“What did you just say?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. I’m going to deploy troops into the Rhineland soon.”
At the tail end of June 1935, I gathered the military brass and announced my intent to remilitarize the Rhineland.
Blomberg and the pro-Nazi generals, who’d been tipped off, kept straight faces, but the rest reacted like they’d seen a ghost and erupted in massive opposition.
“It’s impossible, my Führer! If we do that, France won’t sit on its hands!”
“The Wehrmacht isn’t prepared for anything yet! If war breaks out now, we’ll be pushed straight back to Berlin!”
Among the Wehrmacht’s generals, the fiercest opponent was the Army Chief of the General Staff, Ludwig Beck.
“My Führer, this is far too dangerous. I beg you to reconsider.”
He was one of the army’s senior-most men, and his record as a staff officer going back to the Great War made his standing in the army immense—beyond imagination.
I knew him well, too.
In the original timeline he was effectively the head of the anti-Nazi “Black Orchestra,” and the man who ran the Valkyrie plan to assassinate Hitler—failed, then killed himself.
And in the last loop, he staged a coup, imprisoned me, and in the end had me shot—bastard.
I slowly turned and locked eyes with Beck. Under my gaze he shrank back, but he didn’t look away.
“General Beck, I know exactly what worries you. You fear that the moment we set foot in the Rhineland, the French will send in their army.”
“That’s right, my Führer.”
“And you think our Wehrmacht, barely into rearmament, has no chance against Europe’s strongest military—the French.”
“Regrettably, that’s the reality.”
“But you gentlemen know only one side of the ledger.”
“Sir?”
“The people who want to avoid war even more than we do are the French. Let me ask you something. Do you know what losses France suffered in the Great War?”
“Why bring that up all of a sudden…”
“Since you don’t seem sure, I’ll tell you. The war cost France five million casualties. Of those, 1,385,000 were killed or missing. Obviously, those casualties were all French youth. With one war, France lost a full third of the core talent that should have carried its future.
To this day France hasn’t fully recovered from that. That’s why the French fear war more than anyone. If another war breaks out and the same thing happens again, France really is finished. The country called France disappears from the map.”
Because the Western Front ran through Belgium and French soil, France not only saw its land reduced to ruin but lost countless young men.
For France—already an aging society by the late 19th century—the decimation of its youth was damage that simply could not be repaired.
In World War II, yes, they suffered the humiliation of occupation and a puppet regime, but the actual fighting in France ended quickly, so the losses among their youth were lower; whereas World War I meant four years of trench warfare, grinding their young men to paste day after day.
That’s why even in the 21st century, France regards World War I as the more horrific past compared to World War II.
It had only been seventeen years since that hell ended. How many French would vote for war again now?
“France is a coward. Loud on the outside, but more terrified of war than anyone behind the bluster. We’re not so different ourselves, but the French fear war even more than Germans do. And I intend to use that fear.
As time passes, our Wehrmacht will grow stronger—but at the same time, the French fear will fade. By the time we’re fully ready, the French will be ready to fight us too. We have to move first, before that happens.”
“…”
“Of course, I’m not blind to your concerns. If by any chance we clash with the French Army, it escalates immediately into a major conflict. We lack weapons, ammunition, and men; we can’t match them. Therefore, if the French so much as show signs of moving, I will immediately pull our troops back. Well?”
“…Truly?”
Got him. Beck looks decisive, but he’s indecisive to the core.
Soothe him, offer a compromise, and men like Beck bite instantly.
“I guarantee it in the name of the Führer of Germany. Is that sufficient?”
“If you put it that way…”
Phase one cleared. Time for phase two.
***
The news that German forces were moving suspiciously along the Rhine reached the French high command soon enough.
“What the hell are those bastards plotting?”
French Commander-in-Chief Maurice Gamelin was past frustrated—he was ready to burst.
The culprit was, of course, Germany, and Germany’s Führer, Adolf Hitler.
Hitler was no ordinary figure.
As a corporal, he single-handedly knocked out two tanks in battle and racked up dozens of British kills, earning a medal from Hindenburg, the war hero of the day—a human weapon. In his autobiography he’d even “predicted” the Great Depression and Japan’s invasion of China—a monster among monsters.
As Chancellor, he wiped out opponents without mercy, yet with charisma and oratory dragged the public to his side, extended a hand first to former enemy Poland to sign a non-aggression pact, and even untangled the economy.
Who else was this out of the ordinary? Maybe that far-off Soviet, Lenin, was comparable.
Putting together everything learned so far, Hitler’s intent was singular.
Remilitarize the Rhineland.
The Rhineland—stretching from the France/Belgium–Germany border to the Rhine—was technically German territory, but by rule it was a demilitarized zone where no German troops could be stationed.
Thanks to that demilitarization, the French and Belgians could stretch their legs at night, comforted that even if war broke out, Germany would need time before crossing the border.
But if the Rhineland vanished?
France would be back nose-to-nose with the German Army across the frontier.
The moment war began, German shells would rain onto French soil. Obviously.
“Absolutely not! We must stop this at all costs!”
With his feet to the fire, Gamelin immediately convened the French high command for an emergency meeting.
But the conclusions were beyond disappointing—they were shocking.
“As you know, Your Excellency, the Depression forced massive defense cuts.”
“That’s right.”
“As a result, our army has been badly weakened. Training requires fuel and ammunition, but these days we barely make payroll. How often do you think we can drill?”
“Among the divisions forward-deployed, the number that’s actually trained can be counted on one hand.”
“Morale is low, too.”
“I know.”
“Meanwhile, the Germans have made huge gains, in numbers and in quality.”
“Hitler has been more obsessed with strengthening the military than anyone. He still is.”
“The French Army remains Europe’s strongest, but the Germans are no pushovers. In morale and proficiency, they may actually have the edge.”
“Intelligence reports the German force earmarked for the Rhineland is close to 300,000.”
“If war breaks out, we should expect heavy losses.”
“And public opinion is strongly against any armed clash.”
In short: France couldn’t fight Germany alone.
Gamelin relayed the meeting’s results to President Albert Lebrun and Prime Minister Pierre Laval.
“I never imagined the army’s report would be this bleak…”
A groan escaped Lebrun.
He’d trusted the brass who swore the French Army was Europe’s best, only to be told that in a real war with Germany they might lose—like being clubbed in the back of the head.
But it wasn’t as if the military would falsify a report.
Their pride was monstrous and they rarely listened to reason, but they were experts in their lane.
And for that prideful French officer corps to hand down a conclusion that cut their own pride—well, that was believable.
“It seems France alone can’t stand against Germany.”
Laval spoke.
“What do you propose?”
“We appeal to our allies.”
***
Britain’s response to France’s request was cold.
That January, Britain had signed the Anglo-German Naval Agreement. They had no desire to antagonize Germany.
The Rhineland being German soil anyway, London’s position was to permit German troop stationing there.
With British help dashed, France turned to Italy.
Italy’s response wasn’t much different from Britain’s.
To attack Germany, Italy would have to cross Austria; Austria was neutral and would never grant passage to Italian troops.
Above all, Italy was preparing to invade Ethiopia.
Elite divisions were already massed in Italian Somaliland and Eritrea; to support France, they’d have to call those divisions back to Europe.
That would kill the Ethiopian venture.
Mussolini, hell-bent on conquering Ethiopia and making it a colony by any means, turned France down.
“Mussolini has refused us as well.”
“Damn it… this won’t do…”
France, betrayed by the allies it trusted most, panicked.
They hadn’t expected much from Britain after the naval agreement, but Italy was supposed to be different. Getting rejected anyway was a shock.
“We shouldn’t give up yet. We have other allies besides Britain and Italy.”
Even after two rejections, there were still many allies.
Belgium declared it could not accept German entry into the Rhineland, and Czechoslovakia said it would provide rear-area support if France took military action.
But those countries were too small.
French commanders doubted how much help they would be in a real war—and rightly so.
“P-Poland. There’s Poland. Poland will be different.”
A major power in Eastern Europe, Poland would surely understand France’s position.
But as if to mock that hope, Poland gave an equivocal answer like Britain and Italy.
“If France is invaded by Germany, we will enter the war under the terms of the 1921 Franco-Polish Military Alliance. But that only applies if France is the victim of aggression.”
In plain language: unless France was attacked, they wouldn’t fight.
Romania and Yugoslavia were equally lukewarm.
They didn’t border Germany, like Italy, and had little direct friction with Berlin. They had zero appetite to join a risky gamble called war.
“How can every last ‘ally’ be this useless?”
Lebrun was dumbfounded.
Out of all those allies, only two were willing to stand with France—and even those two were small states that wouldn’t help much once the shooting started.
“I fear this time we must step back, sir.”
Laval said.
“I understand. Very well… We’ll have to yield.”
***
On August 7, 1935, the Wehrmacht marched into the Rhineland.
The gamble paid off—big.
“Well? Wasn’t I right?”
“The Führer’s foresight is beyond comparison!”
With the Rhineland remilitarized, all Germany turned festive.
Newspapers and radio poured out daily praise of me, people shouted “Sieg Heil,” and hung the Hakenkreuz from every house.
“The Führer’s genius is simply untouchable.”
“I’ve learned so much from this, my Führer.”
Even the officers who’d opposed me wagged their tails—Beck included.
So now they want to launder their image. Too late, you clowns.
I ignored the generals who’d opposed me to the end and spoke with Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop.
“Now it’s pasta’s turn.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Ribbentrop cocked his head.
“Are you in the mood for pasta, sir? Shall I tell the chef?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
I took a sip of Coca-Cola with clinking ice, then leaned in to whisper.
“Ribbentrop, I’ve got a job for you.”
“Say the word, my Führer.”
Hearing I had a special assignment just for him, Ribbentrop practically vibrated.
Give the order and he’d leap out the window. Granted, we were only on the second floor.
“You’ll need to go to Africa. As soon as possible.”
“Africa, sir?”
“Yes.”
My answer caught him off guard; his eyes went round. Africa, of all places.
“Which part of Africa do you mean? Egypt? Morocco? Or the Union of South Africa?”
“All wrong. Ethiopia.”