but one thing,” the Fuhrur continued. “What I want is something that neither my father, nor his father, could bring. The swastika must fly over the White House before I am satisfied, and each and every one of you should feel the same!” Wolfram glanced at Zephyrus. He was nodding and grinning almost fanatically.
“If all the world must be turned to ash to do it, then so be it. Why should Germany have but one slice of the world? We deserve it all. I see this! Why do you not?!”
“We’re behind you, my Fuhrur!” shouted back one of the generals. Wolfram noted that it wasn’t even an SS one.
“Then stand with me when we launch the most magnificent war in history. The conquest of Europe was only the beginning. Today marks the beginning of history’s last chapter!” His tone was fanatical, his volume at the top decibels that anyone could reach.
“Every nation will bow before the Reich, and the Third Millennium will know only one world, one race, one Reich, and one leader!” His fist pounced on a glass of water, shattering it. The audience erupted in jubilant cheers. Wolfram joined in, feigning enthusiasm bordering on fanaticism. He wasn’t afraid of war. He was afraid of madness.
Soaking up the applause the Fuhrur, Maximilian Hitler, leader of the Third Reich, fell back into his chair, ignoring the blood trickling from his hand. Maybe he didn't even notice it. And then he smiled.
“Gentlemen. Let’s bring them hell.”