Germany in 1919 was a fucking mess, like South Korea right after liberation but with reparations piled on top of losing the war.
Communists, whipped up by the Russian Revolution, were running around trying to turn Germany into another red state. Demobilized soldiers with no jobs formed their own paramilitary gangs—the Freikorps, the Steel Helmets—blasting away at reds in street battles.
Literal five minutes to doomsday.
With the country in chaos, the army obviously had plenty of work.
"Sergeant, wake your men."
"What is it this time?"
"Reds are rioting downtown."
"That happens every damn week. Isn’t that the police’s job?"
"This time even the cops can’t handle it. They asked us for backup. We roll in ten minutes, so move it."
So off we went again, bashing commies whenever they flared up.
Even on leave, I had nowhere to go and no money, so most days were just me stretched out on a garrison cot, half-asleep.
Until finally that day came.
"Sergeant, I’ve got something for you."
A major who said he was from Army Intelligence Operations handed me a “special mission.”
"You’ve seen all the new parties popping up lately, especially the communists."
"Yes, sir."
"Then I need you to check out one group in particular. Ever heard of the Deutsche Arbeiter Partei, the DAP?"
Of course I had.
Before Hitler joined, it was a nobody’s party. Later it became the Nazi Party, infamous for starting WWII and the Holocaust.
***
"Intel says they’re too small to matter, but you never know. Lenin and his reds also started as a handful of nobodies. Your mission: figure out what this group is, and what they’re plotting."
He dressed it up like a big deal, but the major was missing one crucial detail—without Hitler, the DAP would’ve stayed a joke forever.
And I had been waiting for this moment for years.
Trying not to grin like an idiot was the hardest part.
I headed straight for the warehouse where the DAP supposedly met. Like every broke party in the Weimar Republic, they couldn’t afford much and rented a decrepit warehouse for their “meetings.”
Calling them meetings was generous—it was mostly beer, bitching about the government, and more beer.
The place had been refitted like a pub, so ordinary townsfolk could come in for a drink.
I ordered a beer, found a seat in the back, and scanned the room. A familiar face popped up.
"...so we must use the current crisis wisely. That’s how we grab attention, and from there, real politics!"
There, in the middle, lecturing away with glasses on his nose—Anton Drexler, current head of the DAP.
My second time seeing him. The last loop we’d crossed paths once before.
"These so-called leaders do nothing! They can’t stop inflation, they let the reds run wild. They’re all in bed with communists!"
"That’s right!"
"Exactly!"
By the time I was finishing my beer, a man stood up and launched into a fiery speech.
Professor Baumann, was it? My memory was fuzzy—it had been decades.
"We can’t entrust our fate to this rotten government! If Munich is not to become another Bolshevik den, we must wake up now!"
"That’s right!"
"Therefore, Bavaria must be independent! If we don’t break free of this incompetent regime, we’ll keep suffering! Am I wrong, comrades?!"
Clack.
I drained the last of my beer, slammed the mug down, and stood up. Every head turned my way.
"We are all Germans!"
"?"
"Who the hell are you?"
They gawked at the random stranger barging in. I didn’t care. I locked eyes on Baumann and tore into his nonsense.
"Bavaria should be independent? Are you insane? We barely hold together as it is, and you want to split off? You should be ashamed! How the hell will Germany stand tall if every province goes its own way? Think for once in your life!"
"W-what the—"
"Germany is in crisis! The unemployed flood the streets, reds march unchecked. If Bavaria secedes, why would anyone else stay? Every region would bolt, and Germany would vanish from the map!
The issue isn’t Bavarian independence—it’s unity! How do we bring Germans together again, across class, creed, and birthplace? That’s the question that matters!"
Baumann wiped cold sweat and slunk away.
But the others stayed, staring at me like I’d cast a spell.
Drexler and his comrades.
The guy crunching pretzels over beer. Even the waiter taking orders.
All eyes on me.
After years of biting my tongue, I finally had my stage. My chest thumped with excitement.
"Some of you fought like I did. If you’ve been in the army, you know how vital unity is.
And now you talk independence? That’s exactly what our enemies dream of! If you argue it knowingly, you’re traitors. If you argue it ignorantly, you’re fools!
Are you satisfied with Germany today? Of course not. If we want Germany to regain her former glory, we must stick together. Don’t prattle about secession—unite, damn it!
There’s only one truth you must remember: we are all Germans. Never forget that. That’s all I have to say."
I grabbed my coat and turned to leave.
"Wait!"
As expected.
Drexler stopped me.
"Sir, what’s your name?"
"Adolf Hitler."
Drexler looked like a man who’d just found a wad of cash in a garbage heap.
"You’ve got a gift for words! Better than most politicians I’ve heard. Did someone teach you?"
"I learned on my own. No teacher."
And it was true—Hitler built his own style by pure trial and error, and it became legendary.
"Ha! To have this talent self-taught—remarkable! You have a natural gift for oratory!"
"Thanks."
He pulled a slim booklet from his coat and handed it over.
"This is our party pamphlet. Give it a read. If you’re serious about politics, come join us. We welcome men like you."
***
When Hitler first got Drexler’s offer, he reportedly sneered.
In his diary he wrote something like: “A bunch of nobodies with a budget smaller than a child’s allowance had the gall to invite me.” That’s how little he thought of them.
And no wonder. The DAP was broke, depending entirely on its members’ pocket change. Politically irrelevant.
If Hitler had stayed in the army, history would look very different. But he changed his mind, left the service, and joined the DAP. The rest we know.
What drove the real Hitler to sign up, we can’t know. But me? I already had my reasons.
"You’re serious about this?"
"I can’t explain in detail, but I’ve got something I need to do."
"Huh... well, it’s your choice. I’ve no right to stop you. Just take care of yourself."
"Thank you, sir. For everything."
My discharge went through instantly.
So Sergeant Hitlerbecame civilian Hitler—and I headed straight for Drexler.
He greeted me with a grin that could split his face.
"I knew it! I knew you’d come!"
I joined the DAP.
Membership number 555. Meaning I was the fifty-fifth member.
***
As a full member, I did exactly what history’s Hitler had done first—change the party’s name.
"Change the name?"
"Yeah. The current one has no impact. A name needs to stick in people’s minds, and this one doesn’t. We need something sharper, stronger."
Drexler frowned. He’d coined the original himself—no surprise he bristled.
But even he knew the current name wasn’t drawing crowds. So he didn’t fight me.
"All right. But what should we call it? I’ve got nothing."
"Don’t worry. I’ve thought of one."
"And?"
"National Socialist German Workers’ Party—National-Sozialistische Deutsche Arbeiter Partei. NSDAP."