After meeting Hindenburg, people started treating me differently.
I was a war hero who’d made the papers and received a medal straight from the famous Hindenburg himself; everyone at the hospital gave me the special treatment.
Orderlies and nurses—hell, even the army doctors.
The power of a medal was no joke.
In the original history, Hitler did receive the Iron Cross First Class, but as far as I know he didn’t meet Hindenburg. He didn’t make the papers, either.
So compared to that Hitler, my track has already diverged a little.
I’d almost died, sure—but as starts go, this wasn’t bad.
Just having met Hindenburg and gotten the medal from his hand would be a huge bonus.
Even in real history, Hitler milked that First Class Iron Cross from his WWI service for all it was worth.
Unlike most politicians who’d spent the war safe in the rear, he’d slogged at the front, and he leveraged that combat record relentlessly for publicity, leaving a good impression on the public.
And if you can say you got your medal from Hindenburg himself? Game over.
There was still a long road ahead, but things seemed to be falling into place.
***
Once I’d fully recovered, I didn’t go straight back to my unit—I was sent to a replacement battalion.
Apparently, regulation was wounded men rotated through the replacement battalion before returning to their parent units.
There I was promoted from corporal to sergeant. My record at the front and the Iron Cross First Class clearly tipped the scales.
From a lowly corporal to a sergeant overnight—my new job was training fresh recruits.
Took me right back to basic.
Back then, the idea of eating and sleeping in that place for a full month had felt like a punch in the gut.
The difference now was that I was the one doing the teaching.
“Eyes on me.”
“Eyes front!”
“Listen up. On the battlefield, speed and awareness are everything. The faster you run and move, the lower your chances of getting shot; the quicker your read, the better your odds of living.”
“Gas is heavier than air and settles low. If you’re in a pit or a trench during a gas attack, do not rip off your mask just because you think enough time’s passed. Get up above ground level, then remove it. A single meter can decide life or death.”
“When you throw a grenade, pull the damn pin first. Don’t be an idiot and just lob it.”
Boys who looked more suited to pencils and copybooks than uniforms listened like their lives depended on it.
The trouble with new conscripts these days was that they were either too young—or too old.
Kids who should’ve been in school and men who should’ve been in mines were marching around a drill field in uniforms. Because of this damned war.
Germany was wringing out every last man, and the situation was still bleak.
We were falling back again and again before the Allies, and rations kept tightening.
“What’s for dinner?”
“What do you think. Boiled turnips and sauerkraut.”
“Fuck, again? That’s what we had for breakfast.”
“And last night.”
“Hang on. When we win, we’ll be slicing steak in Paris.”
“Yeah, once this war ends, we can say goodbye to this ersatz crap forever.”
Even so, people still couldn’t let go of hope for victory.
All because of the recent armistice with Russia.
The Romanovs, who’d seemed eternal, got swept away by revolution; the Communists who seized power signed an armistice with Germany.
In return, the newborn Russian Soviet Republic ceded a vast swath of land—Baltic states, Poland, Belarus, Ukraine—and the whole country went wild over our great victories on the Eastern Front.
“Extra! Extra! Russia signs an armistice!”
“Finally!”
“Now it’s just the Brits and the Frogs!”
“Ha! Victory! Long live Germany!”
Morale, which had been sagging, shot back up through the roof.
The public dared to hope again, and the government flogged that hope for all it was worth, trying to sell the idea that victory was just around the corner.
People on the street, recruits, even nurses—they all believed Germany would win soon.
If revolution toppled Russia, then surely France and Britain were next.
From where I stood—someone who knew the future—it was laughable.
***
October 24, 1918
“So this is the only way left.”
“In the current situation, there’s no alternative, Excellency.”
Chief of the Naval Staff Reinhard Scheer and High Seas Fleet commander Franz von Hipper prepared their final operation.
Even if Germany had knocked Russia out, our defeat was all but certain.
We were down to the dregs of manhood; food and ammunition were scraping bottom.
The Allies, by contrast, had America as their sugar daddy—ammo and food in obscene quantities, and troops outnumbering Germany several times over.
With victory off the table, the only hope of a better armistice was to land one last heavy blow.
The navy drew up a plan to throw everything we had at the English Channel, strike the British homeland and the Belgian coast, then force a decisive battle with the Royal Navy off the Dutch coast.
Anyone could see it—a suicide run with slim odds of success.
“Punch through the Channel, steam up the Thames, strike Britain itself? Are you kidding me?”
“Fuck that—just tell us to die.”
“Why do we have to do this insane thing? I’m not doing it.”
When the fool plan leaked, the sailors were aghast. And furious.
Years of war, shrinking rations, ever-harsher government repression, and endless barking from the brass—resentment piled up until it finally blew.
November 3
“Sir! Sir!”
“It’s bad!”
“What’s this racket about?”
“The sailors have mutinied!”
In the port city of Kiel, sailors rose up.
“We don’t want to die!”
“We’re sick of war! Stop the war!”
They overpowered their officers and seized the harbor, then flooded into the city. Citizens who, like the sailors, had had it up to here with the government and the military joined them, and the situation spiraled out of control.
“Stop the war!”
“Incompetent government—resign!”
“The Kaiser must answer! Bring back my dead son!”
The spark in Kiel leapt across Germany.
Crowds poured out of homes and workplaces, filling the streets, demanding the warmongers take responsibility and step down.
“Your Majesty, the people’s anger has reached its peak. We cannot suppress it any longer.”
“Parliament has just proclaimed a republic.”
“At this rate, civil war may break out.”
“Your Majesty, it violates my duty as a subject, but…”
“…”
Pounded by bad news like a breached dam, the Kaiser lost what little resolve he had left and chose to step down.
On November 9, Kaiser Wilhelm II went into exile in the Netherlands. Germany shifted from empire to republic.
And two days later—
Germany surrendered, and the First World War ended.
***
Defeated, Germany had to pull troops out of all occupied territory—and even dismantle parts of its own forces.
The Treaty of Versailles would limit not just armaments but the size of the army itself, forcing even prewar professionals out.
Teenage and middle-aged conscripts went home, yes—but so did the replacement battalion’s battalion commander, the company commander, the first sergeant—men who’d been soldiers before the war.
But not me.
Unlike those forced out, I was given a choice.
“Sergeant Adolf Hitler, reporting as ordered.”
“Good. Have a seat.”
In the conference room, three men sat behind a long table.
One was a colonel; the other two, a sergeant major and a first sergeant—no doubt men the higher-ups had deemed competent enough to keep.
“You know why you’ve been called.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re giving you a choice. You’re qualified to remain in the army. If you prefer, you can leave. No one will force you either way—do as you wish.”
Because of the medal hanging at my throat, I—unlike others—could stay purely by my own will, or walk away. Without that medal, I’d already be a civilian.
“You can go out and find whatever work you want. Or you can stay. But given the state of the country, we can’t pay what we used to. Not for a while, likely. Keep that in mind.”
“Sergeant, what will it be? Answer frankly.”
“I…”
I’d decided before I even got the summons.
“I’d like to remain in the army.”
For my longer-term plans, I’d leave someday—but not yet.
Until that day came, I wouldn’t have to worry about a bed or meals.
At least for now.
“Very well. Understood.”
“You’re dismissed, Sergeant Hitler.”
And that’s how I stayed on in uniform—as Sergeant Adolf Hitler.