Demobilization
"So... what happens now?"
The nurse who had been tending to me asked cautiously. I held a fresh newspaper in my hands, bandages wrapped around my neck and legs. I chuckled softly and shook my head.
"We move on to the next chapter."
Indeed. This was a hospital. The field hospital had collapsed during the retreat, so I'd been evacuated here to a civilian facility in the Ruhr region for treatment. And while recovering, the Great War had come to an end.
The armistice news spread like wildfire across Germany. And with it, fear of the massive storm it would unleash.
"Even with the armistice, nothing major will happen. I mean it."
I folded the newspaper and set it on the bedside table. Truly, nothing major. We'd just get stripped of our industrial capacity, saddled with reparations, and plundered for consumer goods, as usual. In other words, a brief regression to pre-modern society.
In fact, a staff officer I'd befriended on the front lines had tipped me off about the ceasefire ahead of time. Now all that remained was the Treaty of Versailles. Postwar processing had to happen, after all.
"I hope you're right... If there's anything uncomfortable, please let me know, Major von Falkenrain. Oh, and someone wants to see you. When you have a moment, could you head down to the first floor?"
"Who is it?"
"A reporter, she said. She's doing quick interviews with veterans."
"Got it."
I nodded to the nurse and slowly rose, dragging my aching body with me. Please don't let it be a German Communist assassin... With that thought, I tore my gaze from the chaotic scene outside the window and descended to the hospital's first floor.
There, I spotted a woman scribbling furiously on a notepad with a pen. One hand clutching the notepad, the other wielding a fountain pen like a weapon. She screamed "period journalist" at first glance. Unlike modern reporters shoving cameras in your face, journalists of this era usually looked like this. Cameras were expensive and bulky to lug around, so they recorded news by hand.
As I watched her from afar, she must have sensed my stare and approached slowly. Long, golden hair. Bright, lively blue eyes. A somewhat edgy, girlish impression. She embodied the "Western beauty" stereotype to a tee.
"You're Major Lucas von Falkenrain, aren't you?"
As expected, she was the reporter here for me. I nodded quietly.
Even before being forcibly shoved into this filthy world, I'd gone through an all-boys middle and high school. And after arriving here, I hadn't been with a woman for a while. I'd expected to freeze up around one, but communication wasn't an issue. It even felt... comfortable.
On the battlefield, you had to deal with people so alien—differing not just in gender or ideology, but like extraterrestrials—that mere conversation was a trial. Compared to that, chatting quietly with a sane person in shellfire-free silence was pure luxury.
"I'm von Falkenrain. And you are?"
"Catalina. Reporter for a local Ruhr newspaper. Mind a quick interview?"
"Why me out of all the people here?"
"Was that rude?"
"No. Just curious."
"I saw your speeches and speech transcripts in Berlin. Late 1917, right? You spoke there?"
"I did."
Ah, that time. After the Nivelle Offensive collapsed, I'd exploited the enemy's chaos, led my shock troops to rack up gains. Word spread fast; suddenly I was a young hero, summoned to Berlin for propaganda duty. Probably that. I barely remember—running on four hours of sleep, shuttled everywhere like a madman.
"You saw me then?"
"Yes. Your speech really moved me. So, any chance for that interview?"
"I'll answer what I can."
"Just a few questions. Answer freely, no pressure."
The reporter who introduced herself as Catalina began firing questions. Broadly, they covered future prospects, wartime conditions, and the war's aftermath. Despite her "no pressure" line, some were vague, unpleasant, or tricky.
"If the German Empire dissolves, what then? I'd love your take, Major von Falkenrain."
"It won't dissolve, so no need to worry."
"What do you see as Germany's main cause of defeat? The Kiel mutineers? Communists? Corruption in the ranks?"
"Tough to answer. Germany didn't lose, after all. It's just an armistice."
Don't judge by appearances. Innocent girl on the outside, rotten heart underneath—a classic hack journalist. "Scum media" wasn't just 21st-century Korea. In this era's Germany, reporters were dopamine addicts chasing sensational headlines. Not just Germany; clickbait headlines were a European tradition. The methods were old-school, but the breed was the same.
"I see... One last thing. Your thoughts on the SPD?"
SPD—the Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands, Germany's largest party, spanning center to left. Key players in the November Revolution starting at Kiel Harbor, now ruling this chaotic Weimar Republic. But hated by both far-left and far-right extremes. The closer to the center, the easier a political target. Plus, their wishy-washy stances drew little support. Hardcore reds backed the German Communist Party or Socialist Workers' Party; proto-fascists, the German National People's Party.
"The current SPD deserves credit for ending this needless war and stabilizing the nation. But we'll need to watch their future actions. As a soldier—and a Junker—further political commentary wouldn't be appropriate, so I'll leave it there."
I wrapped up the SPD question too. Truth be told, I could rant more, but I held back. If I were Hitler, I'd have spewed venom here. The SPD ultimately did Germany no favors. But I'm not Hitler. I can't be. I aimed to replace him, but not his way. I'd rule through cold calculation and persuasion, not raw emotion.
He had his genius—history's Hitler differed wildly from the one I saw up close in my second loop. His oratory could sway even me. I had to be different. I couldn't match him.
"You hold back a lot, huh?"
"Only when necessary. When it is, I don't."
I shrugged. I was more calculating than anyone. Hitler acted on pure emotion—even in war. Perfect politician, worst warlord. That's Hitler.
Me? Pure calculation. Can't copy him? Just compute and mimic his strengths.
"Oh, right, Major von Falkenrain? Here's my card. 'Ruhr Industrial News.' The paper's not far from here."
"That's the end of the interview?"
"Yes. See you around, Major."
She handed me the card with a bright smile as I took it. Hope not. Honestly... Anyway, the reporter vanished. I headed for the stairs back to my room.
And then—
"Major von Falkenrain."
Someone stopped me as I turned.
"Ah, Colonel Hashtenburg."
He'd been my superior back when I shuffled papers at General Staff HQ. Clutching a stack of documents, he'd come for me.
"Glad to see you alive. Hell, glad you're alive, period."
"Thank you, Colonel."
"That said... sorry."
He pulled a single sheet from the pile and offered it.
"Your devotion to the fatherland runs deep—we're truly grateful. I don't know why it had to be you out of all those capable staffers... but the entire 6th Army is being disbanded."
"What about you, Colonel?"
"Lucky me—integrated into the 1st Army. We'll see. I've dodged the immediate storm, but who knows."
Indeed. Post-Compiègne Armistice, demobilization wasn't optional anymore. Versailles would confirm it, but standing army limits were coming. I remembered. In my second loop, I'd skirted the purge...
Actually, perfect.
Staying in the military would hinder politics. With some name recognition among locals, I could leverage this.
"Really sorry. I know you have family..."
"Colonel. It was an honor serving with you."
"You okay?"
"Fine. Relieved, even."
"...Right. We'll remember your service."
And so, my demobilization orders arrived. After midnight, I was no longer a soldier. From Major Lucas von Falkenrain to citizen Lucas von Falkenrain.