Alternate History Der Kampf: Adolf Hitler, The Austrian Fuhrer

[Marcus Aurelius]

August 1914
Munich, Bavaria
German Empire


"Your request is denied."

He stood there, dumbstruck, as the seated lieutenant looked up from his official papers and shrugged.

"Denied?" he muttered angrily, tiredly. "How, why?"

The Bavarian Army leutnant leaned forward, fingers crossed with a disappointed look on his face.

"Mein herr, you were denied enlistment into the Bavarian Army for two reasons. One is your health. You are as thin and pale as a ghost, good sir, and I doubt you could carry an infantryman's kit into the field without collapsing either from the weight or heart attack. On health grounds alone you would be disqualified from service."

The Bavarian enlistment officer snorted, either clearing his nose or in contempt.

"The second reason is that you are Austrian, sir. The Austro-Hungarian Empire is an ally of Germany and therefore you, a citizen of said nation, cannot join the armed forces of the German Empire."

"I will not join an army of mongrel races. I want to join the brave men of Germany!" An idea struck him, "I will write a petition! I will… I will go to another recruitment center in Germany. Bavaria may have denied me, but the Fatherland is hungry for soldiers! Surely one will allow me to enlist. Surely one will take me in." Desperation seized him as he stood before the seated officer. A manic look befell the sickly man from Austria, causing his dark blue eyes to dart about the room, as if searching for an answer that refused to reveal itself.

The Bavarian officer leaned back into his chair, a scowl upon his face. Behind the sickly disheveled man stood dozens of other men, far more healthy in appearance and more controlled in manner, awaiting to enlist and fight for King and Kaiser. They shuffled impatiently and many stared daggers at the dark haired Austrian who was delaying their patriotic duty.

"Sir, you attempted to enlist in the Bavarian Army six months ago. You were denied then, just as you are denied now. Nothing has changed."

The dejected man slammed his hands down on the wooden table separating the two men. "Everything has changed! The world is at war! Soon enough the armies of empires will march across Europe, Africa and Asia. Nations will fall whilst others rise, and glory and honor will be for those who dared to fight in this war, it being the greatest endeavor Mankind has ever faced. We are brothers, you and I. German, Austrian, two sides of the same coin. Our language is the same, our love for Germany is the same. Don't let pedantics of birth and nationality dilute the German blood that flows through my veins. I may be an Austrian by birth but I am a German by blood. I deserve a chance to fight for the Vaterland and for its people. It is my right. "

The officer raised an eyebrow, minutely impressed with the passionate fervor of the man before him… but orders were orders, the rules and regulations in place must be followed. Not even an impassioned Austrian could bend the rules.

"I'm sorry, but the answer is the same. You are denied entry into the Bavarian Army and will continue to be denied based on your poor health and foreign citizenship. Neither the Bavarian Army nor the German Army will accept you into its ranks. I, as military representative of His Majesty Ludwig III of the Kingdom of Bavaria and Kaiser Wilhelm II of the German Empire, bid you farewell."

The Austrian slumped, his soul sapped of its energetic will. He turned and walked out of the recruitment office, eyes downcast at the concrete floor, unable to even look at those men who would go on to fight for Germany.

Germany, the Fatherland he never had. A nation of Germans for Germans, a place he could call home and a country he had come to love in his months of living in Munich. He had hoped that with the outbreak of war the requirements for enlistment would have lowered. But he was wrong, and now he was defeated. What was he to do? He had only a couple of Goldmarks in his pocket, the remnants of his family inheritance, his clothes were worn thin, rough, and patchwork. He had not showered in days and his stomach rumbled from hunger, a minor pain wracking his abdomen.

Grimacing, he turned to walk… somewhere. He didn't know where to go anymore.

"Hey, you!" called a voice from behind, coming from the recruitment center. The Austrian turned, excited, thinking that at last the officer had come to his senses. But instead of the portly mustachioed officer, a man about his age with dark hair and eyes approached him, a friendly smile on his face.

He noticed the gentleman's expensive clothes and top hat, and the way he walked, assured as if nothing would ever deny him or be out of reach. The Austrian could almost smell the wealth coming off of the man. While he detested the wealthy elite, many of whom were Jews, he nonetheless smiled and tried to present a friendly face. It was after all what he did to help sell his art down in the Kunstareal.

"Hello," said the rich man as he neared, holding out his hand. "I must say I loved your speech back there. Really fired up the flames of patriotism in myself! Well done, well done indeed!"

"Oh, umm, thank you. Much obliged, herr-"

"Walter Schulz at your service!" The man took off his hat and gave a small bow while smiling.

Good God, he is like the theatre in the flesh, he thought sardonically.

"Herr Schulz. Thank you for your kind words. They have lifted my spirits somewhat."

"It's a damn shame you weren't admitted. We could use you in the Army. Like you said, you might be an Austrian by birth but you're a German by blood. And it'll be that same noble blood that sees our two countries emerge victorious in the months ahead."

"Thank you, that means a great deal to me," he said, truly touched by the man's comments. A brief silence existed between them, the nearly-penniless Austrian not knowing what to say and the rich German having spoken his piece.

"Well I'm sure you're busy, Herr Schulz, and I must be off as well. I have… other matters to attend to."

Schulz's eyes flicked over his appearance and a look of pity flashed over the well-to-do German's face.

"I see, yes, of course, I'm sure you are quite busy." Schulz went for another handshake but with the opposite hand, it having emerged from his pocket. The Austrian shook it awkwardly, eager to end this odd meeting, and felt something in the man's palm slip into his. He looked at it and saw a fifty Goldmark banknote. His eyes widened and he stared up at the taller man.

"I-" his tongue felt stiff and dry so he swallowed. "I don't know what to say other than thank you." The relief and honesty in those words poured forth with conviction.

"That's more than enough for me. While you may not be able to fight for Germany directly, perhaps you could do so in another way by joining your nation's army. Our countries share the same enemies after all. You would still be fighting for Germany, if indirectly. I overheard your comment about fighting beside mongrels races, but better to fight beside the Slav and Magyar then to not fight at all, eh?"

The Austrian nodded, realizing the truth of the words.

"Use that," Schulz gestured towards the banknote, "to eat a hot meal, stay in a comfortable hotel tonight, and take a first-class ticket to Vienna."

A tear formed in the Austrian's eye that he was quick to blink away. "Thank you so much, this… this has saved me."

Schulz nodded, understanding. As the German turned away, bidding farewell with a wave, he stopped mid-turn.

"I apologize, mein freund. I never asked your name."

"Ah, the fault is mine, I forgot to give it. My mind is a whirlwind of emotion."

Schulz laughed. "I'm sure it is. So what is your name?"

The destitute, dejected, recently elevated from impoverished by the fifty mark banknote painter from Austria scratched his cheek and locked his blue eyes with Schulz's hazel.

"My name is Adolf Hitler, pleased to make your acquaintance."

 

[PsihoKekec]

Well, presumably he can do less damage as Austrian Führer than he did as German Führer.

 

[Buba]

fifty mark

That's two and a half Pounds or 12 USD, if you wondered ...

 

[Marcus Aurelius]

September 1914
Carpathian Mountains
Austro-Hungarian Empire​

It was to be, Hitler concluded privately in his tent, a time of reflection. It had been over a month since the charitable Schulz had provided the means for him to return to his homeland and join its ranks. He had spent the days traveling from Munich to Linz, having decided to try his luck there rather than Vienna, sleeping well and eating better. He had put on some weight and a healthy color to him, as well as a vigor obvious to all. It had helped land him in his current state.

While he had been previously disqualified from conscription due to his health, he was not denied a second time like he was in Munich. This time the Austro-Hungarian Army welcomed its newest volunteer and slotted him into the Landwehr, the German-speaking Territorial Army of Cisleithania. Thus Hitler became a private in the 87th Landwehr Infantry Brigade, 21st Regiment (Sankt Pölten).

Training had been quick, mostly learning how to march, salute, aim and fire a gun as well as clean it, and there Hitler had gained more strength, eating the plentiful albeit bland food the Army provided. As his health improved it had come to match his hawkish persona, his patriotic drive now being able to be pursued in full force. Austria may not be Germany, but it was home. Perhaps he would view it as his Fatherland, in time.

But not only was it a time of reflection on his improving health and the pride he displayed wearing the pike grey uniform of the Landwehr, but also a reflection on Austro-Hungary thus far in what some were labeling the Great War. Unlike his own pathway through life the past month, the path the Dual Monarchy of the Hapsburgs underwent was much less savory. Disastrous, truth be told.

Many had predicted a short victorious war, one in which the Austro-Hungarians would stall the Russians in the east while simultaneously quelling the unruly South Slavs. Those predictions turned to ashen hopes as several defeats against the Russians in Galicia threw the Empire on its heels.

Only the quick thinking of the German Army and the bravery of the Austrian soldier staved off an irrecoverable blow long enough for the front lines to stabilize along the Carpathian Mountains. But already so much had been lost. Eastern Galicia and Northern Bukovina were now in Russian hands, Premissel was surrounded and besieged, and casualties for Austro-Hungary numbered in the hundreds of thousands. The "short victorious war" had nearly been the undoing of the Empire in the first six weeks of hostilities.
The Battle of Tannenberg in East Prussia may have destroyed an entire Russian army, but the Battle of Lemberg hemorrhaged the Austro-Hungarian Army of its trained officer corps and veteran soldiers. It was on this front that the 87th Infantry Brigade was deployed alongside a dozen other brigades to help replenish the greatly depleted forces under the command of Field Marshal Conrad von Hötzendorf.

Attached to the Third Army under the Croat Baron Boroëvić von Bojna, the 21st Landwehr Infantry Regiment settled in alongside the other regiments of the 87th, digging tertiary trenches some distance from the frontline, showcasing High Command's lack of faith in holding the current positions, and readying itself for the inevitable Russian assaults that were sure to come.

Hitler sat in his tent, his squadmates snoring beside him on their pallets, looking out through its opening as it rained. Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning crackled across the sky. While some in the camp complained about the weather, or whispered it was God's anger at the succession of military defeats, Hitler felt peace. He wondered if the Vikings of old had felt this calm during a storm. The thunder was the sound of Thor beating his anvil, tempering a new weapon, the lightning the sparks from his strike. The weapon was the vengeance of the Austrian people, ready to make right the wrongs that had so recently transpired.

It would be in the next few days, he thought, before battle was joined. Where Austrian might would face off against Russian savage and avenge the disastrous month that preceded it.

Clutching his M1895, he stared out into the storm and it stared back.

+ + +​

Days later, the 87th Brigade marched in full strength to the front, with Hitler marching alongside his comrades in the 21st Regiment. They marched from the rear echelons towards the rapidly expanding primary and secondary trench network that was quickly becoming a hallmark on the Carpathian Front, and in truth was becoming a staple of the war as a whole. News of the German defeat at the Battle of the Marne was sweeping through the ranks, as were reports of vast entrenchments by both sides beginning to form in northern France.

Not even the news that the Germans had secured a significant amount of French industry, thereby affecting the French war effort, could alleviate the mood setting into the Austro-Hungarian Army. The men of the 21st marched proudly into the trenchworks, passing by trench lines far more extensive and formidable than the ones they had dug several kilometres away just a few days before. The trenches were bolstered with countless foxholes bristling with machineguns, mortars, while dedicated artillery positions were frequent alongside the supply depots needed to feed such an army, both the men and the weapons they fielded. They passed columns of men heading to the rear, tired and dirty. They were not far in the trenchworks when the cat calls came, largely from the withdrawing soldiers.

"Look at these clean boys, so young and eager," laughed an Austrian whose dirty appearance and ragged look contrasted sharply with the 21st. Mud and dried blood caked his uniform. His comrades laughed, hollow and almost desperate.

Two other men, Hungarians, leaned on their rifles, sneering and spoke German in thick accents. "Did you lose your mommies? You all look like you are barely old enough to shave and… is that milk I see dropping from your mouth?!" they pointed and derided a young trooper, aged eighteen whose pale complexion darkened with fury.

Before the situation could deteriorate, an officer approached. He was dirty as well, but he did not let it bring him down like it did the common man. He seemed to excel, standing erect and walking with lethal confidence.

He walked over to the two Hungarians, spoke to them in their godawful language. The two men were humbled and withdrew, but the officer was not done yet. He turned, saw the Austrians continuing to jeer the newcomers and promptly marched and berated them in German.

"You fools, these are our comrades. They may be new to this, but they'll learn soon enough. Cease your derision and keep marching."

The Austrian trooper nodded before joining his fellows as they continued marching away. The officer turned to the 21st. "My name is Major Wilhelm Boehler. Welcome to hell."

+ + +​

Major Boehler directed our regimental commander, Major Olbrecht, to the section of the trenches we were to man while the rest of the 87th plugged in the gaps elsewhere along the frontline. The soldiers they replaced were of the Common Army, the largest land force in the Empire and as ethnically varied as the Empire itself. Austrian soldiers took orders from Slavic commanders whilst fighting beside Hungarians. It was supposed to show the unity of the Empire, instead it showed an army that fielded most of Austro-Hungary's manpower yet was not as well equipped when compared to the Austrian Landwehr or Hungarian Honvéd.

This was the mixing of races that Hitler abhorred, though he privately admired the brotherhood he saw on display. A man with a bandaged face was led by a comrade, while three men walked side by side speaking a mix-mash of German, Hungarian and… Slovenian perhaps? It was obvious those they replaced were relieved that they had lived another day and would have some time behind the lines to sleep peacefully and bathe to be rid of lice and the odor of death and smoke that seemed to permeate everything here.

They walked into the trenches and were aghast at the state of it. Puddles of water turned the floor to liquid mud that sucked on the boots and filled them with cold dirty cold water. Rats were running to and fro, squeaking as they scuttled away. Carved into the sides of the trenches were little hovels to lay down but were obviously better suited for more of a hunch-like position than proper laying down, while every few hundred metres was a bunker, slabs of cement and wood plaster with opening towards the northeast where Russian lines resided, machinegun barrels poking out, ready to fire. This misery is what the 21st settled in, dismayed at their new lodgings.

It quickly became home.

Major Olbrecht scowled and after a quiet but likely furious discussion with Major Boehler he walked away, resigned.

"Settle in men! Clean the trenches to the best of your ability, firm up the mudwalls with wood so they don't collapse on us, and dig proper latrines. Ready yourselves, Ivan could attack at any time."

+ + +​

Olbrecht's words soon proved prophetic. Two days later the Russians attacked. It was late in the afternoon, hoping to catch the Austro-Hungarian positions unaware after a day of little more than infrequent potshots. Artillery thundered, hundreds of pieces unloading shells onto the Empire's lines.

Hitler was startled awake. He had dozed off in one of the wall hovels, his pencil and sheet of paper falling off of him into the trench floor, his failed attempts at facial realism being further ruined by the mud.

Looking at his squadmates, he tried to speak but the artillery was so loud and so all encompassing the only thing that came out was a terrified scream. A piercing wail approached, the men half-frozen in fear and uncertainty. The shell detonated on the rim of the trench wall, showering Hitler with mud. His squadmate, Hans Stückel, was not so lucky. A shard of metal was lodged in Stückel's throat and despite having his hands around it to stem the bleeding, blood was leaking through at an alarming rate.
"Adi…" Stückel coughed and died, his eyes staring up into the red-tinged sky.

Hitler threw up, noisily and messily. He and Stückel had been acquaintances at best, but the camaraderie that had been developing was now forever quashed. He slipped into his hovel and sat there staring at his comrade's corpse as the barrage continued.

For three hours Russian explosive steel fell from the sky, killing a few dozen and reshaping the landscape. Within moments after the beginning of the Russian barrage, the Austro-Hungarian artillery batteries replied in kind, with the deadly bombardment making only the soldier in the trench miserable, fear-ridden for his life, and eager for the rumbles of shell impacts and the piercing wail of their passing to stop.

With the three hours ending the sun began to set over the horizon, with it blaring from behind Austro-Hungarian lines. Yet this would not have been as advantageous as it would have been in flatter country. The trench the 21st Regiment occupied was in hilly country, not far from the Russian controlled pass in the Carpathians that they had seized in the initial offensives of the war. Therefore the Russians that came spilling forth from their own trench lines, whistles bleating sharply to rouse the men and instill discipline, would not have the sun in their eyes as they advanced up the hill to the Austria-held lines.

Major Olbrecht moved into the trench from the bunker he had waited out the bombardment, pistol in hand.

"Ready yourselves! Here they come!" He leaned down to Stückel, closed the dead man's eyes with his hands and then grabbed the deceased private's rifle. Holstering his pistol, the major took up the slot next to Hitler. Hundreds of Austrian men readied themselves, their rifles aimed at the encroaching Russians.

They came in their hundreds and then their thousands, an ever growing horde of khaki-clad Slavs.

"Hold, men! Hold!" Obrecht yelled, voice hoarse from the smoke and strained from the effort. He coughed. "Hold!"

Hitler aimed at the center mass of a Russian and waited, hand shaking, wavering his bead on the man.

"Hold!"

The Russians were around a hundred metres away now. Mortars were being fired from Austro-Hungarian lines, felling some and causing more to seek cover but the vast majority still advanced, yelling bravado as they suppressed their fear by charging forward.

"Fire!"

Hundreds of M1895s fired alongside a half-dozen machineguns. The Austrian firepower cut through the Russians like a scythe through wheat, blood spraying in the air, appearing as a pink mist, while the Mosin-Nagant hefting soldiers fell like dolls thrown by a disgruntled child.

Hitler fired and pulled back the straight bolt, the empty casing flying into the air. He slammed it forward, loading a new round into the chamber. He took aim and fired again.
On and on he fired his weapon, reloading when the last casing flew out. Again and again in what felt like eternity but eventually the Russians retreated, whistles heralding their withdrawal. They never advanced within fifty meters of the trench, the wall of lead having halted them in their tracks.

A Russian rose from the ground, limping as he ran away. Hitler raised his rifle but did not fire. There was no point. He lowered his rifle and took a deep breath, shaking.

"It isn't fear," Paul Lutjens said, his comrade who stood on the rampart beside him, looking out over at the field of death. His light brown hair was matted and darkened with sweat, face flushed red and marred by dirt. "My pa, he said that the shaking wasn't nerves or fear. It was adrenaline, or at least most of it is."

Hitler glanced at Lutjens before looking at the long cooled corpse of Hans Stückel.

"Shame," Lutjens said. "Hans has a girl back in Linz. She'll find out soon enough when his family does." Lutjens rubbed his brow of sweat. "Another one fallen for the Fatherland."

"For the Fatherland," Hitler mumbled before stumbling down onto the trench floor, relieved to have survived.

 

[PsihoKekec]

Would people really know about adrenaline back then? Common man would rather said something like ''shaking from excitement''.

Hitler is in for some real horror when Hotzendorf decides it's time for offensive.

 

[Marcus Aurelius]

Would people really know about adrenaline back then? Common man would rather said something like ''shaking from excitement''.

Hitler is in for some real horror when Hotzendorf decides it's time for offensive.

They would have known about adrenaline for around 18 years by then, so it wouldn't be impossible for Lutjens to know about it.

 

[Marcus Aurelius]

September 1914
Carpathian Front
Austro-Hungarian Empire

Lieutenant Horváth Tamás crawled through the cold mud, quietly, hearing only the sound of breathing, the rustle of grass being trampled, and a dozen men trying their best to sneak their way to Russian lines.

Overhead the moon was covered by thick clouds which had only helped them as they crossed No Man's Land. It would rain soon, he thought. Best to begin before that happened.

"Here," he muttered to his men, the words repeated softly to those at the back.

They were near the forward foxholes and preliminary trenches of the Russian lines, not the proper regiment-shredders further back that had repulsed several assaults already. They could hear chatter not far away, jovially spoken Russian whilst the smell of cigarette and campfire smoke drifted upon the wind.

Horváth looked at the men he led, a mix-mash of many of the nationalities in Austria-Hungary, a rare site to see in one unit.

"You know what to do."

Horváth pulled out a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and waited two seconds, sweat beading down his face despite the cool night air.

As the third second began he threw the grenade into the closest foxhole of Russians. The explosion drowned out the scream of the men inside, their foxhole turning into a slaughterhouse of ruined cloth, bent metal and shredded meat.

"Go!"

Horváth's men stormed the closest trench line, using their rifles butts and bayonets to silence the few half-ready men. Some shots were fired but in the close confines of the trench it was difficult to aim and fire properly.

A group of Russians spilled out from a bunker. Horváth fired his rifle and chambered a new round, firing again. The first missed, hitting the sandbag wall next to the opening but the second hit true, slamming into a Russian trooper's chest, throwing him back into his comrades who suddenly found a corpse slumped upon them.

An officer's cap was spotted amongst the confused and frightened Russians.

"There's one! Grab him!" bellowed the Bosnian Davud in thickly accented German, the common language amongst the Empire's Common Army. Ironic that Slavs and Magyars best way to communicate with one another was a language native to none of them.

The struggle continued, but eventually the Russians were overwhelmed. The officer was brought before Horváth. The Magyar officer looked at the Russian officer, noting his captain's pins.

"You'll do." Horváth grabbed the man's arm roughly but was surprised when the Russian shook free and glared at him.

The Russian stiffened. "I am Mikhail Stefannovich Petrovnik, son and heir to Baron Stefann Peterovich Petrovnik. As a noble and a gentleman you shall not handle me as if I were a child." Behind the officer, Horváth's men cut the throats of the two wounded Russian prisoners as an act of mercy, gurgling as they died. Both had belly wounds, one from a bullet, the other from a bayonet. A quick death was a Godsend to what they would have experienced.

Horváth cocked an eyebrow. "Your Hungarian isn't half bad for a foreign blueblood, but," he punched the Russian noble in the nose, knocking him back, blood and snot dripping down his nose, "I never much cared for aristocrats from my country and even less about those from my nation's enemies. So shut the fuck up and do as I say. Understand?"

The Russian's gray eyes were wide in shock that a Magyar commoner would dare lay a finger on him, the sounds of his soldiers dying behind him unnerved the man. The Common Army unit gathered up the Russian officer and several sheets of paper that were locked in a watertight briefcase. Horváth and his men left the Russian forward trench, leaving behind two of their own to join the dozen Ivans they had killed.

The whole engagement took less than five minutes. By the time Russian reinforcements arrived Horváth and his men were long gone.

When they returned to Austro-Hungarian lines, the Russian noble was handed to several officers of the Evidenzbureau who strong armed him to the rear lines where undoubtedly a car waited to take him to a more appropriate location for interrogation. The briefcase was also handed to the intelligence officers, who nodded their thanks and promptly left.

Lieutenant Horváth wearily walked towards the small forward bunker he and several other officers claimed as their own, greeting his fellows who were able to avoid being volunteered for the raid party, and collapsed in his cot, exhausted, still covered in mud and smelling of gunpowder.

 

[Buba]

Tamás Horváth

He is Hungarian, so the order would be reversed.
Horváth Tamás

Hungarian, Czech and Bosnian, a typical unit

No, that is NOT a typical unit. Recruitment was territorial. Some 2/3rds of Common Army regiments were monoglot. And very few were trilingual. And NONE had such a mix.

Horváth pulled out a grenade

This is IX.1914 - I'm fairly sure that grenades, if the KuK Armee has any at all, would be in the paws of engineer units, not PBI.

 

[Marcus Aurelius]

He is Hungarian, so the order would be reversed.
Horváth Tamás

No, that is NOT a typical unit. Recruitment was territorial. Some 2/3rds of Common Army regiments were monoglot. And very few were trilingual. And NONE had such a mix.

This is IX.1914 - I'm fairly sure that grenades, if the KuK Armee has any at all, would be in the paws of engineer units, not PBI.

I fixed most of these plot holes except for the grenade, it was mostly just a tool to create suspense, and I wrote like Horvath had never used one before, so he was probably given it to test it's effectiveness on the battlefield, and Grenades were already being used widely by 1915, so it wouldn't be totally implausible for the unit to have some grenades.

 

[Buba]

it wouldn't be totally implausible for the unit to have some grenades.

True. This particular KuK IR could be a guinea pig used for trials of a new grenade.

 

[Marcus Aurelius]

November 1914
Carpathian Front
Austro-Hungarian Empire

As the sun rose on the sixteenth of November, the penned up fury of an empire humiliated was unleashed. Hundreds of artillery cannons fired, as varied as the Austro-Hungarian soldiery that readied across the Carpathian Front. Austrians, Hungarians, Slovenes, Poles, Czechs, Slovaks, loyal Serbs, Croats, Italians and Ruthenians were all fighting for one cause, to preserve Austria-Hungary and fight for their homeland. For half the day, well into the sun rising and reaching its peak at noon though it was hard to tell with the thick snow-laden clouds prevalent over Galicia that day, the Austro-Hungarian Empire unloaded thousands of artillery shells into the Russian held lines, aimed at the forward trenches, the second trenches and at the bunkers spaced along the frontline. The Russians responded in kind, churning up No Man's Land even more with their own cannons and field guns, with less than half falling on the Hapsburg lines.

Screams cried out but were not heard by the falling rain of metal and the piercing wails that followed. Medics scrambled to find the wounded amidst the carnage, running alongside the trenchworks to better navigate as the trenches themselves were filled with mud, equipment and terrified men who threw themselves along the mud and wood plank walls, several half-cowering on hovels. The earth shook as dust filled the air, obstructing the view.

Shortly after noon the Austro-Hungarian barrage ended, the barrels hissing as the crews lathered them in water soaked towels to cool the metal before they warped from the heat. Moments later the Russians ceased firing as well and an eerie silence filled the air.

Hitler sat in an overcrowded bunker, counting himself relieved to have been in there and not outside, and breathed a sigh of relief that they had not been hit directly during the barrage. If their bunker had been hit then they all would have died, either from the shrapnel or the blast trauma, likely both. The bunker stank of sweat, unwashed bodies and piss.

"You ok, Adi?"

Hitler looked at Paul Lutjens and nodded, continuing to breath through his mouth so as to limit the sensory overload.

"I'm fine, Paul."

"Your hands."

Hitler looked at his hands, noticing they were shaking slightly. He grabbed the rifle laying between his legs to stop them from doing so.

"I'm fine." His friend looked at him with a sidelong glance but said nothing.

"Alright," Major Olbrecht said, standing up from near the door. "We have five minutes, move out."

The men shuffled out of the bunker, filling the trenches, sitting on the floor or on the ramparts, crouched to avoid a sniper's shot. Men stretched, packs and equipment donned back on, helmets buckled and secured. Some were drinking water to ease their nerves, others emptying their stomachs onto the trench floor.

Hitler, Lutjens, and the other Landwehr soldiers readied.

"Fix bayonets!" came the call, repeated and echoed through the trench. Hitler fastened it to the barrel, sliding and locking it in place. The dust was beginning to settle. He hoped it would rain to clean the air, but it would more than likely snow. Despite the freezing temperatures, the winter was showing the General Staff that the lower temperatures allowed the ground to harden and the mud to, thankfully, lessen. But firmer ground made the blueblood officers in their heated offices with their maps and papers to feel that mass infantry charges were effective.

For weeks, since the Germans defeat at the Battle of Vistula River, the Imperial General Staff had been planning an offensive to relieve Premissel which was surrounded by the Russians once more.

And now they began what they hoped to be a crippling offensive into the Russian flanks, focused as the Russians were on the Germans. The Slavs had thinned their lines of veteran divisions to bolster their front in Congress Poland facing Field Marshal von Hindenburg. With the Battle of Łódź holding the attention of both Germany and Russia on the Eastern Front, General von Hötzendorf began the offensive.

The word came and the whistles blew.

"Up! Over the top!" Olbrecht and other officers yelled, blowing their whistles as they ascended the ladders or climbed atop the trench. Flags were carried and hung limply until the bearers began running. Hitler climbed the ladder and began running with the thousands of other soldiers, sprinting to the Russian lines. Lutjens ran beside him, their breath fogging in the air.

On they ran over the cold hard dirt, pockmarked with artillery impacts and lumped with corpses from two empires littering the ground. Hitler was running so hard that his legs began to burn and his breaths were deep, ragged and rapid. Soon enough however they reached the Russian lines.

The Russians, shaken from the barrage, responded sluggishly. Mortar rounds and field guns fired, but it was too little too late. The machineguns were the true terror but the Russians lacked sufficient amounts. Though hundreds of Austro-Hungarian soldiers fell, thousands more were able to push on. Soon enough the Hapsburg troops entered the Russian forward trenches, shooting and stabbing any man in khaki.

The slaughter continued when Hitler jumped into the trench alongside Lutjens. Raising his M95, Hitler fired twice at Russians spilling out from a feeder trench. One man fell, his clothes turning crimson over the chest, while the other four withdrew, firing their Mosin-Nagants aimlessly. Nonetheless, Hitler crouched against the trench wall. Lutjens fired his own rifle, felling two of the retreating men.

Major Olbrecht and their platoon commander, Lieutenant Schmidt, rallied the men. Though tired, they were energized with each meter of trench taken from Ivan. Territory that had been lost in the war's opening weeks was at last being reclaimed for the Vaterland.

More and more men in pike gray joined Hitler and his comrades as they readied for the push. Already entire companies were moving forward, some haphazardly and disorganized, but the momentum could not be stopped and nor would it be risked. Within half an hour of securing the forward trenches, the 87th Brigade's 21st Regiment moved out alongside a half-dozen other units.

Later, after the sun had settled and new positions had been dug and fortified as the frontlines had been pushed further into the Carpathian Mountains, Hitler would not be able to recall much of what happened. He remembered firing his gun until he ran out of ammunition, how he had to use a Mosin-Nagant scavenged from a dying Russian to partake in fending off a counterattack. Hours of the days were nothing but a blur, a haze of smoke, fire, flashes of light and dead men thrown about.

Though the 87th Landwehr Infantry Brigade had performed splendidly, their ranks were greatly depleted. Nearly a third were dead, the other third wounded in battle or suffering from various stages of frostbite. Out of their squad, only he, Lutjens, and two others emerged largely unscathed except for bruises or scrapes beginning to scab over.
Lutjens and him sat around a pathetic excuse of a fire as night fell and snow began to drift softly to the earth. They drank flavorless watery soup but was hot and filling, keeping them warm and satisfied which helped them fall asleep, the towering Carpathian Mountains closer than ever before with the occasional pop and thud of gunfire and artillery echoing throughout the night as the war raged on.

As Hitler pulled the thin wool blanket tighter around his body to keep warm in the freezing November night, his eyes caught the Imperial flag hoisted not far away on a pole that had bore the Russian tricolor only a few hours before. Pride filled him as he saw the black and gold flag flutter in the cold mountain wind, elation gifting some semblance of temporary warmth.

He had been born and raised in Austria yet he never had considered it home. It had been a residence, a place to live while mind and heart had lain elsewhere. Germany, that was the land he considered his own, a nation he could fight for, die for if need be.

Yet it had denied him in its time for need.

If a nation would deny him so then could it truly be a nation for him? He had been searching for purpose in life and right as it seemed he would seize the moment it had all come crashing down. His need for belonging and Germany's need for warriors had been dashed by bureaucracy. Those thoughts had filled his mind these past months since volunteering in Linz after the rejection in Munich. Originally, he joined the Landwehr to fight Germany's enemies even if he could not fight for Germany itself. Yet these men, these comrades, had endeared him to the land that birthed him. He saw fathers, brothers, cousins, sons, nephews, friends all coming together from all walks of life to stand in the trench beside him and fight for Austria.

And despite his reservations and dislikes of such a multi-ethnic military, Hitler had come to privately admire the fortitude of the other Imperial half, the Hungarians. Considered to be the lesser partners in the Dual Monarchy by many German-speaking citizens in Austria, they were nonetheless a vital asset, providing the manpower and shared disdain of the Russians to allow the Empire to remain afloat despite the military failures that had beset it since the war's inception. Though Hitler too felt they were lesser than those of German blood, they were nonetheless allies and comrades and for that some minutiae of positive regard had formed for them in his mind.

So while Germany had discarded him before ever getting the chance to prove his worth, both to himself and his race, Austria had not. His country had welcomed him and named him a soldier in defense of nation and people.

Perhaps Austria could be what Germany should have always been. A land of Germans for all Germans not limited by borders and nationality. His country, his fatherland, would be a better Germany and its people better Germans.

Such dreams and thoughts whisked around his mind until exhaustion overwhelmed him and fell asleep next to the crackling fire with the Imperial Austrian flag standing tall and proud above him, bloodied but unbowed and unbroken.

 

[Marcus Aurelius]

Hey, everyone, just letting you know that this is the end of what has been pre-written. Since uploading the story, I have expanded and refined the chapters as they were released so they are longer and more polished but from here on out everything will be freshly written.

Expect updates to be released at a slower pace, but I will keep you updated and work on progressing the story in my spare time. My aim is to keep the story engaging, interesting, polished and entertaining.

There will be a few minor time jumps so we can get through WW1 as I don't feel it is necessary to have 40+ updates over the arc that has the most similarity to OTL but once 1918/1919 hit and lead into the early 1920s we will be there a while. Lots of stuff to explain and show you.

As of now these are our PoV characters:
Adolf Hitler (Austrian soldier, Landwehr)
Horváth Tamás (Hungarian officer, Common Army)

More will show up in the future, either as a frequent PoV character or a one-off cameo.

 

[Marcus Aurelius]

Galicia
Austro-Hungarian Empire
August 1916​

The Great War ended its first year with no end in sight. What had been predicted to be a war lasting mere months now began its second year, with the nations of the world hardening themselves for the sorrow to come.

Austro-Hungary, having regained much of the land lost to the Russians during their 1914-1915 winter offensive, nonetheless was forced to cede more and more strategic and operational command of the Carpathian Front to the Germans who considered it but one more sub-theatre of the Eastern Front. This was a blow to Austro-Hungarian pride and ethnic tension flared up following successive military defeats with the handful of victories being considered too costly to have been deemed worthwhile.

Many Austro-Hungarian units, primarily the Imperial Common Army, found itself consistently undersupplied and overwhelmed during that first year and suffered catastrophic losses in the first six months of the war, eroding the professionalism and cohesion of the Austro-Hungarian military, its members being replaced by ill-trained conscripts and officers of varied calibre.

Cultural and linguistic barriers did not help with the great influx of new recruits following the passing of so much of the Imperial crème de la crème, preventing the brotherhood that came more naturally to units consisting of a single ethnicity, such as the Austrian Landwehr and the Hungarian Honvéd which sported better equipment and generally retained a superior command structure and officer corps.

Matters were made worse when Italy joined the war on the side of the Entente in May 1915, straining the Dual Monarchy even more as it was forced to defend a new six hundred kilometer long frontline, much of which was mountainous and difficult to navigate. This Italian entry into the Great War, seen as a 'stab-in-the-back' and a betrayal by many within the Austro-Hungarian Empire, inflamed the historical rivalry between the two nations with ethnic Italians in Austro-Hungarian lands being deported or imprisoned, forcing many to turn to anti-Austrian partisan acts to merely survive, directly and indirectly aiding Italy along the Isonzo Front.

The eventual defeat and occupation of Serbia in the winter of 1915 alleviated some manpower and logistical issues but the fighting on the Isonzo and Carpathian Fronts still proved costly to an already fragile empire that was quickly bleeding through its youth and future, embittering those scarred few that remained.

In the summer of 1916 erupted the Brusilov Offensive which very nearly ended the war for the Central Powers. The primary objective of the operation was to knock Austro-Hungary out of the war, believing that if the Ottomans and Germans were cut off from one another and surrounded then they would ask for peace.

Despite the Offensive successfully stopping the German offensive at Verdun (as a significant amount of German forces were transferred to the East to counter Brusilov's forces) and alleviating pressure on the Entente in the Romanian and Isonzo Fronts, the Brusilov Offensive did not achieve the death blow its creator had envisioned. Austro-Hungary remained in the war though it was forced to rely ever more and more on the Germans. This reliance became so great that by late 1916 it effectively made Austro-Hungary a minor power in the Central Powers military alliance rather than the equal partner it viewed itself, further sowing discord among the Empire which saw heightened tensions and temperaments within the Empire and even with its allies.

It was this environment of war-weariness, frequent military defeats, and social disunity that fermented the rising nationalism within an obscure young man by the name of Adolf Hitler who by late 1916 was in Galicia.

-Excerpt from Soldier to Tyrant: an Evaluation of Adolf Hitler's Military and Political Career, Paul van Hooven 1988

+ + +​

"Guten Abend, Korporal!"

Paul Lutjens coughed to cover his embarrassment, still not used to the recent promotion. "Good evening. At ease, soldat," he said, returning the salute.

The unblooded conscript nodded before retaking his seat. So many new, young faces to replace the fallen. Lutjens shook his head as he proceeded further in the cafe, the interior cooler than outside. He walked to the back of the tavern, to the table he and others from his platoon frequented the past month. Before he had even turned the corner he heard his friend's voice for the first time in two weeks, talking as was typical, voice rising as he emphasized a point.

Lutjens turned the corner and saw Hitler talking to three men. Two were Germans and the other was a Pole. Hitler looked up and nodded warmly to Lutjens but did not cease his speech.

"We are brothers, you and I," Hitler said to the Germans. "One day our two nations must unite and form a Greater German Empire. This will see to the security of our race and land, free from Communist and Jewish influences."

One of the Germans, a corporal like Lutjens and Hitler, leaned forward. "Would this Greater Germany you speak of be ruled from Berlin or Vienna?"

"Vienna of course, until a time a more central and modern capital could be constructed to better unite our two nations into one."

The other German snorted and spoke with a Prussian accent. "I would rather be shot than bow to an Austrian Catholic."

Hitler reddened. Not in anger at being called a Catholic, for which he barely acknowledged being raised as, but rather that he was not considered an equal to the Prussian private.

"I am as German as you are!" he said fervently, gaining that manic look to his eyes that always worried Lutjens when Hitler spoke of politics for too long.

The Prussian gestured at Hitler's uniform as Lutjens sat down. "That states you are not. You may speak German, your culture might be German in many ways, but you yourself, Corporal Hitler, are nothing more than an boisterous Austrian." With that the Prussian soldier rose and left, not even waiting for his fellow German.

The other soldier winced as his comrade left and shrugged apologetically.

"I'm sorry, you must forgive Randall. He is very proud of his Prussian heritage."

"Where are you from?" Lutjens asked, putting a hand on Hitler's shoulder, feeling the man shaking from anger but slowly calming down.

"A little village no has ever heard of south of Bremen," the German said, attempting to defuse the situation.

"Bremen? My sister lives in Bremen. She married a businessman from there whilst he was in Linz some years ago. I just returned from there while on leave."

"Well us Northern German men so love us some Austrian beauties," he said toothily, eliciting a laugh from Lutjens and the Pole, with Hitler offering a small smile. His face still looked odd with the new mustache he wore despite him having adopted it weeks ago due to the recommendation that soldiers with facial hair trim or shave completely so as to ease with donning protective headgear against gas.

Lutjens shivered. The thought of dying to gas terrified him. An unseen enemy you couldn't face. Thankfully, chemical warfare was rarer on the Eastern Front than it was in northern France.

The German corporal looked at Hitler. "Listen, many Germans and many Austrians wish for a union between our two peoples, but it will never happen. Germany would not stomach integrating all the Slavs in your country into ours." He glanced at the Pole. "No offense."

"Only some taken," the Pole said calmly.

"And you Austrians are too proud to take orders from my Fatherland, you would come to resent it. Going from an empire of your own to playing second-fiddle to Germany proper would cause too much tension."

"But it would be a union, an amalgamation, not a direct annexation of one over the other."

The German shrugged. "I do not see how that is possible. It would never work out. People want power, want to be placed higher than another. We may be of the same race, my friend, but we are most certainly two different peoples." The German finished his beer, smacked his lips in appreciation. He rose and nodded to the three seated men.
"Good day," and then he left.

"Well… that was an interesting discussion," Lutjens began.

Hitler leaned back into his chair, shaking his head. Lutjens looked at the Polish soldier and back to Hitler.

"Care to introduce us or is your underwear still twisted in knots?"

That made Hitler chuckle, the tenseness in his neck and shoulder lessening as more of his natural demeanor returned.

"Forgive me. Paul, this is Sergeant Emil Fieldorf of the Polish Legions."

"Apologies, sergeant, I did not see your rank pins in this light," the Polish sergeant was sitting in the corner table's shadow, obscuring much of his upper body.

"It is no problem," replied the legionary.

"Fieldorf?" Lutjens said questionably.

The sergeant nodded. "I have some German ancestors and I retain their name, but I am a proud Pole nonetheless."

"Ah," he turned to Hitler, "I'm surprised you are even talking to him," he said jokingly.

Hitler scowled but humor twinkled in his eye. "He may be a mixed-blood German-Pole but he did buy me a beer and some food. I at least had to give him the courtesy of sitting next to him."

They snorted, Fieldorf seeming very much at ease despite Hitler's crude comment, even if it was meant for a casual jibe.

"I guess now I should tell you I'm starting to learn Hungarian," replied the dark haired Austrian corporal.

"Besides the words that would make a grandmother blush?"

"Yes, yes, besides those."

"I am gone for two weeks and in that time you befriend a Pole and begin learning Hungarian. Where is the Adolf Hitler I knew and who is this sitting beside me?"

"I was bored the two weeks you were gone! We've been stationed here for over a month now and there isn't much to do here besides train, sleep, and read books."

"Whores, don't forget the whores," Fieldorf said, sipping his own beer.

"I'm not much of a proponent of plowing a field that has been razed by a company of men," Hitler said, causing Fieldorf to choke on his drink some before coughing to clear the throat.

Hitler continued, "A Hungarian unit was stationed here and I debated politics… Don't roll your eyes, Paul! I debated politics and nationalism with a Hungarian. We spoke a hodge-podge of German and Hungarian but so much was lost in translation. It was frustrating. So, alas, I am learning Hungarian."

"Well, we all need hobbies I suppose. I prefer pretty women, good beer, and football, but I can see the attraction of learning another language." Lutjens frowned. "But… politics… Adi, please, they do not compare to a woman's bosom."

Hitler leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I almost wished you were gone again. Go back to Bremen, extended leave."

"I'll drink to that!"

Fieldorf and Lutjens clinked their beer steins together as Hitler groaned.

 

[PsihoKekec]

"I guess now I should tell you I'm starting to learn Hungarian," replied the dark haired Austrian corporal.

"Besides the words that would make a grandmother blush?"

"Yes, yes, besides those."

I didn't know Hitler was into masochism.

 

[Marcus Aurelius]

October 1916
Romanian Front, Transylvania
Austro-Hungarian Empire

Rain pattered down against the trees, and dripped down along branches and leaves. The sky was as gray as a German uniform, the atmosphere cold and wet like a Russian rainstorm.

Lieutenant Horváth Tamás took a deep drag on his cigarette before exhaling. He was tired, so very tired. Ever since the Romanians had joined the Entente, his division and several others, both German and Austro-Hungarian, had been transferred southeast from fighting the Russians to combat this new threat.

Weeks of fighting followed, with Austro-Hungarian, German and Bulgarian forces pushed to the brink but eventually the frontline had stabilized and the Romanians pushed back in several places.

An ache behind his eyes, a tired born of weariness of the soul, gave him a haunting look. Walking through his platoon's encampment, he nodded at his men, those absent a painful reminder of the cost of war.

He did his duty as an Imperial officer, bolstering their spirits as best he could, but he was going through the motions more than fervently believing the hollow words he spoke.

Reaching an officers' tent, he sat on the small stump of stool, stretched and yawned. The other Common Army officers in the tent all looked similarly tired. Most were Czechs yet they primarily spoke German to the handful of Hungarian, Croatian, and Ruthenian among them, albeit with a significant amount of loan words and ersatz grammar.

One Czech in particular, a Captain Černý, was notably in a foul mood, something that had been common as of late. Horváth had heard that he had lost most of his company in a needless assault several days earlier on an unimportant Romanian position, the medics having to drag the near comatose Czech commander as he had fallen to his knees after the battle, disturbed by the death toll, blood and dirt matting his body, hair and uniform.

"Fuck the Germans," he muttered. That drew the eyes and frowns of several officers but not many. The Germans were useful allies, many appreciating their contribution and experience though it did come bundled with arrogance and pride.

"Fuck the Slovaks," he muttered, the Czech enmity to their eastern neighbor well known throughout the Empire.

"Fuck the Austrians and fuck those damn fools in Vienna," Černý muttered, almost in resign. "We're killing children out here now. All for a damn emperor no one likes."

Two officers, a Hungarian and fellow Czech, rose and departed, their anger at the words radiating off them like a furnace. It was luck that a weapon had not been drawn or a fist raised for a scuffle.

"You shouldn't have said that," Horváth whispered quietly, the room having grown still and awkward.

Černý pulled out a pack of cigarettes, taking one and offering the pack to Horváth who accepted it. The Czech put the thin paper, filled with cheap tobacco, in his mouth and lit it with a match, handing anyone who wanted a match to light their own cigarettes.

"And I shouldn't have had to shoot children merely because they yell slurs at us." A deep sadness resided in Černý's gaze. "We have become the monsters they fear us to be."
Horváth said nothing, for there was nothing to say but to finish his cigarette and find an excuse to leave the tent and the treason within.

Two days later the military police, the Gendarmerie, arrived yet when they opened the flaps to Černý's tent they found the man's wrists slit and a bloodstained letter clutched in his hand, addressed to his wife and children. Some murmured he had been murdered by the Austrians, or by one of the few Germans in the Imperial encampment, but most accepted the official announcement of suicide.

Horváth didn't care whether it was suicide or murder. He only hoped it had been quick.

To distract himself and the heightened emotions in the camp, he trained his men relentlessly, performing physical exercise to keep the mind and body sharp, spending many hours at the practice range to increase accuracy, reloading and coordination.

The intensive training ironically took his mind off of the war despite that he was improving his platoon in the art of it. Yet the realities of the Great War came for him when he and a squadron of soldiers were chosen by an Austrian major to execute "guerilla fighters and seditious elements."

These guerilla fighters turned out to be six Romanian soldiers, four old men, two women, three boys and a man who wore a dirtied Common Army uniform with his insignia ripped off or defaced. It was the former Austro-Hungarian soldier who stared at them with the most fiery of hate.

He yelled in Romanian, of which Horváth knew little of, but recognized the words to be "Death to the Hapsburgs, long live Romania!" The Romanian Army soldiers echoed the statement, as did the civilians with various degrees of defiance. One of the small boys began to cry, causing the woman next to him to grab his hand to lend bravery.

Horváth ordered the three squads of soldiers to line up in a straight line like the armies of old with their weapon shouldered, each given a single round to fire. A single blank round was randomly doled out to help comfort the soldiers in thinking their bullet was the one that wouldn't kill. It was an illusion to ease the reality of what they were doing.

"Load," he said, breath fogging in the air, his officer's pistol pulled from its holster to shoot any who survived.

The sound of sliding bolts, rounds being loaded, and the bolts slammed forward echoed for a moment. The world seemed still, it seemed to watch.

"Aim," his men did so, many stone faced, others resigned, while one looked like he was going to be sick, rifle shaking slightly.

"Fire." Thirty rifles bucked as they shot and fifteen of the targets fell. Only one stood, the little boy who cried.

Horváth felt his stomach drop and blood freeze as he forced himself to walk over to the small boy, the bullet that had been aimed at him missing when the dead woman holding his hand pulled him out of the way as she died, the bullet missing by a hair and impacting the wall behind them.

Raising his pistol at the so-called saboteur and seeing not anger or defiance but sheer abject fear in those watery eyes made him think of Černý's words: 'We have become the monsters they fear us to be.'

Sorrow lined his voice as he raised his pistol.

"I'm sorry."

The pistol kicked as it fired, the shell casing falling to the ground synchronously with the tears of a soldier who knew that he had become a monster.

 

[PsihoKekec]

If Hitler was here he would probably claim the deserved it.

 

[ATP]

I see future in which Hitler like hungarian,tolerete poles,and hate czechs.
Which,since he never would rule anything important,do not matter.