I Killed Hitler
1916, Western Front. I handed a blank sheet of paper to the dispatch runner with the distinctive mustache.
"This is an important request. See that it reaches headquarters safely."
"Understood."
Hitler saluted with practiced precision and stepped out of the bunker. I counted three seconds silently in my head, then gripped my pistol and followed.
Boom-! Bang-!
Masking the shot with French artillery fire, I drilled a hole right through Hitler's skull. He crumpled outside the trench, felled by the bullet. With a wet splat, the man who would have ignited the Second World War tumbled into the mud—his corpse rolling lifelessly in the filth.
Only after confirming the chill of his dead body did I shout,
"Sniper!"
And just like that, history bent for the first time.
He would go down in the records as an nameless hero, cut down by a sniper's bullet in the trenches one day in 1916.
I had slain the devil.