The Sword of the Swastika

North Africa, June 1941

“Stuka!”

Suddenly a blast shook everything around them: a truck exploded, swallowed by a cloud of fire that hurled sand high into the air. Through the dust, a thousand streaks of flame shot skyward, making the whole scene deafening: the anti-aircraft batteries were desperately trying to counter the Junkers Ju 87 “Stuka” bombers that increasingly filled the sky and devastated everything, reducing to dust the city where the small British contingent had taken position.

“Evans, cover us!”

On what must once have been the city walls, beside the smoking wreck of a small tank, a man aimed his Bren light machine gun at a trench while, in haste, two men reached him—one carrying a small oblong crate.

“Wilson, do you have it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then move your ass. Follow me!”

The trio quickly slipped into the trench, keeping low. The small ditch ended almost immediately and soon, among the ruins of the city, a small salvation appeared: a Willys Jeep.

“Evans, to the machine gun. Wilson, set that thing down, sit up front and take this,” the man said as he headed for the driver’s seat, handing his Bren to his companion. He jumped into the vehicle and hurriedly turned the key already in the ignition. The engine, however, did not start—it coughed loudly.

“Sir, we’ve got company!”

The man who had called Wilson was right. In the rearview mirror he could see men approaching. Armed—and far from friendly.

“Damn it! Cover us, Evans!”

Evans wasted no time. Spinning around, he unleashed the full power of the Browning machine gun mounted on the jeep against the small enemy contingent that had arrived, easily mowing down a couple of men. The others, however, ducked into the ruins. The trio was in trouble—the jeep was completely exposed in open ground. Meanwhile Wilson had also dismounted and, with his Bren, tried to hold back the enemy advance.

“Damn, damn, damn!” The engine refused to start while bullets rang sharply against the metal bodywork.

“They’re going to surround us, sir!”

“Shit!” The driver was already searching for another strategy when, suddenly, at a new turn of the key, a strange, saving sound was heard: the engine roared to life.

“Get in, Wilson!”

The only man outside leapt back aboard. The driver slammed his foot on the accelerator and the small Willys shot forward, tires spinning.

“Hold on!”

At that speed the jeep had little grip on the sandy ground. Behind the driver, Evans hammered at enemy troops popping up everywhere, while Wilson tried to shoot those ahead. The little jeep was almost free, almost leaving that burning city behind.

Then it happened.

Evans saw it first and turned pale. A massive shape emerged from one of the half-destroyed houses.

“Panzer!” he shouted.

The driver swerved violently to avoid it, nearly throwing Evans from his post. But the imposing tank was too close. Its machine guns opened fire immediately at the jeep’s tires. The vehicle, already traveling too fast, lost traction and skidded. It struck the ground and flipped horribly, tumbling several times before coming to rest upside down. Oil spilled onto the sand, quickly mixing with blood.

A few days later, the deafening noises had ceased. The city tried to regain some peace, as calm as the gentle Mediterranean Sea it overlooked.

In the main square, two imposing Panzer tanks distracted attention from a small tent set to the side. Inside, a man in a splendid uniform studied a map spread across a table. Around him stood other uniformed men, eyeing his decorations with admiration and awe.

“We must move quickly, gentlemen. We cannot afford to remain here in Tobruk. The enemy’s armored divisions are retreating toward Egypt—there they will find supplies. We must prevent them from reaching it. We will pursue them.”

Suddenly, however, the sound of a vehicle completely out of place intruded upon the speech. It struggled through the sand: an elegant black Mercedes, luxurious and detached from the war, parked in the center of the square.

A dark figure stepped out. Despite the suffocating heat, the person seemed hidden inside a black leather coat. The cap with the skull insignia and the red armband bearing the swastika froze everyone present—even those inside the tent, toward which the figure now strode quickly.

The man who had been speaking had not seen anything; he realized something had happened only because those before him had frozen. He turned calmly just as the newcomer stopped in front of him.

“Heil Hitler!” the figure shouted, raising a hand.

Incredibly, it was a woman.

“Heil Hitler,” the man replied, then continued.

“Since when does this sandbox interest the SS?”

“Since it represents one of the glories of our Reich, General. Allow me to introduce myself: Obersturmführer Hessel. I bring you the Führer’s personal congratulations on the conquest of Tobruk.”

The general looked at her skeptically.

“So, Obersturmführer, you expect me to believe you came all the way from Berlin to this God-forsaken place just to congratulate me?”

“I have something else to ask of you, General.”

“I suspected as much.”

“May we speak in private?”

“Certainly. Gentlemen…” he addressed the others in the tent “…would you excuse us?”

They nodded and left.

“You, General, possess something that interests the Führer himself.”

The man smiled.

“And our Führer has something that interests me. Where are my supplies? We must depart at once.”

“That is not my concern, General.”

“Oh, it very much is, Obersturmführer,” he said more menacingly. “Return to Berlin at once and ask your beloved Führer to give us those damned supplies—if he wants a final victory in Africa.”

“General, your tone is unacceptable. Remember that you are here only because you enjoy the Führer’s favor. Many in Berlin do not look kindly upon you.”

“Is that a veiled threat?”

“It is a warning. But I repeat—I am here for only one reason. Then I shall leave.”

“What does Hitler want?”

“It appears, General, that you have recovered a very particular object that some Englishmen were attempting to smuggle out of Tobruk.”

The general’s eyes widened.

“That is correct.”

“In the name of Führer Adolf Hitler, I request that you hand it over immediately.”

Not understanding its importance, the general summoned a soldier. Soon he returned with a large rectangular wooden crate. He handed it to the woman, who took it easily and smiled.

“They call you the Desert Fox, General Rommel. Thanks to you, the Final Victory draws ever nearer. Sieg Heil!”

“My supplies, Obersturmführer,” he replied coldly.

“I shall inform High Command of your request,” she said, already walking toward her Mercedes, which quickly departed the city.

The heat of the African summer was now only a memory. A cool breeze stirred the leaves of a forest. Its sweet scents and soft sounds painted a peaceful picture. Yet, upon closer inspection, dark specters could be seen carefully watching over it.

Unconcerned, a man and a woman strolled quietly.

The man, short and with a trembling hand, carried the crate. He opened it and withdrew its contents: a glass sword, its edges glowing with light.

“So this is it?” the small man said.

The woman nodded.

“I trust we shall make good use of it.”

“You have my word, mein Führer.”

---

Historical Note

One of the most significant theaters of war in the Second World War was North Africa. Fighting began under Mussolini’s orders, when Italy, through its colonies in Libya, attacked British forces stationed in Egypt. Although the initial attacks were successful, the Italians soon required German support. The Germans formed the feared Afrika Korps, led by General Edwin Rommel.

Hitler did not merely wish to assist Italy—he envisioned a grand plan: to link his African armies with those invading Russia, crushing Europe in a vast pincer movement capable of destroying the Allies on every front and achieving his long-desired Final Victory.

The plan, of course, never materialized. Although Axis forces achieved important victories—such as the conquest of Tobruk described in this story—the Allies eventually responded. When Rommel had returned to Germany, ill, a new Allied commander took charge: Bernard Montgomery, known as “Monty.” Under his leadership, Axis forces were decisively defeated and driven into the sea. The Allies would then pursue them into Italy, one of the final theaters of the war, where Nazi-Fascist forces were ultimately defeated.

The final part of the story, however, is not set in Africa but in the Wolfsschanze, a bunker hidden in the forests of East Prussia, Hitler’s headquarters from 1941 to 1944. After that year he returned to Berlin, where he would commit suicide in 1945, bringing the Second World War in Europe to an end.

Katherina Hessel will return…