Interwar Period – Sudetenland Crisis (5)

June 25, 1938 – Bar in the City Center, Berlin, Northern Germany

It had been a while since I’d seen a familiar face.

“How have you been, Captain?”

“Same as always. And you, Colonel?”

Colonel Wolfram von Richthofen tilted his glass, grinning.

“Me too! Hah! has life at the war college been good?”

“Yeah. Compared to Spain, it’s heaven. Thank you, Colonel.”

“Is it? I kind of miss that place.”

Uh… right.

I hope he doesn't miss it because he can’t continue firebombing cities anymore… Well, with Richthofen, maybe that’s exactly why.

“Really? I thought you had returned because the fighting there was winding down.”

In the Spanish Civil War, after the Battle of Brunete and the Nationalist capture of the entire north, the tide turned sharply. The Republicans were pushed back again and again…

But contrary to my assumption, Richthofen drained his glass and smirked.

“Ah, that’s not it. I was sent back.”

“…What?”

Richthofen? The same man Göring wouldn’t want to lose?

“I didn’t get along with the fellow who replaced Leutnant General Thoma in the army’s expeditionary command—Leutnant General Volkmann.”

Ah, yes—Leutnant General Thomas, commander of the Condor Legion. I remember him mainly for his long face. Not much else stands out.

When Major General Model served as Chief of Staff, I even wondered if Thoma was actually the commander…

“Thomas allowed the Luftwaffe to have autonomy. Volkmann treated us as a subordinate branch. We had a big fight. I got replaced. Hah!”

“I see.”

Until the Battle of Brunete, the Condor Legion had operated mostly in service of the Luftwaffe, but after significant victories in ground battles, the balance of influence shifted.

Richthofen refilled his glass and gave me a sly look.

“So, Captain—do you remember why I backed you so strongly?”

“Of course, Colonel. I’ve even debated it with classmates. At least the ones close to me won’t think of the air force as ‘air artillery’ you just call in on demand.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Even without his urging, I had been passionate about this. It was the Luftwaffe’s biggest limitation—and its greatest problem.

Germany couldn’t mass-produce strategic bombers like the United States, raining destruction from the sky. But in modern war, the value of air power went far beyond hitting whatever was in sight.

“Walter Model is advanced in his thinking, too—probably from working with the Luftwaffe in Spain.”

“Ah, that man is reliable. Honestly, I missed him more than Thoma, but at least I don’t have to endure his jokes anymore.”

“…Hahaha.”

Yes, General Model’s humor… I sympathize.

We clinked glasses and took a drink.

“Oh, Captain—your suggestion worked. The Hs 123 production line will stay open.”

“Really?”

The Hs 123 was an early-model German dive bomber—already outdated compared to the Stuka. But in Spain, its slow speed and stability made it unexpectedly effective for close air support.

“Exactly. It was designed for dive bombing, but for close support, it’s reliable and cost-effective.”

I smirked. “Sometimes, just having a visible support aircraft—old or not—helps show the army we’re cooperating.”

“Damn it. I should’ve sent you the whole unit. You know the air force’s style.”

“Haha, thanks.”

In actual history, the line was closed too early. Later, when its value was recognized, it was too late to restart production. This time, at least, we’d keep the option.

History shows—whether it’s the StuG III or chemical weapons—a dependable, mass-produced, low-cost weapon can be worth far more than an overengineered marvel.

The Tiger and Panther tanks were brilliant on paper, but overcomplicated, unreliable, and too slow to produce—making little real difference on the battlefield.

Even without meeting often, I stayed in touch with Richthofen.

Though only a colonel, he was closely connected to the Luftwaffe’s true powerbrokers. He was also the spiritual leader of Germany’s ace pilots, Adolf Galland and Werner Mölders—his protégés.

Most of the Luftwaffe’s top generals were ex-army men, aside from Göring and Milch, both World War I heroes. The younger generation of fliers—once celebrated heroes themselves—resented the corrupt and self-important leadership above them.

Richthofen, who worked with them in Spain, listened to grievances, and pushed for real tactical progress, was someone they could trust.

As for me—planning for Germany’s future—I wanted to avoid the nightmare of a Luftwaffe pilot dropping firebombs on German cities.

“By the way, Colonel.”

“Yes?”

“What’s your view on the plan to invade Czechoslovakia?”

Richthofen swirled his drink.

“Honestly? A mess. The staff can’t figure out what the hell’s going on. Keitel? Ha! What does a man known as incompetent even in the army know about commanding all three branches?”

Was he drunk? This was unusually blunt—even for him.

I had only meant to ask his opinion on the Sudetenland crisis.

Anyway, OKW was more of a ceremonial umbrella—the real planning would be done by Chief of Staff Franz Halder.

And Halder’s pre-Manstein plans weren’t exactly shining examples of innovation.

If not for the Munich Agreement, the war could have ended almost as soon as it began—with German forces bogged down against Czechoslovakia’s fortifications.

The Blomberg–Fritsch affair had already exposed the weaknesses in the high command.

“Um… I’m only a captain, so—”

“The Führer united Germany, but I fear his cult-like followers are blind.”

I closed my mouth.

Richthofen smiled faintly. “Still, you and I aren’t in a position to posture. Soldiers don’t need to overthink politics.”

“…Yes.”

I didn’t want to argue—his feelings about Hitler seemed complicated.

It was a pity. I saw Richthofen as a patriot—someone who respected Hitler as a leader but didn’t share the party’s insane ideology. I could only hope he’d never follow orders to bomb his own people.

I eyed his flushed face.

“Colonel, do you drink often?”

“Well… sometimes.”

He didn’t seem like a strong drinker. Wasn’t this the man who later left the front because of a brain tumor? Alcohol probably wasn’t helping…

“Maybe cut back a little—”

“Hahaha! My men tell me the same thing.”

“Well, then…”

“Alright, alright. I’ll try. But next time—how about we drink in Prague?”

“…Hah.”

Even in Spain, we’d been too busy for this kind of talk. But a heavy drinker and firebombs? Not the best combination.

July 9, 1938 – Berlin, Northern Germany

I was welcoming guests to my father Hjalmar Schacht’s guesthouse.

He may have been dismissed as Minister of the Economy, but as Governor of the Reichsbank, he was still wealthy enough to own this second house.

“Negotiations between von Kleist-Schmenzin and the British went just as you predicted,” said Director Erich Kordt. “Only Churchill showed any interest. Deputy Foreign Minister Vansittart came, but he wasn’t engaged.”

“That’s to be expected. They don’t see us as equals at the table.”

Kordt nodded.

Churchill—just hearing the name brought mixed feelings. He’d recognized Hitler as a dangerous lunatic early on, which I appreciated. But he wasn’t Prime Minister yet, and politically, he was a risky ally.

“If possible,” I thought privately, “let him remain a retired politician forever…”

“Still,” Kordt continued, “as you wanted, we avoided discussing territorial sovereignty after your request.”

“Good. Thank you, Director.”

“Our Foreign Ministry shares your view,” he replied. Then, with a small smile: “Frankly, it helps us when the son of former Minister Schacht expresses that opinion in the army. Deputy Foreign Minister Weizsäcker holds you in high regard. We’ll continue to cooperate.”

“Appreciated. It’s reassuring.”

Working with realistic officials in the Foreign Ministry was a relief. No doubt Claudia’s earlier groundwork had helped.

While we talked over coffee, the main guests arrived.

“It’s been a while, Captain.”

“It has, Colonel.”

Leutnant Colonel Tresckow stubbed out his cigarette before entering—better manners than I expected.

“Come in, Colonel.”

Two men followed him: a handsome man in his 30s, and a middle-aged officer with thinning hair and a sharp presence. An odd pair.

“Captain Dietrich Schacht,” said the younger man with a faint smile. “Count Hans-Jürgen von Blumenthal. I’m also a lieutenant in the army.”

“The honor is mine, Count Blumenthal.”

Yes—he was the one who had originally planned to raid Hitler’s residence during Operation Green. Which meant the other man was…

“Leutnant Colonel Hans Paul Oster. A pleasure, Captain.”

Oster—architect of the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler during the Munich crisis. One of the most committed Nazi opponents I knew of.

He fixed me with a piercing gaze as we shook hands.

“…The honor is mine, Colonel Oster.”

His grip was firm.

“Forgive me for asking bluntly, Captain—we’re short on time. I’ll get straight to the most important question.”

“Go ahead, Colonel.”

I didn’t look away. His eyes—unyielding, certain—told me exactly why survivors of the resistance later spoke of him with such respect.

“How far are you prepared to go to cast down the demons ruling Germany?”

A smile almost tugged at my lips.

“…All the way.”

This was the man I had been looking for.