July 18, 1936
In Spain’s Second Republic—run by a socialist-leaning republican government—the Nationalists, flying the banners of the far right and anti-communism, launched a coup.
The opening bell of the Spanish Civil War—what everyone later calls World War II’s tutorial.
Mussolini, even while still at war in Ethiopia, immediately declared support for the Nationalists.
He hasn’t even recovered from the losses in Ethiopia and he’s already giving handouts abroad.
I’ll grant him this much: the bastard’s swagger is undefeated. Swagger that overpowers flesh—no, bullshit that overpowers flesh.
I decided to send men and materiel to back the Nationalists, too.
If we want to check our current weapons’ performance, firm up doctrine, and collect training data, we have to dispatch a military advisory mission.
And while we’re at it, we’ll peel off a few mines and ports in Spain.
“General Sperrle.”
“Yes, my Führer.”
“I’m counting on you. Go show the Reds the strength of the German people.”
“I’ll do my utmost!”
For commander of the German advisory mission—the “Condor Legion”—we picked Luftwaffe Major General Hugo Sperrle; as Sperrle’s chief of staff, Colonel Wolfram von Richthofen.
From the Army, Colonel Wilhelm Ritter von Thoma was selected to command the Condor Legion’s ground combat element, the “Imker Battle Group,” and sent to Spain.
Right before the Condor Legion shipped out, I tangled with the Army high command. The fight was over what equipment to send.
“Panzer I alone will suffice, my Führer! There’s no need to send Panzer II.”
These damned Junkers crowed that the rabble of Spain’s Republicans could be handled with Panzer I just fine.
They said the Republicans are many but basically militia level; the moment they see tanks on the field they’ll just run.
Where are they getting this crap? I’m from the future and I’m telling you, that’s not how it goes.
It’s true most Republican units in the civil war are a mess. But their kit, for 1936, is not second-rate.
The Soviet-supplied T-26 and BT-5 light tanks massively outclassed the Nationalists’ German Panzer I and Italy’s L3 tankettes, so whenever the Soviet types showed up the Nationalist tanks got swatted helplessly.
With only machine guns on the Panzer I, you simply couldn’t kill enemy armor; in a hurry they kludged on Italian Breda 20 mm guns, but that was a stopgap. Proper combat was basically impossible.
It got so bad the Nationalists paid bounties to soldiers who captured Soviet tanks and openly encouraged seizing enemy armor.
“Panzer I is too weakly armed. Do you think machine guns will crack enemy positions or tanks? We have to send Panzer II!”
So for the Condor Legion tankers’ safety I insisted on sending the stronger Panzer II, not the Panzer I.
Lutz and Guderian backed me—send Panzer II over Panzer I—and in the end we compromised: we’d send both, with only a small batch of Panzer I.
Fine, I’ll let it slide this time. Soon enough reality will prove me right.
The other big event this year, alongside Spain, is the Berlin Olympics.
The first and last Olympics hosted under the Nazis.
The real Hitler was negative on hosting, and so am I. Not because I don’t care about sports.
Because the Olympic bill is obscene.
My line was: spend that money on weapons. Unexpectedly, pushback was fierce.
Goering and Goebbels, and even Himmler—who I thought wouldn’t care about this at all—fought me tooth and nail.
“My Führer, if we give up after winning the bid back in 1930 just over costs, we’ll be the world’s laughingstock.”
“Exactly. And the Olympics are a prime stage to advertise the greatness of the Aryan. We must host.”
Tsk.
In the end, as in history, the Olympics opened on August 1, 1936.
With tourists, teams, and reporters from all over watching, I read the opening address Goebbels wrote for me.
“Fair competition awakens the highest qualities dormant in the human body. Within understanding, respect, and the spirit of sport, it unites athletes with one another.
It also strengthens bonds among nations in the spirit of peace. That is why the Olympic flame must never die.”
Every time, I have to admit: the man’s prose is disgustingly good.
Speech over, the Games truly began.
What I wanted was to flop onto a soft bed and sleep the afternoon away—but as head of state of the host I couldn’t just duck out.
While I stared blankly at the field, the bigwigs around me were grinning like kids.
Fair. Unlike the 21st century—with the internet, TV, manga, endless content—the 20th doesn’t have much entertainment. The Olympics are a huge spectacle.
Back when most homes didn’t even have a television, let alone a computer.
Come to think of it, since it’s the Olympics, maybe I’ll get to see “those two.”
***
No matter where you looked, what you saw were the hook-cross flags the Germans called Hakenkreuz.
If people back home saw this, they’d ask if Germany followed Buddhism. They’d marvel the Western long-noses knew the Buddha’s teaching.
Sohn Kee-chung, a 24-year-old colonial youth, walked with a bitter heart. His closest friend Nam Sung-yong, following behind, couldn’t hide the grief on his face.
If, when we first qualified for the Olympics, we’d realized this moment would come…
“Kee-chung, I’m still jealous of you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You had a sapling to cover your chest. I had nothing.”
They handed the gold medalist, Sohn Kee-chung, a sapling; with it he could hide the Rising Sun on his chest. The bronze medalist, Nam Sung-yong, couldn’t.
“Germans are stingy. Would it kill them to give saplings to first, second, and third? It can’t be that expensive. Right?”
“Yeah.”
Of course they knew the reason only the gold medalist got a sapling wasn’t to save money. Still, the regret stuck.
Having finished their events, athletes wandered all over Berlin, freed of the weight on their shoulders, enjoying that other Olympic fun—sightseeing.
Sohn Kee-chung and Nam Sung-yong—gold and bronze—had every right to tour the city too, but they had no mind to.
If the flag on their uniforms weren’t the Rising Sun, maybe they would have gladly looked around the German capital, but right now they were nothing more than colonial youths. At least that’s how they saw themselves.
The Japanese embassy offered to host a celebration for their victory, but both politely declined.
When we arrived in Berlin they sneered that Koreans had come instead of Japanese—and now that we’ve won, look how their attitude flips.
Instead they headed for a small tofu factory in Berlin.
The owner was An Bong-geun, cousin of An Jung-geun. He’d come to Germany to study, married a German woman, and now ran a tofu factory in Berlin.
All the workers were Koreans, too.
For the celebration there was makgeolli, tofu, and kimchi.
It was nothing like a grand banquet, but it wasn’t lacking or hollow. Their bodies might be in far-off Germany, but their hearts felt at home.
And the next day, something they never imagined happened.
“Who… wants to see us?”
“The Führer does.”
Sohn Kee-chung and Nam Sung-yong—and even the Japanese interpreter, Tamura—were dumbfounded.
So unexpected their brains wouldn’t turn. Who wants to see us? The German Führer? Really?
“Is… is that true?”
Nam Sung-yong was so shocked he could barely speak. Tamura nodded.
“Yes. And he wants to see you as soon as possible. There’s a car from the Führer waiting outside right now.”
Tamura added that the Führer wished to meet quietly, without telling anyone. Hard to believe.
The Führer of Germany wants us? Fine, Sohn Kee-chung is a gold medalist—but even the bronze, Nam Sung-yong? They still couldn’t tell if this was a dream as they stared at each other.
“Hurry. Get changed, quickly!”
They put on the best clothes they’d brought and followed Tamura outside.
Sure enough, the Führer’s car was waiting.
A luxury automobile rare not only in Korea but even in Japan.
To be riding something only the Governor-General of Korea or an imperial prince would use—Sohn Kee-chung wondered if he was dreaming.
But the plush feel of the seat in his palm was real. Can a dream be this vivid?
The SS driver pulled out for the Chancellery the moment his guests were in.
***
“So you’re here. Heroes of Asia.”
In all my life, I never thought I’d meet Sohn Kee-chung and Nam Sung-yong.
I’ve already met everyone from Remarque to Guderian—people who used to exist only in history books—so it shouldn’t be new. But since becoming Hitler, these are the first Koreans I’ve met. It hit different.
They had no idea I’m actually from the same future country they are.
“An honor to meet you, Mr. Sohn Kee-chung.”
I stepped forward smiling and offered my hand. He took it, dazed.
“P-pleased to meet you, my Führer.”
The interpreter beside us rendered my words into Japanese for Sohn, then Sohn’s reply back into German for me.
I didn’t need the help, but I let it be. No one expects the German Führer to know Korean.
“And you must be Nam Sung-yong. Welcome.”
“It’s an honor, my Führer.”
Nam grabbed my hand, half-trembling.
“How do you know our names…?”
Sohn asked. Of course he never imagined someone like the Führer would know them.
They’d even been called by Japanized names at the medal ceremony, so their puzzlement was natural.
Because I’m from the same country as you.
…which I couldn’t say, so I went with a plausible lie.
“When you become the Führer of Germany, you can learn a great deal. Your real names, where you were born, how you grew up—such things are easy to find.”
I made it up on the spot. They actually believed it, judging by their faces. Even the interpreter stood there with his mouth open.
Total bullshit, of course.
No one learns two random youths’ birth names and family histories overnight from the Far East. And there’d be no point anyway.
“Let’s skip the small stuff. Mr. Sohn Kee-chung, my heartfelt congratulations on your Olympic victory. And to you as well, Mr. Nam Sung-yong.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve done something tremendous. Even I, a near-ignoramus in sport, know how brutal the marathon is. If it were me, I couldn’t do it if you killed me and brought me back.”
“You’re too kind. A man of will like the Führer could certainly do it.”
Sohn said.
Nam still looked stunned, as if this moment wasn’t real. The interpreter was shocked too, but never stopped interpreting. Professional to the bone.
“What will you do when you return to Korea?”
“I suppose I’ll keep doing what I do.”
“I see. A marathoner should keep running marathons. Right, Mr. Nam?”
“Right.”
“By the way—have you two eaten?”
“Pardon? Not yet.”
“Then we can’t send precious guests from the Far East away on empty stomachs. Let’s eat.”