A Most Unlikely Outcome - An Italian AAR (2024)

1940 pt 1​

Tempestuous storm clouds enshroud the Maltese coast on the dawn of Operation Sol Invictus​

6 January 1940

Italian Corporal Attilio Scalari yearned to plunge into battle, but not for the typical reasons of bravado or reckless impetuousness that drove most men to surge headlong into combat.

A paratrooper in the new 186th Regiment of the “Folgore” Parachute Division, the 23 year old Scalari had grown to detest his unit’s preferred method of transport, the SM.82 tri-motor aircraft. On the best of days, the rickety fuselage would relentlessly pummel Scalari’s scrawny frame, leaving him with huge sores that covered his back and legs. During inclement weather, such as they type that mercilessly buffeted his aircraft over the Tyrrhenian Sea on the morning of 6 January 1940, the agony was intensified many times over. Now, as his aircraft shuddered and plowed through the air 11,000 feet above the Sicilian Coast, more than anything, Scalari just wanted to get out of the damn plane. He didn’t even care where; even dropping into the sea below would be preferable to another hour of tumbling through a heaving and undulating cacophony of turbulence and misery.

Three dozen transport aircraft, each filled with 34 heavily-armed paratroopers, had taken off from aerodromes near Messina into the pre-dawn gloom; as they passed the western coast of Sicily, they were met by several squadrons of G.50 interceptors acting as escorts, who eased into the position ahead of the transports as the first wisps of morning light spattered through the distant line of squall clouds covering the western horizon. Overhead, additional squadrons of SM.79 Sparvieros and an expeditionary kampfgeschwader of German HE-111 tactical bombers winged towards Malta, intending to hit targets just ahead of the paratrooper drop. As the Sicilian coast receded behind them, the attack bombers bled off their altitude to increase their speed as they dropped as low as possible; their goal was to knock out British anti-aircraft defenses around the planned landing zones in order to protect the paratroopers during their vulnerable descent from the transports.

Far below the aerial armada, a powerful fleet of Italian warships plowed through white-capped swells as they maneuvered to engage the shore batteries ringing Valletta harbor. Spearheaded by the new battleship RM LIttorio, Admiral Cavagnari‘s fleet also consisted of the modernized battleship Giulio Cesare, and heavy cruisers Gorizia and Bolzano, all screened by a picket line of 3 light cruisers and 4 destroyers of the swift Soldati class. Elsewhere, still marooned in port, a further eight Italian transport ships filled with soldiers from the 11th, 21st, and 61st divisions waited inside the cramped cargo holds until the landing beaches had been secured; lacking dedicated amphibious marine troops, and in order to protect his infantry from Allied air power, Mussolini had decreed that the amphibious invasion troops be held in Palermo until the paratroopers had secured the areas around the landing zones. There was no great cause for concern, of course, given Allied fleet losses in the battle for Alexandria; Mussolini estimated that there would be few remaining warships in Malta to oppose the Regia Marina, and he felt confident that the Italian fleet would be able to deal with any British sortie from the naval base as well as conduct a ruthless bombardment of the island’s defenses with equal lethality.

Nevertheless, from an oil consumption standpoint, the mission was proving to be harrowingly expensive; Admiral Cavagnari’s warships were drawn from anchorages ranging from Naples to Trieste, and the cost of staging these vessels in the battle area approached 100,000 barrels of processed petroleum. The aerial squadrons of the Regia Aeronautica added a further drain on already-meager petroleum rations, and many of them could be expected to conduct multiple sorties before the operation was completed. The entire campaign was a calculated risk by Mussolini that had essentially come down to balancing number of transports the British on Malta would sink over the course of the war verses the amount of oil that would be expended in the capture of Malta. Foreseeing that the current war would play out over several more years, the potentially exponential nature of the former part of the equation seemed to outweigh the rather static nature of the latter, and the decision to launch Operation Sol Invictus became a surprisingly academic affair.

Axis Bombers plunge to wave-top level in order to surprise the Maltese defenders ​

Scalari had no idea how much effort had gone into Operation Sol Invictus, and thus was completely ignorant of the concurrent aerial and naval support that complemented his mission. Ground crews had blacked out the row of coin slot-shaped windows on the upper plenum of the fuselage in order to reduce any chance of glare reflecting in the sunlight, and the only light that filtered back to Scalari was diffuse sunlight as it passed through the tinted glass of the co*ckpit’s windshield. Most operational details of the assault had been kept from the rank-and-file paratroopers, which maximized overall mission security in case Italian troops were captured and interrogated, but it also left Scalari and his comrades in the dark as to what to expect on the ground. Only a few Folgore officers knew all of the details of the entire plan, and most of them felt that Il Duce expected far more from his elite paratroopers than they could provide.

Perhaps due to an overdeveloped sense of confidence in the elite new paratrooper division, perhaps due to the short window in which to plan the operation, or perhaps due to the rampant rumors that Mussolini spent an egregious amount of time cavorting with women of ill-repute in his private chambers rather than seeing to the important details of complex military operations, the men of Operation Sol Invictus had been tasked to capture the island of Malta more or less single-handedly.

Extensive British AA defenses girdle the Valletta harbor docks​

Scalari’s commanding officer, Second Lieutenant Marko Starace, slowly made his way from the co*ckpit down the length of the aircraft, stopping between each pair of paratroopers to tug on parachute pack straps or offer words of encouragement to the men. Scalari sat halfway down the aisle, head slung low, his hands absentmindedly fumbling with his standard-issue model 1939 dagger. Upon reaching Scalari, Starace reached down and tightened his helmet strap, muttering what sounded like a inspiration Fascist intonation for the upcoming battle, though Scalari had difficulty in making out the words over the droning of the engines and clanking of carabineers against the hull. Despite the fierce look of determination stained upon Starace’s face, Scalari could see fear and doubt permeating from within his commanding officer. Scalari returned a quizzical look, co*cking his head sideways and shrugging his shoulders in a universal expression of incomprehension, and Starace stuttered before trying to explain once again how everything was going to be fine as long as his men followed the plan. His explanation lacked conviction, however, and Scalari felt that his attempt to instill courage had only made things worse.

The men shared an awkward stare for several moments before a red dome light suddenly activated on the co*ckpit bulkhead behind Starace, illuminating the cabin of the plane in a dim crimson glow. Starace marched back up the gangplank to the pilots, who informed him that they had just passed over the surfaced Italian submarine RM Archimede, which served as the air group’s primary navigational beacon between Sicily and Malta. The short-range radio transmitter affixed atop the submarine’s superstructure indicated to the pilots of the aircraft that they were on course and had only a few short minutes before they would disgorge their cargo of paratroopers upon the island.

The first wave of paratroopers from the 185th Regiment descend upon Malta​

From that moment, Scalari’s melancholy and doubt dissipated as the adrenalin rush of imminent combat swept over him. Almost immediately, the young Italian paratrooper’s idle thoughts were overwhelmed by training, further encouraged by his officers’ sudden shouting of orders and the general clamor of his comrades standing and clipping onto the static deployment line. There was no time for Scalari to worry about what was going to happen, nor was there opportunity to ruminate over his commanding officer’s apparent consternation regarding the mission. There wasn’t even time to proudly consider that he would be among the first men to jump into combat during Italy’s first wartime paradrop. It was time to kill Tommys, and Limeys, and of course any Maltese that happened to get in the way. Imbued with a mixture of valor, intrepidness, and more than a little curiosity, Scalari shuffled towards the aircraft’s side door to await his turn.

Scalari had only a moment’s hesitation at the door before he followed the paratrooper in front of him into the breach, but in that instant he observed more action that he could have possibly anticipated. Far below him, the capital ships of the Regia Marina were engaging the Maltese coastal batteries; massive broadsides from the Littorio and Giulio Cesare illuminated the silhouettes of the Italian ships in the murky, cloud-covered pre-dawn darkness. Scattered amongst the pair of Italian battleships, smaller craft punctuated the shroud of opaqueness with ribbons of flame erupting from their own canon. As Scalari tumbled through the air, he noted that Admiral Cavagnari had directed his ships into a concave semicircle around the harbor, with the monstrous Italian battleships clustered at the center; from their position, the Littorio and Giulio Cesare would take advantage of their superior range and pulverize the Valletta shore batteries at distance. All along the island’s shore, brilliant explosions hinted at the massive destruction already wrought by the Italian ships as shore installations burned uncontrollably. Through the haze of early-morning darkness, jets of flame continued to erupt from the Italian fleet offshore. In marked contrast to the Italian barrage, British return fire seemed sporadic and ineffectual, indicating that Operation Sol Invictus had achieved some measure of operational surprise.

Beleaguered redoubt: Malta braces for the opening salvos of Operation Sol Invictus​

Despite the ethereal, shadowy calm of the early dawn light, the staccato bursts of light from explosions below mingled with the roar of distant artillery blasts, giving Scalari a good impression of the battle as he slowly drifted downwards. The ruffled canopy of his parachute briefly dulled the approach of several Italian interceptors roving nearby; several thousand feet below them, a flight of Sparvieros ascended dramatically after dropping several tons of bombs on a suspected British command and control facility. Jostling around in his harness, Scalari managed to twist his body southwards towards his planned landing zone near an RAF fighter aerodrome at the capital’s southern periphery. Italian and German aircraft had uncontested mastery of the skies above the small island; Heinkel, FIAT, and Savoia-Marchetti machines flitted about at different altitudes and ranged as far afield as Scalari’s vision would allow.

Looking downward towards his objective, Scalari next focused on where the prevailing winds were dropping his comrades. Some members of the initial drops were already on the ground, and the rapid clatter of small arms fire soon mingled with the deafening roar of the larger caliber canon near the coast. Scalari scrutinized the airfield in the last moments before landing, knowing that the vantage point of his altitude would offer him some tactical advantage in the battle to come. In contrast to the battered condition of many of the Maltese coastal batteries, the air field below him looked to be relatively intact. As Scalari prepared his body for final impact with the ground, he noticed several squads of British soldiers rushing towards sandbag-protected anti-aircraft positions inside the airport’s perimeter. As soon as his boots hit the ground, he heard the distinctive ‘pom-pom’ rapid-fire of 40mm Bofors cannons firing into the air at the Italian transport aircraft.

Low-flying Italian SM 82 transports fall prey to ubiquitous British air defenses​

Scalari quickly rolled up from his well-executed landing and began to collect his parachute, noting that the dawn’s early light was slowly beginning to seep through the squall clouds on the eastern horizon. As the sunlight slowly intensified in strength, Scalari realized in horror that the second and third transport squadrons were perversely illuminated against the black sky directly above. Complicating matters, from his position atop a small rise about 500 yards away from the aerodrome perimeter, Scalari could see British aircraft taxiing onto a dirt airstrip. Realizing that something had to be done about the British defenses immediately, Scalari set out to find Lieutenant Starace.

Scalari raced through waist-high grass, his Beretta Model 38 submachine gun cradled in both hands high on his chest. Descending down the gentle slope of a small hill, Scalari saw three unfurled parachutes strung out in a field before him, each still tethered to the pack of a paratrooper. With mounting dread, Scalari approached the nearest paratrooper, fearing the worst; it was the first duty of any paratrooper to police his chute immediately upon descent, especially in a dawn attack where the semi-reflective material might reveal the squad’s position. Reaching the prone body of the Folgore paratrooper, Scalari frantically flipped him over to reveal several pieces of artillery shrapnel embedded in the man’s face and chest. It was the first corpse that Scalari had ever encountered, and the effect on him was profound and traumatic. It took several moments before he could lie the body back down on the ground, even with the sounds of intensive combat raging all around him. Following the shock, there next came the ignorance of what to do next; the Paracadutisti training school at Tarquinia had trained soldiers for battlefield triage and first aid, but not for dealing with the deceased. Only the extremely close takeoff of a pair of British Hurricane fighters directly overhead lulled Scalari out of his dazed, nearly-catatonic state. Taking a deep breath, he ran to the other two figures in the field and discovered that each of them had perished as well.

There was no way to tell what, exactly, had killed his comrades. It could have been British artillery, an errant Italian naval shell, or even errant fragments from a German bomber’s payload. Scalari increasingly began to wonder about how long he might survive on a battlefield with so many concurrent threats from all axes. The third body that he had come to was Lieutenant Starace—Scalari’s commanding officer had nearly been decapitated by shrapnel from a nearby explosion; a hideously-misshapen fragment of burnt steel had torn through his collarbone and nearly severed the spinal column before stopping at the base of the jaw. Scalari almost didn’t recognize the man; the rank insignia on his uniform, and his position at the head of the chalk, as he had jumped from the plane first, was the only real indication to whom the body belonged.

Artillery fire from well-fortified British positions hammered the Italian paratroopers​

The ear-splitting sound of explosions roiled all around Scalari – naval gunfire continued to punish the British coastal defenses nearby, intermixed with chilling, shrieking whines preceded the aerial bombardment detonations around the airfield, while the colossal roar of British artillery shells pummeled the scattered Italian paratroopers. Scalari reached into the inner pocket of Starace’s jacket, pulling forth a folded map of Malta with several points encircled in red grease pencil marks. Unfolding the map, he laid it down upon his commander’s chest, raking grit from the surface while he scanned for noticeable landmarks. He identified his chalk’s rally point near the town of Luqa; his battalion objective had been the capture of the RAF aerodrome situated nearby.

Scalari could not be sure, but given his observation of the battlefield during his drop, he presumed that his transport had strayed too far north, with the result that his fellow paratroopers had fallen closer to the southern periphery of Valletta rather than airfield at Luqa. He could see no other paratroopers nearby; if other members of his squad had managed to survive the drop, they were not visible. It was entirely possibly that his comrades had entrenched themselves, hoping to weather the storm of British artillery while they waited for the 2nd and 3rd waves of paratroopers to reinforce them before advancing. He could hear intensive rifle fire to his north, and despite the likelihood of encountering friendly forces if he moved in that direction towards Valletta, Scalari vacillated between following his orders and rallying near Luqa in the south, or moving north and potentially finding friendly forces.

Looking up, Scalari noted that the second wave of paratroopers was beginning to descend from their transports. As he had feared, Scalari noted that many of the transports were not in formation; many aircraft limped along, apparently damaged, and several transports had broken out of formation completely, disgorging paratroopers at irregular intervals and during erratic, possibly evasive, maneuvers. British anti-aircraft fire seemed to have intensified since the attack began, and the sky above Malta was filled with flak fragments and splotches of black smoke. Making matters worse, several pairs of British fighters marauded through the transports, careening above and below slower-moving groups of Italian aircraft, taking advantage of the confusion to evade Italian interceptors and still strike and the vulnerable transport aircraft. The skies above appeared sewn with absolute confusion, Scalari thought to himself as he scanned the map again. The red grease pencil circle around Luqa seemed darker, more menacing in color, and it took Scalari a moment to realize that blood from one of Starace’s gut wounds had stained the underside of the map and was permeating onto the other side. As he watched, the red circle around Luqa slowly filled until it was completely covered. To Scalari, the message was clear. He folded the map and tucking it inside his pocket; hefting his weapon, he ensured that the safety was disengaged and made his way south towards Luqa.

Valletta’s Grand Harbor writhes in anguish after successive waves of Axis bombers maul British installations​

From the topmost observation point in the belfry of St. Andrew’s cathedral in Luqa, British corporal Stanley Tod observed Scalari’s movements with the aid of a pair of binoculars. Though thousands of yards away, Tod could see the Italian paratrooper’s movements in stark contrast to the deserted and streets and fields around Luqa; the entire population of the town, and of the entire island for that matter, had descended into Malta’s extensive network of air raid shelters at the first wail of the alarm sirens, and as a result, any outdoor movement at all was clearly evident to the casual observer. Dense smoke plumes rose from distant Valletta, some five kilometers north, though so far the attack had seemed to spare Luqa.

Tod had ascended into the wrecked bell tower before dawn, and as a result, he had witnessed the very beginning of the Italian attack from an exceptionally-advantageous vantage point. Like most of the British soldiers that had managed to escape from Alexandria prior its fall, Tod was wounded and in poor spirits. The unimaginable magnitude of the British defeat in North Africa was the least of his concern, however; disturbing him most was the knowledge that the man that had saved him from almost certain death in the trenches south of Alexandria had not just been killed, but murdered by a suspected Italian agent. Gerald Gallatin, an American radio technician working with the recently-murdered US military liaison officer Colonel Bonner Fellers, had pulled the wounded Tod from a trench just moments before Italian assault troops had overrun the area. In similarly dramatic fashion, Tod had been placed on the last flotilla of ships that had escaped from the blockaded Alexandria harbor before Italian forces had stormed the city. Eight months later and still nursing an injured left arm, Tod had convalesced on Malta primarily because the small squadron of corvettes and transports that had managed to slip out of Alexandria were destroyed in Valletta harbor only days after discharging their human cargo. Tod’s surviving superiors had assured him that Malta was an impregnable fortress, and indeed for a while, it seemed as if the Italian war machine would bypass the island altogether.

Since arriving on Malta, Tod had gotten into the habit of rising before dawn and trudging up a narrow spiral staircase to the magnificent ruins of the St. Andrew’s cathedral campanile; from his perch, Tod could command vast vistas of the surrounding terrain, which he sketched and illustrated with a small notebook and a dozen colored pencils gifted to him from one of the cathedral’s Franciscan monks. Tod had a real talent for bringing depictions of Malta’s picturesque patchwork of fields and farms to life, but Tod’s real impulse for surmounting the bell tower stairs was the solace and quiet afforded by its isolation. Drawing on its ancient Knights Hospitaller heritage, Malta featured over 25 major hospitals on the island; despite the prevalence of medical wards, however, the nave, choir, and transepts of St. Andrews were filled with wounded and non-ambulatory injured. The cathedral’s cavernous walls ceaselessly echoed with the anguished cries of the infirm and afflicted. There was no shortage of wounded in the British Empire, and the tiny island was filled with causalities from Egypt, East Africa, and the Middle East that had managed to evacuate before rampaging Italian armies could overrun those areas. Tod had little stomach for the suffering of others, and regimented soldierly life held little appeal to him, despite his family’s rich military heritage.

Stanley Tod had realized from a very early age that he was not like his older brother Ronnie. Whereas Stanley would be content with reading a book or solving a crossword puzzle, Ronnie’s swashbuckling demeanor and intimidating physical size only served to further differentiate the age difference between the two. Though only separated by 3 years, when seen in public, Stanley and Ronnie were frequently mistaken for father and son rather than brothers who had gone to the same preparatory school for two years. Stanley did not consider himself a coward by any stretch, and he went great lengths to prove to his older brother that he was a capable and dependable, but most of this was for effect rather than an indication of his intrinsic character. While Ronnie had volunteered for the Army years prior to the outbreak of hostilities, Stanley had been drafted scarcely three months after the beginning of the war; Ronnie had used all of his considerable influence to get Stanley assigned to a front-line unit, hoping to help his little brother see the action that he thought Stanley wanted, but Stanley’s performance with the British 8th Army resulted in no promotions or recognition, and only served to prove to Stanley that he had no business in a front-line military unit. For the majority of his time in North Africa, Stanley Tod filed reports for the XXX Corp’s quartermaster.

Tod continued to watch Scalari slowly approach the town’s northern frontier; there was not much in the way of cover for the Italian paratrooper, and Scalari alternated between sprinting amongst the low stone walls that separated different family fields and protracted observation from concealment. For a brief moment, Tod considered illustrating the scene with an abstract charcoal action sketch; he rapidly flipped through several filled pages in order to find a blank page, passing by several unfinished attempts to draw a passable visage of his brother. It has been two years since they had last seen each other, and Stanley realized with painful clarity that he was slowly forgetting what Ronnie looked like.

Tod turned back to look north again, noting that the Italian paratroopers appeared to be well trained, utilizing cover and moving quickly in order to avoid detection and/or enemy fire, but that he appeared to be alone. Is he a scout? Separated from his unit? Is he trying to surrender? Tod wondered passively about the invader’s motivations before the gruesome realization that he could be another Italian assassin struck him like a runaway truck. An image of ‘Lambchop’ Gallatin fluttered before his eyes; Tod had only met Gallatin briefly, but his eager smile had stained itself into Tod’s memory. All of his comrades had spoken highly of him, and his courage under fire had been nothing short of legendary.

Slowly, and with excruciating deliberateness, Stanley Tod lowered his binoculars and reached for his rifle.

For a brief moment, Tod wondered if he was capable of harboring the same killer instinct that so relentlessly drove his brother, as if it were heredity birthright that they both shared. He had never killed anyone before. In actuality, he had never even fired his weapon in combat; the sheer violence of the Italian attack in Alexandria had left him near-catatonic in the bottom of his squad’s trench. Centering the scope’s reticle on Scalari’s head, Tod sighed heavily, willing himself to overcome his natural inclination for passivity while simultaneously recalling his marksmanship training from years prior.

Corporal Stanley Todd takes aim at Corporal Attilio Scalari​

Scalari squatted behind yet another stone palisade; he was still several hundred yards from Luqa proper, and would be a difficult target for Tod to hit even while stationary. Adjusting the sights for maximum range, Tod zeroed in on his quarry, noting with surprised disgust that at that range, even the slightest gust of wind or body twitch caused Scalari to disappear from view. Alone with his thoughts, Tod began to question the un-sportsmanlike nature of sniping someone that had no idea they were even being targeted. Shooting someone that was unaware of danger did not make sense in his mind; his brother had always made war seems like a glorious enterprise, a physical struggle of strength and endurance. As Scalari crept ever closer to the town, finally leaving the protection of the rock palisade, Tod tracked his movements with his rifle but removed his index finger from the trigger.

In a frantic dash, Scalari finally crossed the outermost Luqa street and penetrated into the town’s perimeter; he pressed his body against the side of a small cottage and jerkily peered down the alley that separated him from the next row of buildings. High above, Tod centered his sights on his unwitting prey. Through his scope, Tod could finally see Scalari’s face; he was breathing heavily, his chest heaving severely underneath the thick green fabric of his paratrooper tunic. That was unsurprising considering how far he had traveled across the barren field in so short a time, but Tod noticed something else in the contours and grimaces on Scalari’s face. It was an expression Tod knew only too well. Scalari was afraid.

It was only a matter of time before the other British soldiers in Luqa would notice Scalari; the bombardment would subside in time, at which point the troops tasked with the defense of the town would emerge from their shelters and return to their bunkers and trenches. The more Tod thought about it, the lone Italian paratrooper’s apparent anxiety seemed to indicate that he was looking for other members of his squad, and that perhaps Luqa was his rally point. Scalari’s face now filled most of Tod’s rifle scope, and Tod could clearly see matted perspiration clinging to the Italian’s eyebrows and forehead. At that point, Tod realized that he simply couldn’t summon the strength to kill.

Taking aim at the house opposite Scalari, Tod fired a single round into a ceramic roof tile. Shards of masonry ricocheted onto Scalari, causing him to shield his face with his left arm. Tod believed that the shot would drive off the Italian and send him fleeing back to the north, but rather than retreat, the Italian paratrooper began looking for the shooter. It was a rather foolish action, Tod thought, to expose one’s face towards the suspected direction of a sniper’s position. Nevertheless, the Italian scanned south into the city, eventually focusing on Tod’s position in the belfry as the most likely position of his assailant.

Tod dipped his rifle downward, disengaging himself from the scope to see with his normal vision. His eyes locked with Scalari, and for the briefest of moments, there was a recognition or understanding of sorts between the two men. Distant bombs falling into Valletta shook both men back to the reality of the situation, and Tod motioned to Scalari with his finger and then pointed back across the northern plain. It took a moment for Scalari to comprehend that the British sniper was trying to save his life.

Legions of bombs cartwheeled into the Maltese soil further north, pounding installation, machines, and men into dust. Scalari scampered his way back into this churning cacophony of swirling death, grateful for the second chance given to him through the benevolence of an unknown British rifleman.

Meanwhile, deep in the Bavarian Alps…​

Klaus Bundt’s naked body shivered violently in the frigid Bavarian air. Convulsions wracked his scrawny frame repeatedly as he squatted in the crook of a gigantic granite staircase, furiously rubbing his palms against his skin in an effort to product warmth. Though the encroaching twilight threatened to drop the temperature even more, Bundt chattered out an almost inaudible prayer of thanks for the coming cloak of darkness. Against all odds, he had somehow managed to escape from the clutches of the dreaded Gestapo.

During an exceptionally inconceivable series of events, Bundt had seemingly circumvented all layers of Gestapo security at their formidable Augsburg Stapostellen in southern Bavaria. Over the previous several weeks, Bundt had been subjected to the very worst in psychological torture at the hands of his Gestapo guards. On the day after his personal interrogation by Hitler, he had been thrown into a dungeon cell wearing only his soiled underwear. In the middle of his cell was a very high table with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies on top, but no matter how hard he tried, Mr. Bundt was unable to reach them. Warm tendrils of moist, baked chocolate magnificence wafted down to him for hours on end, but there was no relief for the American secret agent, as the legs of the table had been liberally slathered with high-viscosity motor oil, thus preventing Bundt from ascending. Eventually, Bundt sat down on his cot to mull his situation, but no sooner than he reclined backwards did he discover that both of his pillows had been stuffed with cotton candy sealed with a thick plastic pillow case. Bundt clawed at the pillow, trying to release the puffed sugar from its transparent prison, but to no avail. He took to bashing the pillow against the floor, the wall, even the legs of the gigantic table that dominated the center of his room, but the plastic casing was simply too thick. Bundt sat back down on the couch and began to cry softly to himself. “Is there no end to your depraved cruelty???” he wailed aloud before finally passing out from exhaustion.

The following weeks were filled with even more exquisite forms of torture for the hapless Mr. Bundt. At the end of the second week of captivity, his Gestapo captors began purposefully preparing his standard breakfast omelet without cheese. Further adding to his torment, dinner table salt shakers often had their caps purposefully unscrewed, resulting in several ‘accidental’ spills atop Bundt’s evening meals. Later that same week, the nefarious Gestapo led a 3-week old declawed ferret into Bundt’s one room cell while he was asleep. Bundt awoke to find the predator perched upon his midsection, gently kneading his blanket and purring threateningly, at which point Bundt violently erupted from his bed and fled to the other side of the cell, screaming indecipherably. On the other side of a one-way glass mirror, Gestapo agents howled in laughter as Bundt shrieked around the room until finally knocking himself unconsciousness after slipping on one of his many magazines and falling face first onto the floor.

By the end of December, Bundt’s captors had grown so complacent that they rarely even checked on him. Having exhausted their capacity for sinister depravity, many of the Gestapo agents focused their efforts on captured foreign agents from nations that were actually at war with Germany, or suspected subversives from inside the Reich. On 6 January, an opportunity for escape finally presented itself when Bundt’s custodial specialist arrived for what the Gestapo called Die Morgen Bettlaken Sanierungsprozess, or “the morning bed-sheet refurbishment process,” at which time Bundt’s undergarments were also replaced. A 92-year old French wet-nurse (retired) named Audra had been conscripted for ‘volunteer’ custodial duties shortly after the German occupation of Strasbourg, and immediately after walking into Bundt’s cell, she was overcome by a unexpected case of the Vapors and fainted, leaving the door to the outside corridor open. Without a moment’s hesitation, Bundt scampered over to the door and peered outside. Bunt observed a long, dim hallway adorned with torch-lit oil portraits of various medieval torture devices spaced between what could only be doors to other interrogation rooms. There was no sign of any guards in either direction.

Bundt looked back at the prone body of Audra, his erstwhile maid, whose rumpled frame lied contorted on the stone floor. “What fresh hell is this?” he murmured as he puzzled over her sudden afflicted state. Bundt felt tempted to go to her aid, to relax the straps on her restrictive torso girdle, or perhaps loosen the comically-oversized 40 pound weight ball that the Gestapo goons had chained to her leg in order to prevent her escape. As he stared at her, however, Bundt was suddenly struck by an epiphany; Audra’s simple and formless green shift dress, combined with her austere aura, a chain draped at her feet, and vaguely feminine features stoked a powerful similarity to a stricken Lady Liberty, almost as if a visage of the Statue of Liberty was lying here before him. To Bundt, the allegory was clear; as much as he wanted to help his beleaguered comrade, a sudden infusion of patriotic duty compelled him to believe that reporting his conversation with der Führer to the US Government would be a much better use of his time. Filled with nationalistic American fervor, Bundt expressed his gastrointestinal distress one last time before flinging himself into the dark hallway, mutedly humming the lyrics to The Star Spangled Banner as he crept.

Fortune smiled on young Klaus Bundt, and he managed to avoid detection during his hallway slinking excursion. For several minutes, Bundt fumbled around, sometime backtracking, oftentimes hitting a dead end, but he kept moving as silently as a wraith in his bare feet as he slunk through the deserted dark caverns of the enormous building. An abrupt drop in temperature alerted him to an open door nearby, and moments later he came across a half-open service gate. Dark green canvas duffel bags filled with SS uniforms lined the inside of a large loading bay. Through the space between the doors, Bundt could tell it was dusk outside, and he slipped into an exterior courtyard unnoticed.

Bundt slinked towards the area of darkest shadow in the building’s service courtyard, which happened to be in the crook of a gigantic granite staircase. Bundt bided his time patiently, doing whatever he could to keep warm while he waited for an opportunity to escape. It wasn’t long before a vehicle approached, and two porters from inside the massive building emerged to unload it while the driver strode off to smoke a cigarette. Between loads, Bundt crept back into the loading bay and into the vehicle, hiding himself underneath a pile of soiled uniform bags. Moments later, he felt a violent lurch as the vehicle’s engine sprung to life.

Opel Laundry Transport Model Sd.Kfz LT-1 Ausf. G (file photo)​

As the transmission underneath clanked into successively higher gears, Bundt allowed himself a small reprieve from the near-constant state of agitation he had impressed upon himself during his escape. Combined with the loss of adrenalin, the warmth afforded by the multitude of uniforms mingled with the droning of the engine to induce an almost inescapable slumber. Before finally fading into sleep, Bundt drowsily mumbled, “Wherever I’m going, it can’t be any worse than that place was.”

1st SS Division Liebenstardte redeploys to the western Indian Ocean​

Over 10,000 kilometers to the southeast, the German Führer relaxed on the shores of a secluded tropical beach on the northernmost Zanzibari island of Pemba. It was mid-summer in the southern hemisphere, and gentle breezes swept through a lush swath of palm trees and high grasses with a perpetual, almost mystic regularity. In the turquoise lagoons just offshore, long-snouted gulls dove into the surf, emerging with skewered fish trailing from their talons, while distant avian shrieks further down the coast tranquilly accented the nearby waves crashing onto boulders scattered along the beachfront nearby.

Over his seven years as absolute ruler of the Third Reich, Der Führer had allowed himself few extravagances. In fact, many, if not most, would claim that Hitler spent far too little effort on his own indulgences; while it may be a noble pursuit to totally devote one’s self to an occupation, Hitler’s zeal for chancellorship far exceeded passion or loyalty. To many of his closest comrades, Hitler’s dedication to National Socialism reminded most of them of someone possessed.

Mission accomplished: a hearty glass of milk, a good book, and an afternoon nap for Der Führer​

Supporters would claim that Hitler had little to worry himself with at the current stage of the war; the British were still reeling from their defeats in France, the Mediterranean, the Middle East, and increasingly, in sub-Saharan Africa, where Italian troops continued to press south from recently-secured Abyssinia. Nevertheless, Hitler continued to pressure his industrial plutocrats to ever-greater feats of productive greatness by unceasingly prioritizing technological innovation in all aspects of the German economy. Prior to his departure, Hitler had formally consolidated all of the disparate Army Command Advanced Weapons Design Bureau enclaves into a single Nazi fiefdom entitled the Citadel aus Heeres Erweiterte Waffendesign Büro Achsenmächte Kollektiv Anreicherung, or simply CHEWBAKA for short. Hitler had explained that the collectivization was necessary to prevent unnecessary expenditure of effort along divergent design paths, but most had no delusions about his reason for reorganization and recognized that Hitler simply didn’t trust anyone else to run a ministry of such importance to the Reich.

In much the same way as Mussolini had pitted the different ministries against each other in order to solidify his own position, Adolf Hitler was constantly shifting resources between his various subordinates. Even though the war was going well for Germany at the moment, there was still fierce competition between Himmler and Goering to secure the best recruits, even if they didn’t need them. Goering’s Luftwaffe, for instance, only had so many planes to find pilots for, and his continental flak batteries could be manned with school children and women if need be, but that wasn’t going to deter him from trying to get as many troops allocated to the Luftwaffe as he could get; Goering’s planned Luftwaffe field divisions would need many officers, and would not only project German power over all of Europe, but also solidify his position as the second most important citizen of the Reich. Similarly, the ambitious Heinrich Himmler’s Waffen SS currently fielded only three total mechanized divisions, but this was insufficient for the planned political army of arguably the third most important persona in Greater Germania; in addition to his extensive internal security deployments, Himmler also wanted to enhance his position in the Third Reich, and as a result he drafted as many men as he could into the burgeoning arena, without really having a need for them, by placing impossibly-high physical and psychological requirements for new all Waffen SS recruits to ensure that only the best men were admitted. Minister of Production Albert Speer, who was responsible for Germany’s factories, infrastructure, and manufacturing, also had a need for skilled graduates and engineers, as, of course, did the Wehrmacht and Kreigsmarine for their own activities, but Hitler did not want to jeopardize the vital research and technology establishment with petty internecine political conflicts, which is why the director of CHEWBAKA was not a minister at all, but Hitler himself.

Der Führer’s unceasing lust to expand the dominions of the Third Reich did not stop at simply fostering technical innovation and efficiency, however. His trip to Zanzibar, ostensibly for relaxation, was actually a calculated political maneuver intended to recover sovereign German territory. Unbeknownst to almost everyone in the OKH and OKW, or to any of his other ministers, the real purpose behind Hitler’s clandestine holiday excursion to Pemba was the reconstitution of the former German East African colony of Tanganyika.

Hitler had long claimed that the Tanganyikan campaign waged against the British during the First World War was something that should be glorified and added to the burgeoning epic mythos of growing Aryan invincibility; now that the territory was for all intents and purposes back on the winning side, he felt strongly that the area should be re-Germanized to honor the 3,500 brave shultztruppen that had toiled and sacrificed in the unforgiving African jungle in order to tie down over 180,000 Allied soldiers that otherwise would have fought against the valiant soldiers of Fatherland back in Europe during World War One. Hitler was well versed in the military exploits of General Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck, one of the most celebrated German heroes of WWI, who successfully fought against British forces that massively outnumbered his colonial garrison for several years. Hitler firmly believed that only the return of this sovereign German territory would atone for its unrighteous usurpation by the rapacious Versailles victors at the end of World War I.

In an infuriating sort of way, travel to the African east coast was greatly facilitated by the Italian conquest of North Africa and the Levant; since the fall of Alexandria, air and naval traffic through the Mediterranean and Red Seas had become a placid and worry-free as a Sunday afternoon drive along a Prussian Autobahn. From Berlin, Hitler and his entourage had traveled to successive Italian airbases in Trieste, Tirana, Alexandria, and finally Assab before finally landing in the great Indian Ocean port of Dar-es-Salaam. Hitler had grand intentions for Tanganyika; much like his push to bring Sudeten, Czech, and Alsatian Germans back into the fold, many ethnic Germans still lived in the area and, according to Hitler, his fellow Aryans needed the protection that comes with full Reich citizenship. The great port of Dar-es-Salaam also offered a large base for the imminent expansion of the Kriegsmarine, with the further advantage of providing a well-protected halfway-point for ocean transport between Germany and her allies in the Far East. Of far more importance, of course, was the elimination of the Leprechaun menace that Hitler believed emanated from Zanzibar. Heavily armed troops of SS Leibstandarte bodyguards, clad in prototype tropical Green Erbsenmuster tunics, prowled the treeline at all times. Their objective was to protect der Führer from all enemies, real and imagined; occasionally, coconuts were subjected to bayonet thrusts due to Hitler’s insistence that they were “Leprechaun Eggs” upon seeing them for the first time.

Oblivious to the activities of his security detail working tirelessly behind the scenes, a visibly-drained Hitler avails himself to some of Zanzibar’s restorative activities​

Caressed by the soft tendrils of his palm frond hammock, Hitler gently rocked back and forth, the sound of the distant surf rising and falling with his oscillations. In a small sketchbook perched in his lap, he outlined his latest idea for crushing the hated British. He had drawn a truly massive armored fighting vehicle; protruding from the front of the tank was a massive variant of the formidable 88mm Flak gun, while a flat-front turret with 8” of armor protected the crew inside. Wide tracks enabled easier cross-country movement, and offset bogey wheels helped to dissipate the heavy weight of the vehicle, which Hitler had estimated at approximately “65 standard Hitler-tons” on a note in the margin. Hitler had drawn the main gun so large that, per his marginal notes, secondary armament would not be required. Long streaks of fire emanated from the vehicle’s canon, indicating that the tank was in action; along the right margin of the page, several crudely–drawn huts adorned with blue Stars of David burned furiously, while several yarmulkes and menorahs appeared to be crushed beneath the treads.

Satisfied with his sketch, Hitler dropped his charcoal pencil into the crease of his sketchbook and scanned his surroundings. “I must come up with a name for this new harbinger of deliverance,” mumbled the Führer, “something that conveys its animalistic fury and indomitable strength.” Overhead, tropical songbirds squawked harmonious melodies underneath palm canopies while the distant surf slapped the shores of the nearby beach. Looking over his right shoulder, Hitler scanned the distant inland forest, searching for inspiration. As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light of the forest, he spied a jungle puma leaping from a tree branch onto an adjacent tree trunk, a fluid movement rife with sublime grace and agile purpose. Hitler briefly considered the animal before abruptly dismissing the puma as not lethal enough. Leaning up and looking behind him, Hitler observed the jungle directly south. After a moment of careful scanning, Hitler’s patience was rewarded with the chance glance of a lynx falling from a stone outcropping onto an unsuspecting Zanzibari wildebeest; the lynx made short work of the wildebeest, quickly tearing open the victim’s throat with a savage claw swipe. Hitler watched the spectacle in mild amusem*nt, stroking his clean-shaven chin deliberately as the lynx angrily vivisected the sputtering hog creature, before finally muttering, ”No….’lynx’ won’t do…not terrifying enough.”

Anguished, medieval mewing and the sounds of thrashing soon dissipated, and Hitler turned towards the northern fringe of the inland jungle. At first, he saw nothing but placid jungle foliage, with dense palm tree branches casting a muted green haze over a forest floor perfumed in a low-lying mist. Moments later, Hitler spotted a creature perched on a branch just over the heads of two camouflaged SS Leibstandarte soldiers making a Leprechaun sweep. Before he had time to yell a warning at his bodyguard soldiers, a jungle panther leaped down and attacked both soldiers simultaneously. The panther wasted no time in shredding the skin of both soldiers in a visceral death-orgy of destruction. Millennia of violent instinct tempered by survivalist calculation, paired with a taut and supply body made exclusively to supports its place at the top of the jungle food chain, resulted in a beast that was nearly unstoppable. The fight was over quickly; the panther’s razor-sharp claws and terrific, bounding strength resulted in a creature that was more a factory for churning out cadavers than anything else, and the heavy armament of the SS Leibstandarte soldiers proved no match for the unleashed brutality and savagery of the panther attack.

Faint screams were quickly silenced by powerful throat clawings of the type that native Zanzibari animals was apparently quite fond of, and Hitler once again found himself deep in thought as to the new name for his prototype tank. “Hmmmm…,” Hitler thought wistfully, “ ‘Panther’ might work…but is there something bigger and more ferocious than a panther? ” Hitler looked again at his drawing; it seemed so much bigger than the houses and Jews that it was crushing. It needed a name that appropriately suited its colossal size and capability for complete annihilation.

As if on cue, a distant howling bellowed through the trees, momentarily silencing the breaking surf. Hitler looked back towards the south and, far in the distance, could see trees parting as something massive plied its way towards the beach. Even the panther took a momentary pause from teething on human flesh to look over his shoulder towards the onrushing danger. Another triumphant roar emanated from the jungle, closer this time, and Hitler began to slowly slink from the hammock towards the beach. Several of his SS soldiers now stood nearby, weapons raised and pointing towards the crashing calamity coursing through the trees. The sand beneath their feet began to vibrate; Hitler looked down to see a multitude of grains levitate into the air, which remained aloft as the impacts drew nearer.

A pair of massive trees crashing to the ground near the panther’s human feast heralded the arrival of the nefarious creature, a massive, dual-tusked African elephant with a tiger and a leopard impaled upon its opposing horns. The fearsome creature brandished sinewy grey skin every inch as think a medium tank’s armored steel plate; colossal legs stamped steamship funnel-sized chasms in the ground, while its serpentine trunk brazenly roared while whipped through the air like an epileptic composer’s baton at some kind of bizarre seizure-awareness convention.

Hitler was at once catatonic and impressed. He took in the spectacle before him, noting all the different creatures mingled together in a bizarre menagerie “Leopard? Hmmm….Tiger? Now ‘elephant’ might work,” he stuttered through chattering teeth as the elephant shifted menacingly towards them. Even to Hitler it was obvious that his nearby bodyguard, armed with 9mm MP-38 submachine pistols, had insufficient firepower to stave off an enraged elephant charge.

It was at that moment that Viceroy Amedeo di Savoy, Duke of Aosta and Viceroy for all of Italian East Africa, arrived on the scene at the head of his diplomatic delegation. Rolling up in a pair of German-issue halftracks with sand tires adapted for use on Pemba’s coastal terrain, the Viceroy quickly sized up the situation and deployed his small contingent of bodyguards forward towards the gigantic elephant with the intent of driving it off. Rapid fire from his squad’s automatic rifles ensued, which were shortly thereafter joined by the Leibstandarte’s soldiers’ own attack. Within moments, the monstrous pachyderm’s assault abruptly halted, and a well-placed headshot from Amedeo’s own elephant gun brought the beast crashing down onto the beach.

The Italian and German groups trepidatiously converged on the stricken animal; Leibstandarte soldiers were careful to stand between their Führer and the Italian soldiers, despite the alliance between their empires, and an uneasy silence descended over the scene as the men absorbed the leviathan-esque enormity of the felled jungle giant. Rather than gaze at the stricken elephant, Hitler glared at his counterpart, attempting to feel out the Italian prince. Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop had informed Hitler that Viceroy Amedeo di Savoy was highly regarded by both his government and his people, had a penchant for hunting, was an accomplished aviator with a distinguished combat record, and had demonstrated great fortitude and charisma in holding the Italian East African forces together in the face of Montgomery’s violent assault at the onset of the war. Hitler reminded himself that this was no backwater regional magistrate that he was dealing with here; he would have to frame his argument for the reconstitution of Tanganyika in a cogent, compelling, and altogether logical manner.

“I want this island back. Also I want that one over there,” blurted Hitler as he gestured towards what he thought was Zanzibar but was actually just an offshore atoll in the wrong direction. Hitler coughed impetuously before adding, “also, the mainland area up to the Belgian Congo territory.”

The Italian Viceroy smiled contemptuously as the German Chancellor rattled off his demands; hands rooted to his hips, his eyes pressed to slits, Amedeo waited for Hitler to finish and then waited longer, his silence allowing the ascendant Italian prestige in the war to date to disseminate far more efficiently than mere words could convey. Amedeo had learned from his studies at Oxford that the individual that can walk away from a negotiation is in the superior position, and he played the role of the indispensable patron magnificently, allowing doubt and uncertainty to filter into Hitler’s mind without so much as a word or overt action from the Italian viceroy.

Amedeo had been briefed on Hitler during his last visit to Rome, when he had looked in on the recovering Count Ciano; Ciano had revealed his lackluster impression of Hitler garnered from their several meetings, reminding Amedeo that the Führer was prone to inexplicable personality shifts and intense, sometimes insane, outbursts. Consequently, Amedeo knew at least as much about Hitler as Hitler knew about Amedeo. Careful not to unnecessarily enrage one of Hitler’s deviant or volatile personalities in close proximity to so many armed men, Amedeo finally spoke to Hitler, his voice soaked in sanctimonious cynicism, “Welcome to Italian East Africa. Please join us for dinner. We’re having fish.”

Hitler briefly furowed his brow in apparent beguilement before quickly bubbling over with glee. “I like fish,” he spat out unreservedly. The group began to walk to the halftracks, and Amedeo nodded before responding, “After dinner, we can talk about your little requests.”

Der Führer postulates that a few more days in Tanganyika shouldn’t necessarily endanger the German war effort…​