Interwar Period – Encounter

November 5, 1937 | The President’s Palace, Berlin, Germany

Inside the conference room of the President’s Palace, the highest-ranking officers of the German military were gathered.

“How have you been, Marshal Blomberg?”

“I’m managing.”

To the Luftwaffe Commander-in-chief Hermann Göring, who greeted him warmly, Minister of War Werner von Blomberg replied with a nervous edge.

From the early days of the Nazi regime through the Night of the Long Knives—the bloody purge of SA leaders and anti-Nazi figures—the two men had maintained a personal camaraderie.

In contrast, Grand Admiral Erich Raeder, Commander-in-Chief of the Navy and a figure relatively distant from Nazi politics, remained silent.

“By the way, do you know why this informal meeting was called today, General Göring?”

At the question from General Werner von Fritsch, the Commander-in-Chief of the Army, Göring responded with a proud smile.

“Because the great Führer has finally devised a solution to the German problem!”

“A solution…?”

The question came from Foreign Minister Baron Konstantin von Neurath, who had little connection with the military. His voice carried a hint of unease—concern that Hitler might be about to announce another audacious plan. Göring, however, laughed it off.

“Haha, indeed, indeed…”

Before Göring could elaborate, the doors to the conference room opened. The man responsible for the announcement had arrived.

Adolf Hitler entered, smiling broadly as everyone in the room stood and saluted.

“Ah, my friends. Thank you for coming. Your dedication to Greater Germany is appreciated.”

Waving for them to sit, Hitler took his seat and addressed the curious attendees with unmistakable pride.

“We, the great German Reich, will move to annex Austria and Czechoslovakia.”

“Oh, brilliant, mein Führer!”

“W–what?!”

While Göring hailed the announcement with enthusiasm, the others were visibly shocked.

“I want the Minister of War and the heads of each branch of Wehrmacht to begin formulating operational plans for the invasions. I expect both to be complete within the year.”

“Mein Führer, please wait a moment!” Blomberg protested. “Austria and Czechoslovakia may indeed be part of our cultural and historical legacy since the Holy Roman Empire, and I support the idea of reunification—but it has only been three years since we openly declared rearmament!”

“So?” Hitler asked flatly. “What’s the issue, Minister of War?”

Blomberg looked around, searching for support, but found none. Swallowing dryly, he continued.

“Forgive me, but our Wehrmacht is only just beginning to resemble a proper army. We won’t be fully prepared—rearmed and restored to former glory—until at least 1942.”

“1942? You expect me to wait another four years? Germany has already waited long enough! The last war, the Treaty of Versailles, the provocations of the Judeo-Bolsheviks—we’ve endured all of it. Now is the time to act.”

“But—”

“But what? The strength of our army was already proven in Spain! The Red rabble supported by the cursed Soviets and the so-called International Brigades couldn’t withstand our Condor Legion! We’re stronger than Mussolini’s steel army!”

Blomberg held his tongue. The Condor Legion had been deployed with minimal support from Berlin, and the experience had been far from conclusive. But it was too dangerous to point that out.

“Mein Führer, we are still short on basic equipment. There aren’t enough rifles or even magazines to arm all our troops. We simply don’t have the resources—”

“Then tell the arms manufacturers to produce more! Use the Mefo–Beteiligung bonds—we can pay after we’ve won!”

Hitler brushed off General von Fritsch’s concerns without a second thought.

The Mefo-Beteiligung bonds were a scheme designed by former Reichsbank President Hjalmar Schacht. Since Germany couldn’t openly rearm without violating the Treaty of Versailles, the government had used these bonds to quietly fund its military buildup—promising payment later in order to keep current spending off the books.

But by now, the economy was showing cracks, and the total bond issuance had surpassed 20 billion Reichsmarks. Inflation was a looming threat.

“Mein Führer,” Blomberg tried again. “As Minister Schacht warned, the government cannot issue more bonds. The economic burden is unsustainable—”

“Enough!” Hitler snapped. “I’m tired of defeatist talk like that! Schacht’s precious economy! Who rebuilt Germany’s economy and army in the first place? After we win, we’ll take the enemy’s gold and taxes and repay everything!”

Shouting, he turned to Göring.

“You understand, don’t you?”

“Absolutely, mein Führer! The Luftwaffe will begin drafting an operational plan immediately.”

“Now that is the determination of a commander in Greater Germany! What about the Navy, Admiral Raeder?”

Raeder, narrowing his brows, responded slowly.

“It is not a direct concern, as Austria and Czechoslovakia are landlocked. The Kriegsmarine would not be directly involved.”

Hitler was satisfied until Raeder added:

“However, if the British were to intervene, the Kriegsmarine has no capacity to oppose them. Plan Z has only just begun, mein Führer.”

Plan Z—the ambitious naval rearmament project—was intended to rival the British Royal Navy through the mass construction of cruisers, battleships, and aircraft carriers. It was a plan driven by Hitler’s obsession with grand, imposing weaponry.

In truth, it was far from reality. The Bismarck, future flagship of the Kriegsmarine, had only just begun construction, and even the Scharnhorst-class ships hadn’t yet been commissioned.

Hitler scowled.

“Britain won’t intervene.”

“Sir?” Neurath leaned forward in concern. “But if—”

“They didn’t intervene when we reoccupied the Rhineland. They won’t act now either. The plan proceeds.”

“But, mein Führer, the Rhineland was a different case—”

“You didn’t object back then either!” Hitler barked. “The English and French are cowards. You know that as well as I do!”

Neurath fell silent, and Raeder reluctantly nodded.

“…Unless we’re at war with Britain, the Navy has no reason to object.”

Hitler’s eyes turned back to Blomberg and Fritsch—the men whose cooperation he needed most for the plan to proceed.

Both remained silent, breathing heavily, their resistance broken.

“How was it, Mr. Second-in-command?”

Outside the Führer’s residence, Luftwaffe Commander Hermann Göring was greeted with a cheerful voice by his “junior” after the secret meeting.

“Blomberg and Fritsch resisted to the very end.”

“The Führer must be troubled,” replied Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer of the SS. “But they won’t go far this time—not with the stains they carry.”

Göring shook his head.

“Hmph. The Führer still has a soft spot for Blomberg. I’m not so sure.”

“Is that so…”

While most senior Nazis were known for their rivalries and jostling for influence, Göring found Himmler relatively agreeable—strange mythology obsessions aside.

“The Führer is sentimental. It’s frustrating,” Göring sighed.

Hearing something that would terrify future generations, Himmler offered a suggestion.

“Why don’t we ease his worries a little?”

“Oh? How?”

“If we dig deep enough, I’m sure we’ll find something to remove them. I have a capable man for the task. His name is Reinhard Heydrich. I’ll introduce you.”

“Hmm, you’re trustworthy. Then I’ll leave it to you. If we eliminate those timid weaklings, neither of us will have any rivals. You could raise the SS to rival the army.”

“You know my heart well, Hermann. Hahaha!”

And so began the plot that would become the Blomberg–Fritsch affair—tearing apart the Wehrmacht’s leadership and loosening the last restraints on Hitler’s road to war.

December 10, 1937 — Berlin War College, Berlin, Germany

“The days of bloody, attritional wars, of trench lines creeping forward for mere yards of land, are over, sir.”

The lecture hall was half-empty—a sign, perhaps, of how most in the Wehrmacht still viewed the speaker’s ideas with skepticism. Though increasingly discussed among young armored officers, Major General Heinz Guderian’s vision had yet to win over the old guard.

“The cavalry will identify a weak point in the enemy’s line and pierce through it. Motorized infantry will follow, expanding the breach, and obliterate the enemy before they can regroup. This—this will define the mobile warfare of tomorrow.”

Guderian spoke passionately, painting a picture of the battlefield to come. Years later, the world would call it Blitzkrieg, but in the German military of 1937, no such term existed.

“To achieve this, we must discard outdated doctrines. Artillery, once revered as the ‘god of the battlefield,’ lacks the mobility needed for modern warfare. Its role is now largely defensive. The true artillery of the future is airborne—delivered by dive bombers and close air support.”

But how many in the room truly grasped what Guderian was saying?

Reading the atmosphere, Guderian ended with a wry smile. “It’s a lot to take in, I know. Don’t worry. This was just an overview. We’ll build on it step by step.”

There was a collective sigh from the officers, realizing the lecture was drawing to a close. Guderian grinned as he dismissed them.

“Then—until next time, gentlemen.”

“Heil!” came a smattering of replies.

History would later hail Guderian as the father of Germany’s armored warfare. But for now, he remained just an eccentric theorist, barely tolerated by the establishment.

As the hall emptied, I turned to Captain Mikhail, seated beside me.

“So… did you understand any of that?”

“…Nope. I thought I was sharp. Turns out I’m not.”

Like me, Mikhail had entered the War College on the recommendation of Colonel Walther Model. We’d grown close quickly—same rank, same awkward enthusiasm. Not as close as I’d once been with Clemens back in Spain, but still.

“Well, since Colonel Model strongly recommended this lecture, I suppose we should keep attending—even if it fries our brains.”

“Haha… yeah. Anyway, see you next week, Captain Mikhail.”

“Enjoy the weekend, Captain Schacht.”

Time at the War College was passing swiftly.

Alongside its esteemed faculty, the college frequently invited commanders from the field to lecture. Many of these men would soon become names etched into the annals of history—the architects of Germany’s campaigns in the coming war. Ironically, most of us wouldn’t even finish the course before being thrown into that very conflict. Those who survived would face either postwar tribunals or watch helplessly as the Wehrmacht was dismantled.

Even from Spain, Colonel Model had written us occasionally—short letters recommending lectures or sending greetings. He mentioned plans to return to Germany early next year.

Odd. I hadn’t realized he was involved in the Spanish Civil War. Then again, I hadn’t thought he stayed long.

Now that I think about it… wasn't Model demoted when Army Chief of Staff Ludwig Beck resigned in the fallout of the Blomberg–Fritsch affair?

Model had been building a promising career—Berlin Chief of Staff, Chief of Staff in Spain. He’d only rise to prominence late in World War II. Perhaps this scandal was the reason.

The Wehrmacht’s internal power plays had once felt distant, irrelevant—mere footnotes in a history book. But now I found myself in the thick of it. It was all becoming clear.

Beck, after all, would go on to lead the anti-Hitler conspiracy. His conflict with Hitler was essential to that transformation.

And my own father—Hjalmar Schacht—had already been dismissed. If Model, my only link within the army, was soon to be cast aside too…

What would that mean for me?

At least my relationship with Father was improving. Every weekend, I went home to care for my mother and show him that I was no longer the idealistic boy from before. I was trying—really trying—to rebuild that bond.

I didn’t know when the von Kleist group would approach him, but it had to be before the Munich Agreement. Before Operation Green, the planned invasion of Czechoslovakia. Before the failed coup attempt by General Hans Oster and others. I knew my father had at least one foot in that effort.

All I could do now was play my part. Attend lectures. Follow the General Staff curriculum. Wait.

I was walking along the corridor, lost in thought, when someone caught my eye.

A woman—strikingly beautiful, blonde hair gleaming, eyes the color of clear skies. The very picture of the so-called Aryan ideal the Nazis so obsessively admired.

Of course, that had nothing to do with me.

Her appearance reminded me of Clemens—how he had betrayed our friendship in Spain, walking away with no explanation.

But why was this woman walking straight toward me?

“Good afternoon,” she said, voice warm. “Excuse me—are you Captain Dietrich Schacht?”

“Yes,” I replied, blinking. “That’s me. But… who are you?”

She smiled, radiating charm. “Claudia Jung, Frankfurter Zeitung. If you have a moment, I’d love to ask you a few questions.”

I blinked again, thrown off by the surreal beauty of the moment. She looked like a walking stereotype of a screen siren—like something from a Hollywood dream. Blonde hair like sunlight. Eyes like glass. Unreal.

But I had no time for fantasies.

“I’m sorry, but I’m a bit busy,” I said politely.

Claudia blinked, visibly caught off guard. She clearly hadn’t expected rejection. I offered a gentle smile and added, “Apologies, miss. I’ve had my fill of journalists after Spain.”

Frankfurter Zeitung was one of Germany’s more reputable newspapers. She could be interested in Spain. Or in my father’s dismissal. Or both.

Do I emit some sort of pheromone that draws in interviewers?

As I stepped past her, I heard a quiet chuckle behind me.

“Ah, I’m sorry. Really. I was being cheeky. This concerns Mr. Havenstein.”

Havenstein?

The name stirred something.

“…Julius Havenstein?” I asked.

A former third platoon commander in the Condor Legion. He’d been discharged.

“Yes, that’s right,” Claudia said playfully. “Now… are you ready to talk?”

Her businesslike smile had shifted—now it was teasing, almost conspiratorial.

I frowned slightly.

Why was he here?