At the last possible instant, a thought flashed through my head—lean forward.
That split-second decision saved my life.
Because I ducked forward, the enemy’s bayonet just skimmed past me.
The British soldier, off balance, slammed face-first into the dirt with a dull thud.
While he writhed, I yanked the bayonet from my side and lunged.
Kill or be killed.
I’m not dying before I pay back the bastards who screwed me. Five deaths already—how much more do you want?
Moving on pure survival instinct, I drove the blade into his chest without a shred of hesitation. When I pulled it free, blood fountained out.
I ripped the rifle from the dying man’s hands, sprinted back to the trench, and fired into the rush of enemies.
I saw two, maybe three men drop—then my ammo ran dry.
A Lee–Enfield uses different rounds than a Gewehr 98. That rifle was done for me.
I scanned for anything usable—and there it was: an MP 18 submachine gun.
Spare magazines were scattered nearby, as if waiting for me.
I grabbed it and hosed down the British who’d gotten close to the wire.
Two men trying to pry the barbed strands apart turned into rags, and a middle-aged soldier pitching a grenade crumpled with it still in his hand and blew to pieces.
But there were more of them than I’d expected, and in the end a few made it into the trench.
I fired point-blank into the back of a man who’d jumped down—his head burst like a watermelon, and blood and brains splashed my face.
I wiped my cheek with a sleeve and swapped mags—when something plopped in front of me. A grenade.
On reflex my eyes snapped to the body I’d just shot. No time to think. I grabbed the corpse and heaved it onto the grenade.
It went off the instant his body covered it.
A hammer slammed my skull, and the world went black.
No sound at all in that darkness.
Only silence.
***
“Oh, you’re alive.”
“Can you hear me?”
When I opened my eyes, I was stretched out on a cot.
Realizing I’d survived made me absurdly happy. After five deaths, dying itself didn’t scare me that much anymore.
It was what came after that I feared.
We’d won the battle. According to the army doctor, they’d almost tossed me in a pit with the others, but my body was warm “for a corpse,” so they checked—and I was breathing. They brought me here.
“You’re a lucky one. You were a hair’s breadth from being buried alive.”
“I—really?”
Buried alive, huh. I’d almost died the same way again.
Sitting up, pain stabbed my chest, and a rope-tight headache throbbed behind my eyes.
The doctor said small fragments were embedded in my chest, and the blast had rattled my head. They’d removed the fragments; nothing major with the skull. Rest and I’d be fine.
“Anyway—you put on quite a show.”
“?”
“Two tanks, by yourself. Then you mowed down the ones charging the trench. Witnesses say you took on dozens alone. They’re all saying we’d have lost if not for you.”
“R—really?”
“Really. By your merits alone you’re Iron Cross material at minimum. Ah—your name. Corporal, what do they call you?”
“Adolf Hitler.”
“Adolf Hitler. I’ll report to your unit.”
A few days later, I was transferred with other wounded to a military hospital in Aachen.
It was a clear step up from a forward aid post.
Proper beds, more nurses than orderlies, and no random bursts of shellfire shaking the walls.
Best of all—the food. Hospital meals beat the front by a mile.
There was still turnip at every meal—couldn’t be helped—but unlike the front’s three-turnips-a-day, here we got bread and potatoes, and sometimes even meat.
Rare as rain in a drought, but hey—seeing meat at all was something.
Today, meat at last, and the whole ward cheered. Grilled sausage, shredded cabbage, boiled kidney beans.
The sausage stank a bit and was tough, but no one complained.
In times like these, just having meat was a blessing.
I sliced it thin and took my time enjoying it. The new patient in the next bed, who’d come in yesterday, lay back saying his stomach was off—and left half his precious sausage untouched.
“Want the rest? No appetite.”
“Huh? Are you sure? I feel bad taking it…”
“It’s better than throwing it out.”
To hand over something this precious so easily—either the guy had a big heart or his gut really was acting up.
Feeling guilty, I struck up a conversation.
“Thanks for the sausage. What’s your name? I ought to know the benefactor who gave me something this rare. I’m Adolf Hitler, by the way.”
“Remarque. Erich Paul Remarque.”
I nearly spat out the bite in my mouth.
Remarque?
That Remarque?
The one who’d write All Quiet on the Western Front, Arch of Triumph, A Time to Love and a Time to Die—who’d defy the Nazis and flee abroad?
I was so shocked I could barely speak.
Holy hell—the legendary writer himself, right in front of me.
Come to think of it, Remarque had been wounded on the Western Front and evacuated to the rear.
Who would’ve guessed that a future dictator and the novelist who’d oppose him and go into exile would end up in the same hospital ward? The world’s a strange place.
“Uh, is something wrong?”
He looked puzzled when I went quiet.
“No, nothing. Your name just sounded like someone I know.”
He wouldn’t become truly famous until 1929, eleven years after the war ended, so it made no sense for me to recognize him now.
It was a clumsy lie, but he accepted it without question.
“I see. Were you close with this person?”
“Uh—somewhat. A drinking buddy’s drinking buddy, you could say. His dream was to be a novelist. Wonder what he’s doing now.”
“Really?”
His face lit up in a way I didn’t expect.
“What a coincidence. My dream is to be a novelist too.”
“That so?”
On impulse, I pressed a little.
“Then, mind if I ask—what do you want to write about?”
“I haven’t decided for sure, but someday I want to write about war. About this war we’re living through.”
“I thought so. I get the feeling you’ve got a novelist’s temperament. You look the part. If you become famous, remember my name.”
“Thank you for the compliment. And you, Mr. Hitler—what will you do after the war?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve been focused on surviving the war. Haven’t thought much beyond that.”
I did have plans—but no need to say them now.
“I see.”
We chatted a lot after that. What we’d done before the war; what we’d seen during it.
The next day, Remarque went in for surgery, and someone else took his bed.
On rounds, I asked the doctor where Remarque had gone and why there was a new man. He’d been moved to another ward for treatment.
So I lay there, chewing over that unlikely meeting, and passed the time like before.
Then…
“Which one of you is Adolf Hitler?”
During the morning rounds, two officers in dress uniforms appeared instead of the doctor. What the hell?
“I’m Adolf Hitler…”
They snapped their heads toward me and strode over, faces close.
“You’re Adolf Hitler?”
“Yes.”
“List Regiment, Bavarian Army?”
“Yes.”
“Rank?”
“Corporal.”
“Good.”
They were here for me.
“Congratulations, Corporal Hitler. Your exploits made the papers. Did you know?”
“The papers?”
I made the papers?
“Seems you didn’t. Can you walk?”
“I can. Running’s a bit much.”
“Standing is all you’ll need.”
“Get ready now. Is your uniform presentable? If not, we’ll provide one.”
“May I ask what this is about? I honestly don’t—”
“Field Marshal Hindenburg is on his way. He’ll be presenting your medal personally.”
“Hindenburg?!”
The whole ward erupted.
Nurses peeking from the hall and other patients jolted like they’d been shocked the moment they heard the name.
Paul von Hindenburg.
The giant of modern German history who’d crushed the Russians in WWI and later become president, playing a colossal role in Hitler and the Nazis’ rise.
He wasn’t president yet—war was still on—but thanks to his many victories on the Eastern Front, there wasn’t a soul in Germany who didn’t know the name Hindenburg.
His popularity then? His birthday, October 2, was a public holiday.
And I was going to meet him?
Is this for real?
***
By the time Hindenburg reached the hospital, a sea of people clogged the front gate waiting for him.
What a phenomenon. Seeing the crowd gathered just for him, Hindenburg allowed himself a small smile.
He’d seen this dozens of times, but never found the throngs annoying. If anything proved his popularity, this was it.
“It’s really Hindenburg!”
“General!”
“Excellency! Excellency!”
He waved to the cheering crowd and went straight inside.
He’d come to this little hospital to encourage the wounded and award medals. There were dozens of press photographers alone.
“What’s your name, young man?”
“A-Anton, sir, Your Excellency.”
“And that scar on your forehead—how did you get it?”
“Fighting the French, sir…”
“I see. Wear it proudly—that scar is proof of your courage.”
The old field marshal moved from bed to bed, shaking hands with the wounded, asking their names, ages, hometowns, how they were injured.
Reporters switched their gaze between him and their notebooks, scribbling hard; photographers worked their shutters without pause.
After touring every ward, Hindenburg headed to the top floor for the climax of the day: the awards ceremony.
The recipients stood at attention, waiting before he arrived.
“My, my. This old man’s gone and inconvenienced our gallant heroes.”
“No, sir!!!”
Even a light joke landed heavy with these men. Chuckling, he went down the line, shaking each hand and pinning each medal.
“Lieutenant Franz Böhmer—by leading his platoon and ably covering a successful withdrawal—awarded a medal.”
“Captain Dawid Zyskowski—for devoted service as a medical officer, treating the wounded…”
“Captain Herbert Halberstein—…therefore awarded a medal.”
Each recipient saluted and answered the marshal’s questions in a booming voice.
At last, my turn.
“Corporal Adolf Hitler—for destroying two enemy tanks in battle against the British, and for killing numerous enemy infantry, thereby breaking the enemy’s offensive spirit and contributing significantly to our victory—I hereby award this medal.”
Hindenburg’s hand—big as a pot lid—paused for a beat when he heard “Corporal” as he reached for the last Iron Cross First Class.
I was the only enlisted man among the recipients.
“Remarkable. Only a corporal, and you took out two tanks. A very brave soldier.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency!”
He hung the medal around my neck and asked the usual question.
“Adolf Hitler, was it? Where are you from?”
“Bu—no, from Braunau am Inn.”
His hearing dulled by age, Hindenburg missed the “Bu—” but caught the rest well enough.
“Braunau? Then you’re Czech?”
Austria’s Braunau am Inn, where Hitler was born, and the Czech town of Braunau sounded similar enough to confuse many.
“No, sir. Austrian.”
“Is that so? My mistake. And yet here an Austrian serves in the German army. Strange times.
Well, no matter. What matters more than birthplace is the courage to fight the enemy on the battlefield. Isn’t that right?”
“Right.”
“Good—stout-hearted. Reminds me of my younger days. If only Germany had more young men like you. Don’t you agree?”
“I’d say Germany needs you more than it needs me, sir.”
At that, a smile crept over Hindenburg’s face before he knew it.
He’d thought I was simply brave—but I had a way with words. The more he saw, the more he liked me.
“This one speaks well, too. What was your name again?”
“Adolf Hitler.”
“Hitler—Hitler. I’ll remember it.”