Interwar Period – Anschluss (1)

Between December and January, Colonel Walter Model returned to Berlin.

He was incredibly busy. I barely managed to greet him in passing.

The tide of the Spanish Civil War had completely turned in favor of the Nationalists. Reports said the Republicans had lost the entire northern region and had moved the capital to Barcelona as the Nationalist pressure mounted even on Valencia.

In the meantime, Richthofen had been promoted to colonel. He sent long letters praising the early performance of the now-famous Stuka—the Junkers Ju-87 dive bomber—and called it the most ideal aircraft for dive-bombing operations. It was, incidentally, the very aircraft I had been debating with him about some time ago.

February 4, 1938 – Berlin War Ministry, Army Staff Headquarters

"This is nonsense! Hitler is hell-bent on devouring the military!"

Infantry General Gerd von Rundstedt slammed his fist on the table, voice rising.

"The Supreme Command of the Wehrmacht?! Something abolished more than a decade ago, now revived, and Keitel of all people appointed as its head! A puppet! Hitler wants to turn the Wehrmacht into his personal toy!"

"Yes, Chief of Staff! We cannot allow this!" added Erwin von Witzleben, equally outraged. "First they smear the Minister of War’s wife as a prostitute, then accuse the Army Commander-in-Chief of homosexuality? Such disgraceful slander! Clearly, it was fabricated!"

Across the table, Chief of Staff Ludwig Beck sat rubbing his temples. He looked weary—perhaps even defeated.

Field Marshal Werner von Blomberg had just resigned after being threatened by Göring, who claimed the Gestapo had proof that Blomberg’s wife was a former prostitute. Shortly after, Werner von Fritsch, the Army’s Commander-in-Chief, resigned as well—accused of homosexuality.

Two of the Army’s highest-ranking officials gone, just like that. And now, with Hitler resurrecting the OKW (Oberkommando der Wehrmacht) and placing Wilhelm Keitel—a yes-man—at its helm, the military was left rudderless and exposed.

"…Manstein, what do you think?" Beck finally asked, turning to the man he'd earmarked as a future chief of staff.

"It’s regrettable, sir," Major General Erich von Manstein said cautiously. "Marshal Blomberg could have defended himself, or at least salvaged his career with a divorce. But he chose resignation. It’s difficult to call this an outright coup without considering that."

"What are you saying, Manstein?!" Rundstedt barked. "So we just roll over?!"

Manstein flinched slightly but held his tongue. He was opportunistic—brilliant, but always calculating. Better to avoid becoming collateral damage in someone else’s war. With Blomberg and Fritsch gone, the path to promotion was clearer than ever.

But Beck was still hesitant. "If we formally request an investigation… how many would support it?"

"There are more than a few who are outraged by this, sir," Witzleben replied confidently.

Beck paused. Manstein saw the shift in the room and quickly interjected.

"Chief, the military is—by tradition—politically neutral..."

"And Hitler is trampling on that neutrality!" Rundstedt snapped.

Manstein backed off. Beck exhaled and nodded.

"Very well. We’ll demand an investigation. This cannot stand."

What followed was a formal request from Beck, Rundstedt, and Witzleben to re-examine the so-called Blomberg-Fritsch affair.

It was a reasonable, measured demand.

Unfortunately, they were dealing with a regime that had long since abandoned reason.

February 13, 1938 – Berlin Suburbs

[ALL TENSIONS WITH AUSTRIA RESOLVED! ANOTHER DIPLOMATIC VICTORY FOR THE GREAT FÜHRER!]

I sat in a quiet suburban café, half-listening to the bustle of Sunday afternoon while staring at the bombastic headline of the Frankfurter Zeitung.

The OKW had been officially established, and Wilhelm Keitel—widely known as a bureaucratic seat-warmer—was named its Chief.

He had no real power. He was simply Hitler’s mouthpiece.

The military’s request to investigate the Blomberg-Fritsch affair had been ignored completely. The regime responded with this headline instead.

Yesterday, on February 12, Austria’s Chancellor Kurt Schuschnigg had been coerced into appointing Arthur Seyss-Inquart, leader of the Austrian Nazi Party, as Minister of the Interior.

Back in 1934, Hitler’s first attempt to annex Austria had failed, largely due to Mussolini’s opposition. But after Mussolini’s invasion of Ethiopia and the subsequent international backlash, the Italian dictator grew closer to Hitler.

Now, Mussolini no longer stood in the way.

"Here you go," Claudia said, placing a cup of coffee in front of me.

"Thanks."

I glanced back at the newspaper.

"Frankfurter Zeitung seems to be leaning pro-government these days."

She rolled her eyes. "That came straight from the Propaganda Ministry. We either publish it or get shut down."

"Ah, of course. Dr. Goebbels at work."

In the weeks since we'd met, Claudia and I had grown fairly close.

Once, I had tested her by asking the paper to run a politically dangerous editorial. She’d responded with caution—and revisions. In the end, I owed her an apology.

"So—" she leaned forward, voice playful, "—do you have anything juicy for me today, Captain?"

"It’s Sunday, Reporter Jung. Don’t you ever take a break?"

"I'm a workaholic, remember?" she said with a grin.

Claudia Jung was the political-military correspondent for the paper. I’d once wondered why someone like her—a woman, strikingly beautiful and seemingly out of place—was assigned to cover the military. Her answer?

"The higher up the officer or politician, the easier it is if the reporter’s pretty."

Brutally honest. And correct.

"Well," I said, "the regime may have buried the military’s objections to the scandal, but they won’t ignore the officers behind the request."

Her eyes narrowed. "And your source for that?"

I smiled.

"A secret. Just as you test my knowledge, I test yours."

"You’re a captain," she said, arching an eyebrow. "Son of a former minister, general staff candidate, and—rumor has it—a bit of a mystery. You’re also one of the few officers who doesn’t treat liberal newspapers like the plague."

She wasn’t wrong.

Most aristocratic officers remained loyal monarchists, steeped in the traditions of the old Empire. The younger generation—especially those of humble birth—tended to worship Hitler.

"So," she asked, "why tell me any of this? Why feed me something so implausible?"

"Because I trust you," I said simply. "And the Frankfurter Zeitung. Whether or not you trust me is your choice."

Claudia studied me.

"...Alright," she said at last. "Let’s pretend I believe you. If it’s true, we’ll have the scoop of the year."

"I’m rooting for your front page."

"You’d better be."

We laughed, but inside, I was uneasy.

Anschluss was imminent, and yet my father—Hjalmar Schacht—remained curiously passive.

Was it a lack of trust? Or had Beck’s resignation, the catalyst for the von Kleist group’s activity, simply not happened yet?

Time was closing in.

The great storm of history loomed, and all I could do was brace for it.

Yes, I knew what was coming. But knowing history and stopping it were two different things.

To stop World War II—when global grievances, wounded pride, and unrelenting madness all converged—was beyond impossible.

Still, to do nothing…

To wait, and be swept up by the tide without resistance…

That would mean drowning in a sea of steel and blood.

And so, I struggle.

Because if I don’t, then what’s the point of being alive in this time and place?

I just hope it matters.