The Third Wave Seizes the Party
While steadily building my influence within the German Workers' Party (DAP), I also extended my reach into other ventures. The first was printing. That's right. Building on my success in the Ruhr, I launched a new printing business. With the economy in shambles, I snapped up a failing print shop on the cheap. I put Catalina in charge, and drawing from her Ruhr experience, she quickly built it into a newspaper operation. Of course, the paper's true purpose was to spread news of me and the DAP. On the surface, it masqueraded as a standard publication, subtly stirring agitation beneath the radar.
The second was assembling my private militia. Officially, they handled bodyguard duties or tracked down missing persons from the war—like fixers. But the reality was entirely different. Yahn Krichz. He fronted the operation, forming a small gang of thugs. And they were loyal to me.
"At ease!"
The private soldiers lined up before me snapped to attention in perfect unison. I ascended the podium and bellowed,
"You are the vanguard of the new Germany! Heroes of a new era who will restore our shattered economy and military might! You are the storm that will sweep away internal enemies, the division rife in Germany, defeatism, and impotence! You are Germany's pride! Your devotion will become Germany's soil! Long live Germany! Long live the Third Wave Movement!"
I named them the Wave Corps. Taken from "Third Wave." That phrase was my latest push. It stemmed from my prophecy: the German First Reich, the Second Reich, and soon the Third Reich. When the Third Reich rose, its wave would sweep the world. Germany would reclaim the pinnacle of civilization, purifying it with the superiority of the German people. We would transform from losers to victors—and victors, drunk on triumph, fall in an instant. Like a wave crashing over all... That was the ethos of the Third Movement. Or the Third Wave Movement.
Fascism thrives on these lofty "movements" and grand names, betting lives on abstractions. Chasing them fosters belonging and a sense of mission in the group. Extremes meet, as they say. I drew heavy inspiration from "communist movements" and the like. Their agitation tactics actually worked.
"I have great expectations of you all. No German wants our fatherland to remain a nation of losers. I sincerely desire—and need—your devotion."
Finishing my speech, I stepped down and handed the floor to Krichz. It started as an outfit of his contacts, disguised as a vigilante group to recruit new blood. From them, I cherry-picked those who bought into my ideology, turning them fully to our side. Then, I quietly slipped the most tight-lipped Wave Corps members into the DAP under false colors.
The party's membership soon topped a thousand, rivaling major parties in the Bavarian regional assembly. And I began eyeing the moment.
Any bigger, and it'll be harder. Hitler pulled it off at this scale, but I can't guarantee I'll match him.
Dragging it out carried its own risks. I started revving up the Wave Corps—my private army—to fully seize the DAP. Target: the first half of 1921 party convention. That would be the turning point. Everything would change.
January 1921. The time had come. I assembled my private militia, the Wave Corps, and gave them their orders: Seek out and "discipline" a faction within the party opposing me. Swiftly. Silently.
The mark: Anton Drexler. The DAP's founder and undisputed leader. He'd scouted me into the party. But now, the story shifted.
"Start with Drexler's inner circle. Make it look like accidents—no traces."
Violence ensued, naturally. We kidnapped a few of Anton Drexler's close aides, crammed them into wooden crates, and poured in cement. I even kept Catalina in the dark to ensure zero leaks. Too brazen, and tails would wag—but spacing it out, one by one, sufficed.
And so, on January 11, 1921, the German Workers' Party Convention began. Sensing the shift and gripped by dread, Anton Drexler targeted me.
"Lucas von Falkenrain! Look at this man! He's a Junker through and through! Do you grasp what it means for a Junker to become our party's face? Junkers are nothing but the privileged scum who stood by as Germany fell! If he stays, what happens to our image?!"
"Hear, hear!"
"What bullshit!"
Anton Drexler openly attacked me in his convention speech, lashing out in panic as my faction swelled. But I'd already captured the party's heart. Even those seen as his allies—I'd flipped them. The unflipped ones? By now, they were one with the cement at the bottom of Bavaria's Lake Chiemsee, mysteriously vanished.
His speech drew scant echoes. Then came my turn. I mounted the podium and gave our salute. Yes. Fascism prizes community, collectivism. A tiny ritual like this binds us as one.
Snap—Nothing fancy. Nazi salute, but fist raised instead of arm extended. That was it. I'm no creative genius.
But that single gesture revealed my dominance. Snap—Over half the DAP delegates present mirrored me. They were the Falkenrain line. The few holdouts? Drexler line.
"I've always said it: We must not divide. We must not fight among ourselves. When we're busy uniting against the enemy, we can't afford division—or to exploit it."
My low opening drew silence. I swept the room with a cold glare, then jabbed a finger at Anton sulking in the corner.
"Is DAP's fracture Drexler's intent?"
"Nonsense! I founded this party! Don't you know who's splitting it?!"
"I've championed the Third Wave Movement. Its core is unity. When we should all ride this wave, you dismissed it as drivel. That's division. Division betrays the German volk!"
"What did you say...?"
"Unite in rage! Unite in our cry! But what did you do?! Party members, I ask you!"
At my words, Wave Corps men in unified crimson uniforms—like military garb—ascended the stage. Red armbands on their right arms bore the Third Wave emblem. Symbols stick in the mind. Basic marketing.
"Is our party—the German Workers' Party—the property of Anton Drexler? Or does it belong to you members, here to save the German people?!"
"What are you on about?!"
"I say it here today: I want your full support! Your unlimited, unconditional trust! I've taken this stand to build a new Germany! Let me fight as one! Be one! For Germany! For the mighty Third Wave!"
Snap—My salute again. Now, nearly all delegates rose, saluting back. Unable to stomach it, Anton Drexler hurled his hat and stormed out.
"Damn it all! I never should've brought that dangerous Junker bastard on board!"
Anton Drexler grumbled as he exited the convention. His followers offered him a cigarette.
"No idea how he did it, but we raised a tiger cub. Early members might stick, but most new ones joined after hearing Falkenrain speak... The man's got a devilish talent for oratory."
"Still, it's fine. His faction's mostly greenhorns. We hold all the key posts, right?"
"That's why we're hanging on..."
Whoosh—Drexler exhaled smoke. Through the haze, someone rushed up.
"Chairman Drexler! Big trouble!"
"What now?"
"Treasury chief's gone missing!"
"...What?"
"And... Security chief's defected to Falkenrain. Completely."
"Wait. Security?"
"Security deputy chief's missing too."
"..."
Hearing that, Anton Drexler realized: He was no longer my match. Not even a rival. His last bastion of violence—the Security department—had vanished wholesale. And several aides, snatched in broad daylight.
The message was clear.
"Damn it... Hey."
"Y-yes...?"
"You're with me. We're going to Falkenrain."
Quick thinker, he accepted reality and pivoted fast. His attitude flipped in an instant.