The American Race War

The Mercedes-Benz 770, also known as the Großer Mercedes or "Grand Mercedes," glided through the nearly deserted streets of Berlin’s government district on Wilhelmstrasse. It moved with purpose, heading towards the imposing Reich Chancellery, the seat of power for the Führer and Chancellor of Nazi Germany, Adolf Hitler. The date was April 23, 1945, and outside the capital, Allied forces were closing in. The war that Hitler had once predicted would last a thousand years was now in its final days. Germany was collapsing on all fronts. Soviet troops were storming into the eastern suburbs, while American and British forces pressed in from the west. Inside the city, the German military, once feared across Europe, was reduced to defending street by street, house by house. The Reich was in its death throes, and the government was crumbling under the weight of inevitable defeat. The Mercedes came to a smooth halt in front of the Chancellery, its polished exterior a sharp contrast to the devastation that surrounded Berlin. Before his armed orderly could reach the rear door, a high-ranking Schutzstaffel (SS) officer stepped out. His black uniform gleamed, and the insignia on his collar marked him as an SS-Gruppenführer, the equivalent of a lieutenant general in the Wehrmacht. This man was no ordinary officer; he had been summoned personally by the Führer. Without hesitation, the SS-Gruppenführer strode toward the entrance, where a waiting guard ushered him into the building and led him underground into the infamous Führerbunker. The Führerbunker, located beneath the Chancellery gardens, had become Hitler's final refuge—a grim, suffocating bunker complex that served as the command center during the last desperate days of the Nazi regime. The bunker was dark and damp, filled with the smell of stale air and fear. It was here that Hitler would spend his last days, isolated from the world, surrounded by loyalists who still believed in the dream of a Großdeutsches Reich even as it crumbled around them. The officer was led to Hitler’s private study, a small, sparsely furnished room deep within the bunker. The Führer was seated behind his desk, scribbling feverishly on a piece of paper. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp, casting shadows on the walls, a fitting backdrop for the man who had once commanded the world’s attention but was now presiding over the ashes of his empire. The officer clicked his heels and threw a sharp salute, extending his right arm straight out in the Nazi salute, his voice echoing in the small room, "Mein Führer!" "Sit down, Maximilian," Hitler said, waving him toward a chair. His voice was calm but heavy with the weight of finality. "We don’t have much time. I have a task for you, one that will ensure the Reich lives on, even after we are gone." Maximilian Richter, the officer, took his seat, his face betraying no emotion, though inside, he knew the gravity of the moment. As Hitler continued to write on several sheets of paper, Richter remained silent, his mind racing with thoughts of what this task might be. Whatever it was, it was clear that Hitler trusted him enough to carry it out in the final hours of the Reich. When Hitler finished writing, he carefully folded the papers and placed them inside a large envelope. Rising from his chair, he handed the envelope to Richter, who stood as well. "These are your instructions," Hitler said, his eyes locking with Richter’s. "Everything you need to know is in here. I’ve arranged for a driver to take you to a meeting place where you will receive further assistance. You must leave immediately. There is no time to waste." Richter took the envelope, feeling its weight in his hands. He knew that whatever was inside, it was the last directive of a dying regime. "I understand, mein Führer," he replied. "You are fluent in English," Hitler continued, "and your skills as a pilot will serve you well. You will be taken to a private airstrip we’ve constructed for this mission. A British aircraft will be waiting for you. Your destination is America." Richter’s pulse quickened, but he remained composed. "Mein Führer," he said, saluting once again before turning on his heels and marching out of the room. As he left, Hitler sank back into his chair. The reports from all fronts were grim, and he knew the end was near. He was making his final moves, putting the last pieces of his plan into motion before it was too late. Outside, an SS-Untersturmführer from the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler elite unit stood by a Horch 901. He opened the door for Richter, who glanced briefly at his beloved Mercedes-Benz before getting into the waiting car. As they pulled away from the Chancellery, Richter opened the envelope and began reading the detailed instructions. By the time they arrived at a nondescript house on the outskirts of Reichshauptstadt, he understood his mission. At the house, a woman answered the door after Richter knocked twice. She led him into a small, dimly lit room where a scientist sat with a young boy. Richter recognized the man—he had been working on secret projects for the Reich. "Come, boy," Richter said. The child, no more than six or seven years old, stood up obediently and followed Richter to the waiting car. Hans, the driver, pulled out a silenced Walther P38 and walked into the house. Richter heard the muffled gunshots from inside as Hans quietly eliminated any witnesses to the operation. Minutes later, Hans returned to the car, and they set off for a small, hidden airstrip outside the city. The main Berlin-Tempelhof Airport had been bombed into uselessness, but a British Bristol Beaufighter awaited them at the secret airstrip, disguised and ready for flight. Three men stood beside the aircraft, and one handed Richter a change of clothes—a British lieutenant’s uniform. Richter changed quickly, donning the disguise that would allow him to carry out his mission. As darkness fell over the bombed-out remains of Berlin, the British aircraft lifted off, its engines roaring as it sped northwest toward the North Sea. Their destination was a U-boat stationed off the coast, waiting to take them to a private vessel that would bring them to the shores of Canada. The mission was clear: to escape the fall of the Third Reich and ensure its rebirth in the shadows. The Reich may have been dying in Europe, but for men like Maximilian Richter, its future lay across the Atlantic. The plan to rebuild the Reich had only just begun.