August 2, 1934
Paul von Hindenburg, hero of the Battle of Tannenberg and President of Germany, died.
The day before he was called to heaven, I headed to Hindenburg’s house with my aides in tow.
There’s a story that bedridden Hindenburg mistook Hitler for Wilhelm II and called him “Your Majesty,” but that never happened.
“I’ve come, Mr. President.”
“You’ve come.”
Even speaking seemed to sap his strength now. He wanted to talk much with me, but his body wouldn’t follow.
“As you can see, I’m not well at all. It seems my time has come.”
“Don’t say that, sir. I’m sure you’ll shake it off and rise again.”
“No. I know my own body better. This is the last time. I’ve lived long enough, so death doesn’t scare me. Only… I regret leaving so much unfinished. I wanted to see Germany once again dominate the world before I go…”
Our conversation ended there. Hindenburg collapsed, and his doctor rushed in to check on the president’s condition.
I had no choice but to say my farewell and leave.
The next day, Hindenburg passed away.
The old field marshal’s final words were, “My Kaiser, my Germany.”
Before his death, he left me a letter. It praised me for faithfully serving under him and leaving many achievements, and it included a request: restore Wilhelm II, now in exile in the Netherlands, to the throne.
Needless to say, I had absolutely no intention of doing so.
None.
I’d already been killed last loop thanks to those damned Junkers — who the hell would I be helping?
Above all, the Kaiser was utterly useless to Germany now. If it were the 21st century, sure, he might help sell souvenirs to tourists, but in 1934 Germany? Give me a break.
His only “achievements” were wrecking the country and running off to a neutral nation. Why the fuck would I restore him? What did he ever do for me when I clawed my way up here?
The Kaiser will never again sit on a throne in this country.
What Germany needs now is not a Kaiser — it’s me. Me, Adolf Hitler.
Hindenburg’s funeral was held as a state funeral. Afterward, I decided to merge the offices of Chancellor and President.
And so, I became the Führer.
***
As Führer, my first step was to scrap the Treaty of Versailles and reinstate conscription.
Restrictions on the army and new weapons, banned under Versailles, were lifted, and every healthy German man now had to undergo examination and serve.
Germany’s rearmament sparked controversy not only at home but around the world.
Britain, France, and Italy issued condemnations and held a conference at Stresa, forming what became known as the “Stresa Front” to counter Germany.
But I wasn’t worried.
It was all just talk — none of them had the slightest intent to fight.
Proof came in January 1935 with the Anglo-German Naval Agreement.
Despite the Stresa Front, Britain wanted to avoid conflict with Germany at all costs, so they sought separate talks and began a policy of “appeasing” Germany.
The result was the Naval Agreement: battleships limited to 35,000 tons, but Germany allowed to build a navy up to 35% of Britain’s tonnage.
This freed Germany from restrictions and let us legally push ahead with rebuilding a surface fleet.
When I returned with this “gift,” even Raeder, who’d always bristled and argued against me, softened a little.
His obsession with battleships remained, of course.
But truthfully, I wanted to keep Raeder around as long as possible.
Not just for his ability — in the last loop, despite being a monarchist, he tried to save me when the Junkers locked me in the Abwehr basement. He planned to smuggle me out by U-boat.
The Junkers noticed first, his attempt failed, and he was executed for treason.
Dönitz, another monarchist but loyal to me, met the same fate.
Even beasts know gratitude — what excuse do men have to forget it?
“How is it? The taste?”
“By far the best wine I’ve had in years.”
I’d invited him to dinner for a candid talk.
The wine Raeder had just tasted was none other than Château Lafite Rothschild, flown in from France.
I told them to bring me the most expensive bottle, and sure enough, expensive stuff smells different.
No wonder it’s top shelf.
Cutting into a perfectly medium veal steak — Göring’s enthusiastic recommendation — I opened the conversation.
“As you know, Admiral, Germany’s short on money. We’ve got mountains to build and a limited budget.”
“That’s true.”
Economy Minister Hjalmar Schacht was doing his best to revive the economy, but we were still strapped.
When funds are scarce, you have to stretch every mark. You can’t just churn out battleships that cost the moon.
Of course, building the fleet Raeder wanted wasn’t impossible — but only if we abandoned the army and air force entirely.
“Not just battleships. We need U-boats, destroyers, sausages on soldiers’ plates… there’s no shortage of expenses. You think I don’t like battleships? If I could, I’d own every damn battleship on earth.”
“Hahaha…”
Veal’s still cow, I thought it wouldn’t taste much different. But it was — softer, sweeter than regular beef. Killer.
“Here’s what we’ll do.”
Judging the mood ripe, I laid out my revised Plan Z for naval expansion.
The original Plan Z called for 10 battleships, 3 battlecruisers, 4 carriers, 12 pocket battleships, 5 heavy cruisers, 35 light cruisers, 68 destroyers, 249 U-boats, and 90 torpedo boats. Total madness.
I hacked it apart.
“Four battleships, 8 heavy cruisers, 16 light cruisers. Carriers and torpedo boats stay. Destroyers 40, U-boats 300. What do you think?”
“…The U-boats seem higher than I expected.”
“Admiral, you know how U-boats performed last war. Originally I planned 500 — this is already a cut. Frankly—”
“Fine, fine. I understand.”
Raeder clearly wasn’t thrilled but accepted. At least he didn’t deny reality.
“Truth is, even this might be hard to build on time. Our engineers haven’t built a battleship in years. Army and Luftwaffe complain the navy’s hogging funds.”
“I know. Still, I’m grateful the Führer thinks so much of the navy.”
“Glad you understand.”
***
This comes a bit later, but let’s talk tanks.
Despite fierce opposition, the Panzer II was prototyped without issue. Trials succeeded, and mass production was approved.
After long persuasion, the army agreed to cap Panzer II at 500 units, and from December 1935 we halted Panzer I production.
The Panzer III, the army’s great hope, had a rougher fate.
Its prototype rolled out in December 1935, but its coil-spring suspension made it practically undrivable.
Panicked, the Ordnance Office swapped in leaf springs, renamed it Panzer III Ausf. B, and built a second prototype. It broke down almost immediately.
“Another failure?”
“Apologies, my Führer.”
“We’ve identified most issues. Next time it’ll work. Just a little more time.”
They patched problems into Ausf. C. But even this was riddled with faults. Constant breakdowns, and when power was increased, the engine caught fire.
Fresh off the line, brand new.
“You intended to send soldiers to the front in this piece of shit?”
“M-my Führer, no, it’s not—”
“There’s clearly some mistake. If you give us a little more time and budget—”
“That’s the third time you’ve said that. How many chances do you expect? What if next time it fails again? You going to pay back every mark you wasted?”
I pressed the advantage and forced their surrender.
The Panzer III was canceled. No Panzer III, no Sturmgeschütz III.
With III scrapped, only IV remained. I’d ordered from the start that it be designed as a heavy armor platform, ready for future upgrades.
“Front hull armor 80 mm, turret front 50 mm, sides and rear 30 mm. Top speed 40 km/h. Weight under 26 tons. Can you do it?”
“It’s possible, but deviates from the plan. It’ll take longer to develop. Is that acceptable?”
“That’s fine. Quick results would be nice, but I know it’s unrealistic. Take the time, but give me a perfect machine. Understood?”
“Yes, my Führer.”
I also drew up five derivatives using the Panzer IV chassis: self-propelled gun, recovery vehicle, bridge-layer, assault gun, and anti-aircraft tank.
History’s Germans churned out endless variants, many redundant — assault this, destroyer that.
This isn’t a buffet. In wartime, overlapping systems aren’t just pointless, they clog logistics and production. Better to kill that waste upfront.
If history was variety in small batches, mine would be few types, mass production.
The Ordnance engineers, burned from the Panzer III fiasco, worked themselves ragged this time.
Funds and manpower freed from the III went into the IV, speeding progress.
By May 1937, the first Panzer IV prototype was ready. I couldn’t help but be pleased.
“Yes, this is it! This is what I wanted!”
It was the Panzer IV Ausf. F1 — four years early.
The generals and engineers watching me, pale with worry, finally exhaled in relief when they saw me cheering.
Anyone would think they’d narrowly escaped death. Relax, I’m not killing you.
“You’ve worked hard. Looks like you haven’t even slept. You’ve done great.”
“Thank you, my Führer.”
Wiping sweat, they looked exhausted. I smiled as I stepped closer.
“Now we just need to mount a bigger, stronger gun on it.”
“…S-sir, what was that?”
Their faces drained white, as if they’d seen a ghost.
Why so shocked? I only said the obvious.
Engineers are meant to be pushed. That’s the whole point.