The sounds of battle and scenes of death were muted
and shut out momentarily as he entered the bunker’s chamber and confronted Major
Rolf. Unlike the ordinary soldiers and
noncoms sitting in the open trenches, the officers of the Second Reich had cozy
dugouts burrowed deeply into the ground, making their headquarters nearly
bombproof and watertight. Even so, the
courier thought as he handed the major his dispatch, the chamber, which had
only a ladder to climb down and no other air vents but the opening on top, was
dreary, stifling and filled with bad air.
He gave the major a belated salute and mumbled his name. Two young lieutenants sat at the table with
Colonel Rolf, casting the courier haunted, despairing looks as he stood their
waiting for the major to respond. Rolf,
despite the battering his regiment was taking, seemed utterly exhausted and
beyond caring about the affairs of the war.
Wondering if the major ha simply not heard his name, the courier,
snapped to attention smartly, gave his best salute this time and announced in a
loud voice: “Corporal Adolph Hitler, First Battalion of the Bavarian Regiment.”
“You don’t have to shout corporal,”
snorted major Rolf, motioning for the courier to sit down.
As the major sat there staring at the
unread dispatch, a mug of coffee clutched in his trembling hand, Corporal
Hitler, his uniform and boots caked with mud, remained at attention. A lock of sweat-drenched chestnut hair was
plastered on his forehead. Two piercing
brown eyes blinked with confusion through his grimy, haggard face. The Chaplinesque moustache over his lip, the
only part of his face not covered with grime, quivered as he looked, with
silent disapproval, down at the other men.
In the distance, beyond the walls of the dugout, came the familiar
racket of machine gun fire and occasional cannon fire indicating that German or
Allied troops were on the move. When
Rolf looked up from the dispatch, he seemed to study the corporal. A snarl played on his bristly face, as if he
did not seem to like what he saw.
“Hitler, did you say? I knew a Hitler,” he muttered to himself,
“but that’s an Austrian name, isn’t it?
You’re awfully dark for a German and much too short. Why would an Austrian be mixed up in that
Bavarian bunch?”
“Austrian the name, German the heart,”
chirped Adolph, unshaken by his disdain.
“How glib, how very glib,” sneered
Rolf. “Did I not tell you to sit down?”
Uncomfortable with this lack of
military decorum, Adolph sat down on the chair across from the major after one
of the two young lieutenants relinquished his chair. The young lieutenant walked dejectedly across the room and fell
heavily into his bunk.
“Do you have any idea what your regiment is asking
me to do?” Rolf growled miserably, as he scanned the dispatch.
“No, I don’t sir,” Adolph replied
stiffly, looking off into space.
“Look at me!” Rolf slammed his mug
down, the coffee spilling all over the dispatch. “What is the matter with you
Corporal Hitler? Are you addled? Certainly you have an opinion about this
damn war!”
“.... Sir, I think this is a glorious
war,” Adolf confessed shakily but with great passion. “I-I’m honored to serve
the Fatherland. Germany has a great
destiny to fulfill!”
“Glorious war?… Honored to serve the
Fatherland?... What drivel!” spat
Rolf, looking around at his lieutenants. “Is this dirty little corporal stupid
or just plain mad?”
The lieutenant still sitting at the
table gave him a deadpan look. The
lieutenant suffering from battle fatigue lie in his bunk, staring up at the
bottom of the bunk above.
“Listen Herr Hitler,” Rolf reached over and tapped
Adolph’s helmet. “Haven’t you heard? We’re losing this war!”
“Sir, I’ve heard no such thing!”
Adolph was becoming irritated with major Rolf.
“Yes, it’s true,” Rolf nodded, “and
let me tell you why.”
Whether Corporal Hitler liked it or
not, he was given a lecture by Rolf on where Germany had gone wrong, which included
a concise outline of the evils of trench warfare as well as the causes of this
unfortunate war.
According to Major Rolf, General
Moltke was a moron for entrenching his army so close to the Marne. The commanding general had placed his troops
in a hopeless situation. Corporal
Hitler found the major’s disrespect for a superior officer disconcerting. By now, however, he was not surprised with
the attitude he found in the bunker. He
would never learn the details of the dispatch, and, at this point, he didn’t
care. With his satchel slung over his
arm with Rolf’s crude response crammed inside, Corporal Hitler saluted the
major and mumbled something only he could hear: “Goodbye, good riddance” He felt only contempt for the major and his
weak-kneed lieutenants, but he would not dare report the treasonous talk he had
heard this hour. There was enough
defeatism on the Western Front without adding to it now.
******
On the way back to headquarters, to
avoid running the gauntlet of fire, Hitler made a fateful decision. Using the German trench as cover until it
ended at the forest’s edge, he slipped over the wall, skirted the Marne River,
and then crept into the nearby woods.
The trail he had used earlier through a farmer’s field was too
dangerous. With his sachel now empty
and his spirits low, he had but one concern: survive this day. As a courier constantly in the line of fire,
his life could be ended any moment. He
really wasn’t surprised with Major Rolf’s attitude. In his own headquarters he seen similar despair. Rolf was typical of many officers joining
the war effort—men who left their jobs as bankers, lawyers, and businessmen to
serve the Fatherland. When the sheen of
glory faded, they gave up, wishing to return to their civilian lives. The true professionals such as Moltke were
seasoned veterans and life long soldiers, who had no misconceptions about
war. Instead of belaboring a few
defeats, they looked ahead to the final victory; there could be no room for
doubt. Like Rolf and the other defeatists,
he wasn’t sure of the outcome, himself.
Just this morning, as he entered Major Rolf’s bunker, his spirits had
been high. A few words from that beaten
down fellow and his confidence plunged.
This hour, after hearing such defeatism again and this time from a front
line officer, the cold fingers of doubt crept into his mind. If the current battle was lost, what would
be the outcome of this war? In a split
second a snipers bullet could end his life, and he would never know. His belief in the Second Reich and Kaiser
Wilhelm had been his strength. This had
kept him going. Had he been in denial
all this time? Had his optimism been based
on blind faith, not logic or reason.
Germany was fighting two fronts now against four countries: England,
France, Russia, and the United States.
Miraculously, against overwhelming odds, they were winning in the East
against the Bolsheviks, but here on their Western front in their own backyard,
if the rumors were true, they were losing….
How was this possible after such a glorious start? Adolf thought, as negotiated the path. Such victorious beginning was being marred
by poor leadership—the Rolfs in the army but also by the spirit of men…Men who
wanted to be home with their wives, family, parents, and jobs. Men who had given up hope in Germany’s
future…Men like Major Rolf!
He was exhausted and ready to drop,
but if he lie down on the ground this moment he would sleep for hours. It was all he could do to move his feet—the
thought of the warm interior of headquarters egging him on. Suddenly, he heard voices ahead. To his horror he realized was no longer in
the woods. He was out in the open. Directly ahead was a bridge, much smaller
than the one he crossed near the farmer’s field. Normally, at this leg of journey, he would make a dash across the
planks to reach the forest on the other side, but he had stumbled through the
woods like blind man this time.
Somewhere back on the trail, he lost his concentration. He had been careless. Fatigue had dulled his senses. It was as if he had been sleepwalking. Now, after a short nap, he had stumbled into
a nightmare. Down a ways, on the other
side of the stream, men were busily smashing planks to make the bridge
impassable. The rushing water would
make it difficult to cross. Unlike the
river in back of him, it was but a small tributary, easily sabotaged. Dynamite was out of the question this close
to the enemy lines. For such a small
enterprise, they risked exposure, capture or death. These were bold fellows to be so close to German lines. Busy with their work, they hadn’t spotted
him yet. So far, the thought raced
through his head, his luck held. Frozen
momentarily on the path, he looked around, looking for an avenue of
escape. If he ran back toward the
woods, one of them might look up and shoot him dead or chase him down, and
bayonet him to death. All he could
think of doing was duck into the bush on the embankment and wait it out. Hopefully, after they finished their task,
they would just leave, leaving him stranded on the other side. Unless he found another bridge, he would
have to forge the stream. At that
moment, the thought carried from Major’s Rolf’s bunker consumed him: All that
mattered was to stay alive.
During his ordeal, he felt like a
fugitive. How long would he have to
wait? What if they strolled down the
stream’s edge and saw him hiding in the brush?
As he hunkered down, using his sachel as pillow against the brambles,
the throes of sleep reach out to him.
Blinking fiercely, he sat up, rubbed mud into his eyes, silently cursed
his fate, and tried to pray. His
catholic upbringing in Bavaria couldn’t help him nor the pious words of his
mother that sounded like rubbish to him now.
Hitler’s God was providence. His
faith was in his own blind luck.
Hearing a snap of twigs, that moment, he heard words he couldn’t
understand. Rising up, with his hands
in the air, it seemed his luck had run out.
The British soldier was saying in a
low voice, “Eh, you’re a sorry sight.
You been hiding in there long?
Ho-ho, you look like one of me grandmother’s hogs.” “Here,” he snorted, pointing at his holster,
“give me that pistol.” “Now lemme see
that sachel,” he growled, snatching it from his hands. “Empty. Lucky for you it is. What was it, eh? You blokes planning on breaking out.” “What does it matter,” he scoffed tossing it back. “We got you
blokes surrounded. We’re gonna hand
your Kaiser on the nearest tree.”
Hitler had no knowledge of
English. Knowing full well he wouldn’t
understand him either, he replied in German, “Go ahead shoot me. I don’t care. You fools are behind enemy line—all for one puny bridge.”
Belying his words was the fearful
certainty that he had of his future.
Not believing this could have anything but a disastrous outcome, he
lapsed into silence as the man turned and walked away. Surely, he would call his comrades, thought
Hitler. He wouldn’t just let him
go. This, however, is how it appeared,
as he departed. It was too good to
believe. The sound of his footsteps crushing the gravel were deafening to
Hitler’s ears. Any moment, he expected
him to report him to his comrades. They
were, after all, the enemy and behind their lines. Why would he let him go?
“Get back in your hole,” the man
called back irritably, “I killed me enough Germans today!”
Recognizing, in the wave of his hand,
the signal of dismal, Hitler sighed deeply.
Settling back into his nest, he waited for nearly an hour. Looking at his father’s watch, he counted
the minutes. What just happened would
strengthen his resolve. Right now he
was just glad to be alive. Not
believing in God or religion, in general, he believed in a shadowy
providence. For him, every man had a
destiny. For many, it would mean
working and making money, raising a family, or becoming a criminal or parasite
in society. Some, like himself, were
luckier than others, for they had a purpose in the world. Luck had carried the corporal through the
war so far. As quickly as it seemed his
luck had ran out, it had returned. This
time it saved his life.
While most men alter history by good
or evil deeds, the British soldier changed its course not by what he did but by
what he didn’t do. He didn’t put a
bullet in the enemy soldier, stab him with his bayonet, or march him off as a
prisoner back to his lines. He let him
go, as if it was but a trifling event: the greatest monster in human
history. Because of his charitable act,
fifty million people would die. The
entire world would be torn for six years by a devastating war.
For Corporal Adolf Hitler, of course, it was a
fortuitous event—more of his good luck, and yet it was so much more. He regretted being tongue-tied and not
properly thanking the man. Had the
situation been reversed and he caught him hiding in a bush, he might have shot him
dead. He had cheated death. Too weary to ponder heavily on his good
fortune, he continued down the trail, unaware of its significance, and yet
recording it later in his diary and one day toting it to his minions as proof
that providence was on his side. The
long, destructive path of his future remained unrealized in his soldier’s mind,
and yet he was certain, because of those moments by the stream, he had a role
in this world. The stream of history
was with him. Germany would win, he
told himself. He would live…. Someday
he would make his mark on the world!