Alternate History Musings Part 1

From atop the Stoa, there has been a request for me delve into the vaults and pull out some prior work for republishing. These were mostly musings on my part to twist certain threads of history and then extrapolate the results. I will publish one each day.

If you really think on these, you will see the validity in these. Enjoy.



An American Reporter in the 3rd Reich. October, 1947.

The landing was as smooth as the whole flight. He almost resented the flawless flight in from New York. The brand new transatlantic jets the Reich had built were incredible machines. Huge, two jet engine craft, he almost could not believe that the thing could fly. But fly it did. He flew from New York to London, then on here to the Adolf Hitler International Airport. The service was polite, the food first class. He really resented the Reich. He could not abide this evil country.

He stepped off the plane and moved toward customs along with the two hundred and fifty other passengers. He turned over his brief case to the customs agent. Of course all they saw was his boxes of pencils and pens and notebooks. His bags, he was sure, were being rifled again, even though the Germans had already done that back in London.

After his bags cleared it was his turn with immigration. He was relieved to hand over his passport to a gray uniformed officer instead of the more ominous black. They were marginally better than the SS.

The officer took the passport without comment and studied the picture and the immigration tabs. He noted the typewriter keyboard that the officer worked on simply had a cord going into the wall. A green monitor looked back at him and seemed to be telling him what he wanted to hear. The officer handed back his passport with a curt, “Welcome back to the Reich, Mr. Redding. Please remember to wear your credentials at all times when in public.”

John Redding embarrassingly pulled out his “reporter” nametag from his kaki trench coat and stuck it into his fedora. Before he could turn to leave the officer stopped him with a raised finger, “It is to be clipped to your left breast pocket in plain view at all times. Please remember you are not in Detroit any longer, Mr. Redding. Move along, please.”

John pulled the tag off his hat and clipped it to his coat. Those Nazis don’t miss a detail, he thought to himself. The officer’s English was near perfect too. He added that to his list of resentments.

His bags were coming out on the baggage conveyer down the hall from customs. The airport, like everything else in the capital, was huge and imposing. All slate gray floors and marble walls. Romanesque columns stretched down the hallway, seemingly forever.

He slung his briefcase over his shoulder and bent down to begin pulling his bags. The first had his clothes; the second was a heavy trunk that had his typewriter safely stored away. Before he could even set down the trunk, a dolly appeared next to him. A Slavic man quickly began to pull the trunk first, then the bag onto the two-wheeled hand dolly.

John had been coming to Berlin to report for the Detroit Sentinel since the peace treaty with Germany had been signed with President Roosevelt in 1942. He knew enough how things worked here not to protest this man’s help. Without a word the man pushed the dolly quickly toward the cabby port, some quarter of a mile away. His pace was not uncomfortably quick, but it was efficient. Everything about the Reich was efficient.

His head swiveled about on his neck, taking in the sights as they made their way to the taxi. The only thing that had changed since he had gone home for a vacation was the massive photo-posters of Hitler and Goebbels, side by side, staring at him from everywhere. Of course Herr Hitler would have to die while he was home. Of course the Reichstag, according to Hitler’s will, would name Dr. Goebbels the new Fuherer. Every time he went home something important happened. The last time he went home, in 1944, the Nazi’s had captured and executed Comrade Stalin.

By his standards, the airport was busy, though you really didn’t notice it since the architecture was so incredibly imposing that the people seemed like so many ants going about their day. Statues rose everywhere, paintings adorned the higher walls. Murals of the mighty Aryan looked out at him on some walls; their faces indistinct and their features larger than life. Some of them reminded him of the “Oscar” handed out to the stars in Hollywood. Hitler had certainly given Dr. Speer a blank check when he said he wanted the best airport in the world.

German soldiers marched about here and there. The majority of them seemed to be catching flights to take them to some part of the vast German Empire. Most were carrying their bags over their shoulders (the Untermensch were not allowed to carry the bags of a soldier). His bag handler took a few extra steps to the side of the hallway to allow for a small group of black uniformed SS pass by. It was always good to give those fellows extra room. He then noticed his bag handler fix his eyes and face firmly on the floor in front of him and practically sink into the floor. John looked up to see a single, black uniformed Totenkopf soldier walk by. Even the gray uniformed Wehrmacht seemed to jostle among each other to allow for as much room as possible between their persons and the silver skull. Even John felt something cold in his stomach as that thing walked by. It was hard for him to recall the man in the uniform. All he could see was the silver skull glinting in the sunlight.

John mentally shook himself. He is just a man. A very evil man, but a man nonetheless. No point in attributing superhuman abilities to him. He’d heard rumors about them. He’d heard stories about the Eugenics programs. He’d heard about the Einsatzgruppen that terrorized the colonial territories. Those special groups were responsible for ‘purifying, pacifying and cleansing’ the conquered areas. They were the ones who decided how old and sick a person could be prior to euthanasia. They sat on panels that decided which babies would live and which would die. They headed quality control in the Eugenics programs. Those men bore the Silver Skull. Only god knew how many millions were buried in pits and shell holes, or how many were burned up in city-sized crematoriums. He’d heard about the concentration camps, but he could not verify them. Even if he could, he couldn’t get it printed back home. The Truman administration was not about to enflame relations with the Reich. He’d also never be permitted back into the Empire. Hell, he was sure that some Nazi sympathizer (of which their seemed to be millions in America) would murder him in his sleep if he ever published proof. So, he just stuck to the mundane. He’d win no prizes, but at least he would live.

They arrived at the taxi stand quickly. No sooner had he arrived then a large sedan pulled right up to the curb for him. The trunk popped and the Slav began to quickly and efficiently pack his bags. The Slavic man was well dressed in the airport uniform. Clean and well shaved, even at 4pm. The man seemed to have no desire in this world other than to complete is task without attracting attention; anyone’s attention. No sooner had John even looked at the man then he shut the trunk and trotted off back toward the baggage terminal.

The taxi driver, also, was efficient in getting him from the airport to his hotel room. The driver spoke English. He started off in English, which told him that he knew John was an American (he didn’t think he stuck out), or the driver already knew who his fare was. It didn’t matter either way to him. This was the most paranoid nation on Earth, and he was smack in the heart of the beast. He was sure he’d have the same Gestapo officers following him. It was always the same two guys. He was also pretty sure that they were British from the way they spoke to each other. He could never hear them, but they animated in a way that the regular, cold-blooded, German SS-Gestapo never would. They’d been his minders for several years now and he’d never said a word to them. It was probably better that way.

They arrived at his hotel on Kriegstrasse in short order. A Slavic bellhop sprinted out of the hotel and grabbed his bags. The taxi was gone before he could even thank the driver.

He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, sizing up the block. It hadn’t really changed much in the three months he was gone, except for their being more swastika-festooned flags. They hung everywhere, from poles and windows and even storefronts. The streets had not a bit of litter and the sidewalks had not a single piece of gum spotting it. There were no homeless in sight, and no paupers. There never were. He’d asked about them to some really young store clerk once and she just stared at him with wide eyes, eventually telling him that there weren’t any dispossessed in the Reich. Everyone had a job commensurate with his or her abilities. National Socialism saw to it, of course.

​

He noticed the corner café was open. The café sat on the corner of a large plaza. He would sit there on hot summer days sipping beer and eating bread while he wrote his pieces. He decided to walk over there and soak up the atmosphere for an hour or so. His bags would be in his usual room, no doubt about that. The hotel supervisor would put his name in the book and note the time and date of his arrival. He would sign off on it when he returned.

Someone unfamiliar with how the Reich worked would have wondered why he didn’t tip the airport baggage handler, nor did he pay or tip the taxi driver or the bellhop. Under National Socialism, individual pay for service was illegal. Everyone received his or her pay from the State. Any money that changed hands under the table was likely to get you a ticket to the Eastern Territories either as a farmer or a soldier. Either way was as harsh as a death sentence.

He sat at his favorite table. It was right on the corner where he could see down two streets. Foot traffic was brisk, but by no means busy.

The German waiter came out and took his order. There was only one other person eating outside that evening. It was a little brisk out. The streetlights were coming on and the people were hurrying to get home. All in all, it was going to be a pretty October night.

He pulled out his notebook and a sharpened pencil and laid it out on his table, positioning his plate of cookies and coffee so as not to get in his way. He just sat there sipping on his coffee for a good twenty minutes before he even wrote the date, “October 21, 1947. Dateline Berlin, Third Reich.”

He watched people walk by, eavesdropping on what they were talking about. He was fluent in German. He studied it in the University and perfected it with five years of living in country.

Normally, he never picked up much this way. This society was so closed and careful. He doubted husband and wife ever had an honest conversation. Usually, what was interesting was what they didn’t talk about. There was hardly a mention of Hitler or his successor. They talked about their day-to-day problems. Which family member was on the Eastern Front, who was posted in the deserts of North Africa, or who was guarding an oil pipeline in northern Iraq. Women talked about boyfriends or husbands. Some of the women talked about their Genetic-mates. Nobody would ever talk to him about them, but he figured that they were the other half in the Nazi Eugenics programs. He knew that the overwhelming percentage of these relationships were emotionless. They were simply performing their duty for National Socialism. The children were raised Spartan style in great packs, calling some barracks building their home.

Almost on cue he saw a group of six of these children. They looked professional in their Hitler Youth uniforms. They walked in two files of three, just like a small platoon. He was careful to keep the disapproving shake of his head to himself. He wondered what the world was going to look like when these children began running things. Right now the oldest of them were no older than 14 or so. He finished his beer quickly to take his mind off the retreating backs of the pack of teenagers. He was sure he’d never see anything like that in Des Moines or Dallas. Then again, this very sight could be had in cities like London, Dublin, Rome, Oslo, and Moscow. Entire generations of millions of children were growing up to worship the recently deceased god in the form of Adolf Hitler. He prayed to any god who may be listening that he never saw this in America. Boy Scouts but Nazified.

He folded up his notebook and slid back from the table. He was uptight about something that he could not put his finger on.

He figured he would go back to his room and write next to the window. He had an excellent perch to watch Berlin walk by. Maybe he could focus there.

As he thought, six other people had checked into the hotel after he had. The clerk had kindly written his name in and delivered his bags to his room.

Putting down his bag on one of the living room tables he headed for the window table. It was already open, with a newspaper and a pot of tea, steaming gently in the cool evening breeze.

He sipped it carefully, knowing it was still hot. They always seemed to know when and where he would be. God, he hated this place.

Where did it all go wrong? He thought, while he tapped his pencil on the note pad. The story was mostly written, but it lacked anything interesting. Oh, it gave the dates, names, and other notable facts about the death, of natural causes of course, of Herr Hitler, and the succession of “the Dr.”. It was dry and would not get him in trouble. But what had Hitler and Germany done right, and what had the rest of the world done wrong?

He knew that his story was full of half-truths and downright falsifications. His sources told him that Hitler had actually died of Parkinson’s disease. That he had been sick with it for some time, going back to at least 1940, and that Dr. Goebbels had been running the Reich for at least the last two years.

He wondered how things would have been different if Herr Hitler had not overcome his phobia of naval operations and not invaded Britain in August of 1940. Hitler had tried to negotiate with Mr. Churchill, and could not understand why he was being rebuffed. The invasion was more of a defensive measure than an offensive. Germany simply could not make the same mistake they made in 1914. If Britain would not sign a peace treaty, then they would be forced to join the Reich. The invasion was hard and costly, but not as bad as German High Command had envisioned. By the time June 1941 came around, Scotland and pockets in Wales were the only areas still resisting. Hitler tried repeatedly to come to peaceful terms with the regional leaders but to no avail. This forced Hitler to spend most of his energy on the United Kingdom, while his generals ran the war against the Soviet Union. He attempted to solve the English problem with a combination of politics (his specialty) and the military, while the Eastern Front was the simple application of brute force. Would things have been different if the “corporal” had run the war in Russia? He didn’t know.

Would America ever catch up with the Reich in terms of technology? The Germans were years ahead in Jet and Rocket technology. They already had transatlantic jet flights from London to New York. The Americans were just now constructing efficient jet engines. They were not putting them on large passenger airplanes yet. The German rocket program had already been putting up sub-orbital packages on larger and larger rocket motors. In the next few years, he was sure; they would be putting humans up in space. The Germans, it was thought, already had rockets powerful enough to go up to sub-orbit and then fall back to Earth wherever they wanted it to land, such as on New York or Washington D.C. Couple that with the new Atomic weapons that the Germans had invented and you truly had a nightmare scenario. John felt that the only reason why the U.S. did not press the war was fear of this weapon being used on American soil. The Germans have been exploding these terror weapons since 1944, in the Soviet territories of course.

John tapped the paper so hard the pencil lead broke. That is why he has been so uptight. The Nazis were evil. The Nazis were a virus within the human condition, bringing out the worst that a nation could possess; yet the liberty seeking Americans were wary of how they dealt them. The Americans, who had nearly two centuries of liberty behind them, feared the Germans and their near ability to exterminate all life on the planet. It just was not fair.

On the surface, the standard of living in the Reich was phenomenal. During the war there were sacrifices, of course, but since the end of the major ground campaigns, there was not a single nation on the planet that could match the individual wealth of Germany. This was bought with the lives of over 200 million souls, a conservative estimate he thought. Any ethnic group in the Reich that was not Aryan was of the servant class. How long could this last?

He finished his story and put it in a special envelope. The government censors would go over it to ensure its “accuracy” and then they would give it back to him with an approval. He would then transmit it over the wire for printing back home. This would all take place tonight. German censure offices never closed, not even on this holy holiday. The paper had to get out, and it was on a deadline. All he had to do was take it down to the street corner to the local office and pay a small fee. The go back to his room and look for the next story. A story that, hopefully, would not get him censured or killed.

God, he hated this place