Then minus the uninhibited islands taken we in OTL haven't been invaded for 200 years. It's strange thinking about but with how better off this US is compared to ours, our mainland and country has been safer in OTL.
That's mainly because of a more aggressive Britain and Mexico (and due to the socialists being less reasonable and starting the Falcon Rebellion). It's not on the AMPU US Government.
 
Or imagine Frederick Douglass' horror and bewilderment when he finds out that usually, civil rights doesn't come to the United States until a century after the Civil War.
And in the prime timeline, held back by none other than the father of his killer! Andrew Johnson!
 
I wouldn't mind it if people made a separate thread for a fanmade expanded universe a la WMIT's. Just keep in mind none of it would be canon, obviously.
It's not for here. It's for my own project. I just wanted people to know if they liked the afterlife concept. Just wanted permission to use the concept.
 
This is the narrative part of the upcoming chapter, which I was very excited about. As it's the only completed part so far, I decided to release this a little early as a teaser for the next update, which is coming soon.

Hope you enjoy!

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Five Miles North of Massena, New York, United States of America
December 25, 1916


Lance Corporal William Blake blinked open his eyes, unfolding himself from his crammed sleeping position between the trench wall and a half-dozen other men.

"Get up."

With great effort, Blake wiggled himself free and found himself staring at the face of an officer, a lieutenant, by the looks of the bands on his arm and the scowl on his lips.

"You're on patrol tonight with Stetson," he spat, lighting a cigarette.

Blake rubbed his eyes. "I thought Briggs had patrol."

The lieutenant stamped out his match and took a puff. "Briggs is dead. Caught a bullet to the neck and a bayonet to the gut a coupla hours back. You're on patrol."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Up," he commanded, throwing Blake his helmet. "Now."

The corporal stood, shouldered his pack and rifle, and nodded. "Where do you want me?"

"A little ways up the line, near where Tanabe is. Stetson's already there, you can't miss her, on account that she's a her."

"I wasn't aware we were letting women in a men's battalion, sir."

"We're strapped for good soldiers at the moment, lance corporal. We'll take anyone we can get. And besides, I've seen Stetson on the battlefield. She's worth two men, and has the spirit of ten."

Blake frowned. "I wasn't questioning her ability, just... aw, forget it."

The soldier staggered off down the lines, past rows and rows of sleeping men. Checking his wristwatch, Blake noted that it was a little ways past midnight. Usually that meant the limeys would be tucked in and sound asleep, but the chatter of machine guns and the rolling thunder of artillery pieces that filled the night air proved otherwise. It seemed that the longer the war drug on, the longer everyone stayed up shooting at each other. He brushed past a pair of young men struggling to lift a large stack of film reels and projectors--in honor of whatever holiday was coming soon, the higher-ups in Washington had sent out dozens of copies of the latest Hollywood juggernaut, D. W. Griffith's The Birth of a Nation, to the front for off-duty men to enjoy in between engagements with the enemy. A Wright aeroplane roared by overhead, diving low enough above the trench for Blake to make out the name Paul Revere stenciled onto the side. Fitting, given the time it was riding off at.

He wandered through the trenches, until he found himself at the front lines. There stood a young woman, her long hair pinned back and leaning on a Springfield, gazing over the rise into no man's land. Blake cleared his throat.

The girl looked back and smirked. "Lance Corporal Blake, I presume?"

"Call me Will. You Sergeant Jennie Stetson?"

"The one and only. Here, catch." She tossed him a piece of bread, which Blake ate to silence the grumbling in his stomach. "Merry Christmas, by the way."

"It's Christmas? And here I was thinking Thanksgiving was next week," he remarked.

"Don't get out much?"

"I haven't seen a calendar since October."

They paused. "...We should probably get moving," Stetson sighed.

"Get moving into certain death if we so much as make a wrong move and get blown sky high or shot through the skull? That's my favorite thing to do at half-past midnight. I'll lead the way," Blake said dryly.

"You sure make a lot of jokes for being a soldier on the front lines."

He shrugged. "You either make jokes about war or sit down and cry about it for a month. And I can't afford to lose a month."

"Yeah."

The two of them hesitated at the edge of the earthworks, before giving in and clambering up the side. A fellow soldier bid them farewell with a solemn, almost spiritual nod. It was very likely one or both of them would fail to return from patrol. Up and over they went, tumbling feet-first into the mud with a splat.

Quiet.

That foreign sound, or lack thereof, invaded Blake and Stetson's ears as the chaos of the trench disappeared behind the dirt. Though the guns still continued their incessant symphony, they sounded distant. Faint. The two soldiers couldn't help but speak in hushed tones as they crept through the wasteland, past winding tapestries of barbed wire and through sunken craters filled with bodies, human and equestrian alike. The war had only been going on for six months, but the battlefield looked like it had been decimated and left to rot years ago. Blake could almost picture American patriots traipsing across the horizon just ahead, heading out to defend their liberties from the tyrannical British Empire. The mutual hatred between the two nations ran deep, and reverberated through history.

"I'm going to go over to that hanging fellow a few paces out," the lance corporal whispered, pointing to a dead American dangling from a mess of barbed wire.

Stetson grimaced. "Be careful. They were laying down landmines around here a few days back."

Will Blake made sure to take his time, picking and choosing his steps carefully as his partner watched on. When he reached the soldier, he scowled. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, no more than a boy. The virus of patriotism must have infected him as deeply as it had Blake all those months ago in Saint Louis...

"A fucking shame," he muttered, rifling through the boy's jacket to find a pack of cigarettes, the good shit from the Carolinas. Though still illegal in most states, the president had decreed through an Executive Order that all soldiers seeing combat could freely smoke tobacco products.

It helped with the smell of the bodies.

Aside from that, Blake found a few personal effects, photos of family and the like, which he left on the boy. No need to further desecrate the only grave the kid would be getting. The lance corporal made his way back to Sergeant Stetson, tossed her one of the new cigarettes, and moved on. The pair of them paced up and down their two-mile stretch of patrolling grounds for hours, bonding in the way only siblings-in-arms could. The moon had begun its long descent by the time anything out of the ordinary happened.

"...The hell was that?" Stetson whispered.

"The hell was what?"

"I thought I saw something move out there. Someone."

Blake shrugged. "Probably just a rat."

"No. It was way too big to be a rat. It was a person. It was a human being and I'm sure of it."

"...We have to go look for it now, I hope you realize."

That was protocol. Seeing dark shapes in the night was standard fare in the trenches, but to make sure it wasn't any sneaky little limey bastards trying to get the jump on them, someone always had to investigate. So out the lance corporal and the sergeant marched, deeper and deeper into no man's land, squeezing through gaps in barbed wire and stepping over bodies. And then they saw it. The British front lines. Freshly dug trenches lay there, several hundred feet further ahead than the last reconnaissance patrols had reported just two days ago. Had the limeys built this all in just the short time since then? Perhaps even more terrifying was what was happening in the trenches. Rows and rows of British soldiers milled about, cleaning their weapons, adjusting their uniforms, strapping on their helmets, lacing up their boots. In other words, not sleeping.

"They're getting ready for an attack," Blake shuddered.

"We have to tell the colonel."

"No, wait. If I can get a closer look..." the lance corporal started moving forward.

Stetson grabbed his shoulder and hissed, "Bad idea. You'll get us both killed."

"Or I'll get valuable information."

"So you can get a medal when we go back home?"

Blake stood, rising a full five inches above his female compatriot. "Don't you fucking talk to me about that shit. I've already got a medal, a worthless hunk of scrap, and I wish every goddamn day I didn't. Every bit of information we can get could save a life. It's useful--"

"It wouldn't be very useful if you were dead, soldier," Sergeant Stetson spat.

"Listen up, tough guy--" Lance Corporal Blake began.

"You hear that?"

A tidal wave of realization and fear knocked the American duo to the ground, as the harsh tones of a sharp Yorkshire accent rolled over no man's land. Their argument had caught the ear of the lobsterbacks in the trenches, and they were getting curious.

"Probably just the wind, mate," another Brit said, fastening a bayonet to his rifle.

"Sounded like voices to me," the first one remarked.

"Then go on out and check if you're that paranoid," sniggered a third.

"You know what? I will. Just to make you rest better at night, Quinten. I know you sleep with that blanket your mum sent you." There was a chorus of laughter, as the still-grinning face of a British soldier popped up over the edge of the trench.

"Howdy," said Sergeant Stetson, unloading her Springfield right between his eyes.

The limey's head exploded like a high-velocity watermelon, sending bits of brain and skull everywhere. Shouts of panic from below were met by more blasts of gunfire, as the two Americans desperately shot bullet after bullet into the lines. When Blake was empty, he moved to reload, but Stetson pushed him back. "Go, I'll handle this," she growled, a shell casing between her teeth.

"But... but ma'am, they'll murder you!" he roared in reply.

"Just go! Get back to the colonel! Warn him!"

"But--"

"That's an order, lance corporal!" she screamed.

Blake opened his mouth to respond, but was silenced by a bullet that zipped just past his face, missing by mere inches. He simply nodded, the same gesture that soldier had shown them many hours ago as they had embarked, said, "Give 'em hell," and sprinted in the opposite direction. The sergeant, finished reloading, let out a defiant yell, and leapt into the trenches guns blazing. Her yells soon morphed into screams.

Lance Corporal William Blake flew across no man's land. His feet hardly touched the ground as he ran, harder and faster than he ever had before. Soon, the American front was visible. Soldiers rose, their rifles trained on the muddy warrior, unable to tell if he was friend or foe.

"The redcoats are coming! The redcoats are coming!" he yelled. "Someone get the general on the line! The redcoats are coming!"
 
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Surprised they are allowing women at the front honestly.
It's not common, but there are a few female volunteers on the front, mostly in response to what the Greeks and the Amazons were doing. For the most part, women are in service roles behind the lines.
 
Surprised they are allowing women at the front honestly.
Well, TTL’s America was allowing female Sheriffs on the Western Frontier, so it was already established as well-advanced compared to our own (also, let’s be honest, if women can handle enforcing pioneer law and the regular violence attendant, combat in war isn’t much worse...)
 
Are the 20's going to be an area of rebuilding and the 30's a a boom or will the 20's be a boom and 30's a depersion like otl
 
Do I detect a 1917 reference?
Watching 1917 was actually what inspired me to write this narrative part. So yeah, that's a sly reference from me. The movie really gave me a much better impression of what the front lines of World War One actually looked like than any photographs or written accounts I've ever seen before, so I wanted to emphasize the mud and the blood and the bodies and the emotional rollercoaster trench warfare brought with it.
 
Watching 1917 was actually what inspired me to write this narrative part. So yeah, that's a sly reference from me. The movie really gave me a much better impression of what the front lines of World War One actually looked like than any photographs or written accounts I've ever seen before, so I wanted to emphasize the mud and the blood and the bodies and the emotional rollercoaster trench warfare brought with it.
I really liked that movie
 
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