My speech to the people became a huge story abroad too.
Some hailed it as one of those all-time great addresses, or a blunt, heavy fastball thrown at a generation numbed by everyday discrimination. Others slammed it as “and then he blames the Reds” from start to finish. Overall, though, reception was positive.
Hindenburg—who’d already hang on my every word—goes without saying. Even the army, which watched me with half-support, half-suspicion, seemed to think I’d done what needed doing.
We did well enough that even France, which had ratcheted up its criticism of me after the Night of the Long Knives, admitted, “This time he’s right.”
So I shouldn’t have to nurse a headache over the Jewish question for a while.
After tying that off, I signed a non-aggression pact with Poland in October 1933.
Up to then Germany had been waging a trade war against Poland.
Poland was hurting, sure, but Germany wasn’t unscathed either—and our international reputation kept bleeding out.
As in real history, a non-aggression pact with Poland would help stabilize the economy at home and, abroad, lift a prestige that had sunk to the basement.
It would also paint me, unlike the usual German politician, as a flexible leader who can extend a hand even to an enemy.
Poland, already battered by the trade war’s damage, snatched at my offer to halt the fight and sign the pact.
They’d wanted talks but couldn’t say a word for pride’s sake; when I came forward first, they were plainly relieved.
“My Führer, I do not oppose your will, but there’s talk—about the non-aggression pact with Poland. From the army, yes, but also civilians.”
Given that any German, whatever his party, ground his teeth at the word Poland, grumbling was inevitable.
Imagine this: our country colonized Japan, then lost the war; Japan goes independent and walks off with Dokdo, Ulleungdo, Jeju, and even South Gyeongsang Province. Now the government signs a non-aggression pact with Japan—how do you think people react?
The whole nation would blow up and demand a resignation. That’s how far beyond imagining German hatred of Poland ran.
Göring looked worried. I answered with a calm face.
“I expected as much. But for now, this is the best move. We need to mind foreign eyes and fix our economy first.
And no, that doesn’t mean I plan to spare those Polish bastards forever. Someday we take back the lands they stole. To do that, we hide our intentions for a while.”
Only then did Göring brighten.
“As expected, you have a plan for everything, my Führer. Thank goodness.”
“What, did you think I was rolling over for the Poles? Hardly. This is one step back for two forward. We fix the economy first—then we can rearm or anything else. Right, Minister Schacht?”
“W-well… yes…?”
Hjalmar Schacht, President of the Reichsbank and Minister of the Economy, forced a smile.
It was Schacht himself who, when the German-Polish trade war broke out, insisted we must not yield—keep retaliatory tariffs on Polish goods.
As planned, the economy improved markedly. The pact brought in foreign investment, and our neighbors’ stance toward Germany softened.
Time for the next phase.
***
“Ah, come in.”
I greeted the two army officers entering my office with a broad smile.
“Sorry for the sudden summons. I know you’re both busy.”
“Not at all, my Führer.”
The brisk, mustached gentleman was Lieutenant General Oswald Lutz. The colonel beside him: Heinz Guderian.
Even among military nerds, some might not know Lutz, but nobody fails to know Guderian.
Both were crucial to the birth of Germany’s armored force—Guderian so much so that later generations called him the father of German tanks.
Remember how the panzer arm rampaged in WWII, and you’ll see how big their contribution was.
Five minutes later, War Minister Blomberg arrived. Everyone essential to this meeting was present.
“I asked you here to discuss future tank development.”
Tanks—the flower of the army, the kings of ground war—were indispensable to improving and growing the Wehrmacht.
The Treaty of Versailles banned developing and possessing tanks, but Germany couldn’t give them up. To fool the Allies, we called them industrial tractors, built fake tanks by draping canvas shells over cars, and trained the troops—throwing everything into raising an armored arm.
That hard-won panzer force would, when war came, play a starring role in forging the German Army myth.
But this is 1934.
The panzer arm that would later sweep Europe was still crawling—our “latest model” was the Panzer I, armed with… two machine guns.
Tiger and Panther? Forget it. Even the Panzer IV is two years off, and it’ll take many false starts to field it.
I intended to use my knowledge to the max: help midwife the panzer arm and stop “useless waste.”
“The current plan lists three types: a 20 mm autocannon tank, a 37 mm gun tank, and a 75 mm gun infantry-support tank.”
You’ve guessed it—the 20 mm is the Panzer II, the 37 mm is the Panzer III, and the 75 mm support tank is the Panzer IV. At this point, the only one with a proper name was the Panzer I.
“As I understand it, the 20 mm autocannon tank is meant to fill the gap with the Panzer I until the 37 and 75 mm types reach mass production. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“I see. Here’s my thought: do we really need to build all three?”
I’d thought this for a while. I couldn’t find a good reason to spend precious resources, money, and time building all three.
Each could earn its keep in a narrow role, sure. But thinking ahead to the next war, focusing on the Panzer IV alone would pay far better.
My idea: produce only enough Panzer I’s for training, then pour everything into the Panzer IV.
“Think it through. The Panzer I is well-made, but its limits are glaring. With only twin machine guns, it might be fine against infantry, but it’s useless in tank-on-tank combat.”
“True.”
Lutz, Guderian, and Blomberg nodded. They knew the Panzer I wasn’t fit for tank battles.
“And the 20 mm-armed tank—let’s call it the Panzer II. As far as I know it mounts a single 20 mm autocannon and one machine gun. Better than the I, yes, but full of doubts for tank fighting.
From what I’ve checked, France and Britain already field—or are developing—many tanks with enough frontal armor to shrug off 20 mm fire. How effective will a Panzer II be against those?”
The three listened in silence. My words gave them food for thought.
“Lastly, the 37 mm type and the 75 mm type—call them Panzer III and Panzer IV. The idea is: III as the main battle tank with a 37 mm for anti-tank fighting; IV with a 75 mm for infantry support—supporting the III and the foot sloggers. But why split hairs that way?”
“What do you mean, my Führer?”
Blomberg asked.
“Exactly what I said. Why divide tanks into two classes, complicating production and logistics? A 37 mm may work for now, but as armor thickens, its punch will fade.
Then you’ll have to swap guns—so why not mount a 75 mm from the start and be done with it? The IV was designed around a 75. It’ll accept a bigger gun more easily than the III.”
The Panzer I had already earned a “not fit for combat” reputation by Spain. The Panzer II shone in Poland, but in France it ran into tougher foes—French Hotchkiss, British Matilda—and paid dearly.
The Panzer III fared better than those two, but against British and French tanks in 1940, it still struggled.
Swap in a 50 mm by 1941 and it finally did something—until the Soviets rolled out T-34s and KV-1s and erased the gains.
Even with the long 50, a III lost one-on-one against T-34s and M4 Shermans. Hard limits.
The Panzer IV, by contrast, was born with a 75. It could take the long 75 easily; once up-gunned in 1942, it became the front’s hidden ace.
Rommel craved two things more than an Iron Cross: Panzer IVs with the long 75 and the 88 mm FlaK. Until the Tiger showed up, the IV was the hardest hitter we had.
Later, Tigers and Panthers overshadow it, but for an early-’30s design it went toe-to-toe with ’40s newcomers like the T-34 and M4 all the way to the end. A damn fine workhorse.
The nickname “war-horse” wasn’t for nothing.
Tankers who’d have died in Panzer I’s and II’s, if they rode IV’s instead—those losses drop hard.
I figured everyone would back me. I wasn’t demanding Tigers and Panthers now—just a rational “build only the Panzer IV.”
But the response was different.
“Your point has merit, my Führer,” Blomberg said at last, after sipping his tea.
“However—”
“Hm?”
“Isn’t it premature to decide before any of them even reaches mass production?”
Huh?
That’s… not the reaction I wanted.
Keeping his voice even, Blomberg continued while I hid my surprise.
“I don’t mean you’re wrong, my Führer. But none of the three is in mass production—each is still in development. If we upend the plan now on assumptions, we may sow chaos later.”
“I agree. Your deep interest in armored development honors us, my Führer, but weapons aren’t made by guesswork. They evolve through countless trials, experiments, training, and real war.
The Panzer I hasn’t even seen combat. To halt the others mid-development—this feels like quite a leap.”
Even Lutz opposed me.
Their shared point: “Isn’t canceling before results show… a bridge too far?”
Heard without future knowledge, it was reasonable. I groped for a rebuttal and came up short.
“Colonel Guderian—your view?”
I looked to Guderian for help. He was the only one who hadn’t spoken.
“I find the Chancellor’s opinion rational.”
As expected, Guderian backed me. Educated men—different breed.
But Guderian had a fatal weakness.
Rank.
“Colonel Guderian, you know as well as anyone—weapon development isn’t done on hunches,” Blomberg said.
“Y-yes, sir.”
Blomberg was War Minister. Guderian, a mere colonel.
On rank alone, Guderian loses.
By that logic, I could just crush them with authority as Chancellor—but my relationship with the army is still delicate. Throwing my weight around here would look bad.
And Blomberg is one of the Wehrmacht’s foremost pro-Party men. If I steamroll him, I hand the anti-Nazi officers a gift.
With differences unresolved, we decided to consult the Ordnance Office and then decide.
They sided with Blomberg.
Old farts.
They opposed me even more vehemently than Blomberg did.
Other army generals piled on, too—apparently thinking my push was the first stone in a plan to bring them to heel.
This time, for once, it wasn’t. Damn Junkers.
Even Hindenburg tried to mediate, but it went nowhere. That’s how stiff-necked the army was.
“Opposition inside the army is intense, my Führer. Please reconsider.”
“Yes, Hitler. This once—yield.”
“…Understood. No helping it.”
So my “grand tank unification plan” went up in smoke. After long talks, we compromised: postpone any decision until prototypes are tested.
Nothing comes easy.
***
Unlike the crotchety army, the Luftwaffe was easier to talk to.
Göring—my right hand—was building it, and I knew less about aviation, so I had to lean on the professionals.
Freed from morphine and flab, Göring had turned into a handsome middle-aged man and practically a different person.
He listened actively to subordinates, mediated conflicts between departments, and placed the right people in the right posts, squeezing out maximum performance.
And he gave real backing to Lieutenant General Walther Wever—who, in the original timeline, never got his due because of differences with Hitler and Göring.
“I support you, General. Times change. Strategy should too. Don’t you agree?”
“Most sound, my Führer.”
Unlike most air generals dazzled by visible effects and obsessed with tactical bombing, Wever believed strategic bombing could change the course of war. He pushed hard for a medium bomber capable of it.
But Wever died in an accident in 1936, and with him the medium-bomber dream basically died.
Except I’m not that Hitler. I’m a Korean from the 21st century who’s seen modernity up close.
Unlike Hitler, I understood strategic bombing mattered more than tactical. So I backed Wever hard.
“I’ll get Göring on side. If you hit walls, come straight to me. Don’t watch anyone’s face.”
“Thank you, my Führer! I’ll repay this in results!”
He was honestly moved—eyes wet. No need to cry.
But when your boss and peers all half-listen and brush you off, and then the Chancellor himself hears you out and backs you—it’s natural to be thrilled.
The Kriegsmarine, born earlier than in history, was… trickier.
Not because it was full of anti-Party men like the army, but because Grand Admiral Erich Raeder and I clashed on fundamentals.
Raeder was an excellent sailor—looked after his men, led by example—but he was also a diehard believer in big-gun battleship doctrine, which put us at odds.
“How many times do I have to say it? Carriers are far more efficient than battleships.”
“Of course, my Führer, you aren’t wrong. We need carriers. I even know your book, Mein Kampf, stresses their importance. But carriers are auxiliaries. The centerpiece of naval war is still the battleship!”
He didn’t deny carriers. He just insisted they remain supports, and battleships lead—which grated on me.
“To smash enemy fleets with overwhelming firepower, seize command of the sea, and wage commerce war—you must have battleships! Please reconsider.”
His plan: build many battleships and battlecruisers, fight a decisive fleet action to break the enemy, then roam the North Atlantic for commerce raiding.
Battleships did matter—into the 1960s, even—shore bombardment with big guns supporting landings was no joke.
But by time, money, and manpower, battleships were money pits.
Even once built, just keeping them afloat cost a fortune—and in war, there aren’t that many roles for them.
On paper, Yamato was the mightiest battleship of its day. In practice, U.S. carrier planes and submarines sent her under.
Total U.S. aircraft lost in the sinking: about ten.
An absolute catastrophe in cost-effectiveness.
Grand Admiral Karl Dönitz—future head of the navy—was much easier to talk to.
He, too, admitted battleships had uses—but believed carriers and U-boats were far more efficient: cheaper and more flexible.
The problem: Dönitz was only a captain—and that only because I’d promoted him early. Otherwise he should still be a commander.
Raeder, on the other hand, was a full admiral, slated to become a Generaladmiral in 1936. If I leapfrog him to install a captain as naval chief, the place explodes.
So I have to coordinate with Raeder as far as I can.
My head already feels like it’s going to burst.