Miscellaneous >1900 (Alternate) History Thread

If Callaghan fell down a ladder and broke his kneck or was incapacitated on 11 or 12 November 1942, would Scott have better fought 1st Guadalcanal, i.e. he keeps his ships together and doesn’t wait forever to shoot?
Scott was killed almost immediately at the start of the battle by a shell burst aboard the USS Juneau pilot house. We would have to butterfly that event away. Now If Scott flagged from the USS San Francisco pre-battle? Hell YES.

Can you elaborate?
Here.

Summary: J.P. Morgan skinned the Entente alive. When the victors gathered at Versailles, they had to listen to that poltroon, Woodrow Wilson, as he threw his weight around, despite being a latecomer to the war and representing a power that had done relatively little fighting, compared to such powers as italy; because the United States held most of the Entente war-debt as bonds and notes due. A lot of ill-will postwar among England, France and the United States was because the Entente kept trying to find ways to pay down the interest through inflation and currency devaluation schemes and American bankers would have none of it.

The situation was so ugly that even the American people caught on that the reason "our doughboys went over there" was to bail out the Entente so those Morgan brokered war loans would not be defaulted if the Entente LOST. Lesson learned? No foreign wars to bail out American banks who make war loans to warring states! Isolationism had its start there.
 
Scott was killed almost immediately at the start of the battle by a shell burst aboard the USS Juneau pilot house. We would have to butterfly that event away. Now If Scott flagged from the USS San Francisco pre-battle? Hell YES.
I think with Callaghan not being around, Juneau or a possibly different cruiser Scott would choose has a good chance of not taking that hit simply due to likely not being in the same place. Would Scott have tried a Cape Esperance style crossing the T?
 
I think with Callaghan not being around, Juneau or a possibly different cruiser Scott would choose has a good chance of not taking that hit simply due to likely not being in the same place. Would Scott have tried a Cape Esperance style crossing the T?
...Those Marvelous Tin Fish: The Great Torpedo Scandal Avoided. Current contributor.

I will probably tell you as soon as I finish with Oscar Moosbreger and the Mutsu. The short answer is probably no. The naval geography east of Savo Island suggests not.
 
Labor unions never die out in the US? (The beginning of this is old enough not to be current politics--some people think it started in the 1970s)
 
Labor unions never die out in the US? (The beginning of this is old enough not to be current politics--some people think it started in the 1970s)
Arguably earlier with the passage of Right to Work Laws in the South in the 1940s, up to campaigns in places like California in the 1950s.
 
Can you elaborate?
Forgot to include it earlier, and had just posted it in another thread, but from The Deluge by Adam Tooze:

The result was a quite unprecedented international combination of public and private power. In the course of the gigantic Somme offensive over the summer of 1916, J. P. Morgan spent more than a billion dollars in America on behalf of the British government, no less than 45 per cent of British war spending in those crucial months.17 In 1916 the bank’s purchasing office was responsible for Entente procurement contracts valued in excess of the entire export trade of the United States in the years before the war. Through the private business contacts of J. P. Morgan, supported by the business and political elite of the American Northeast, the Entente was carrying out a mobilization of a large part of the US economy, entirely without the say-so of the Wilson administration.​
Basically, Morgan saved the Entente in 1916 and arguably in 1915 as well.
 
Something I've been working on for a few weeks. Still worldbuilding and writing the first few chapters. Putting my foot in the water so to speak.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Your request is denied.”

He stood there, dumbstruck, as the seated portly lieutenant looked up from his official papers and shrugged.

“Denied?” he muttered angrily, tiredly. “How, why?”

The Bavarian Army leutnant leaned forward, fingers crossed with a disappointed look on his face.

Mein herr, you were denied enlistment into the Bavarian Army for two reasons. One is your health. You are as thin and pale as a ghost, good sir, and I doubt you could carry an infantryman's kit into the field without collapsing either from the weight or heart attack. On health grounds alone you would be disqualified from service.”

The Bavarian enlistment officer snorted, either clearing his nose or in contempt.

“The second reason is that you are Austrian, sir. The Austro-Hungarian Empire is an ally of Germany and therefore you, a citizen of said nation, cannot join the armed forces of the German Empire.”

“I will not join an army of mongrel races. I want to join the brave men of Germany!” An idea struck him, “I will write a petition! I will… I will go to another recruitment center in Germany. Bavaria may have denied me, but the Fatherland is hungry for soldiers! Surely one will allow me to enlist. Surely one will take me in.” Desperation seized him as he stood before the seated officer. A manic look befell the sickly man from Austria, causing his dark blue eyes to dart about the room, as if searching for an answer that refused to reveal itself.

The Bavarian officer leaned back into his chair, a scowl upon his face. Behind the sickly dishevelled man stood dozens of other men, far more healthy in appearance and more controlled in manner, awaiting to enlist and fight for King and Kaiser. They shuffled impatiently and many stared daggers at the dark haired Austrian who was delaying their patriotic duty.

“Sir, you attempted to enlist in the Bavarian Army six months ago. You were denied then, just as you are denied now. Nothing has changed.”

The dejected man slammed his hands down on the wooden table separating the two men. “Everything has changed! The world is at war! Soon enough the armies of empires will march across Europe, Africa and Asia. Nations will fall whilst others rise, and glory and honor will be for those who dared to fight in this war, it being the greatest endeavor Mankind has ever faced. We are brothers, you and I. German, Austrian, two sides of the same coin. Our language is the same, our love for Germany is the same. Don’t let pedantics of birth and nationality dilute the German blood that flows through my veins. I may be an Austrian by birth but I am a German by blood. I deserve a chance to fight for the Vaterland and for its people. It is my right. ”

The officer raised an eyebrow, minutely impressed with the passionate fervor of the man before him… but orders were orders, the rules and regulations in place must be followed. Not even an impassioned Austrian could bend the rules.

“I’m sorry, but the answer is the same. You are denied entry into the Bavarian Army and will continue to be denied based on your poor health and foreign citizenship. Neither the Bavarian Army nor the German Army will accept you into its ranks. I, as military representative of His Majesty Ludwig III of the Kingdom of Bavaria and Kaiser Wilhelm II of the German Empire, bid you farewell.”

The Austrian slumped, his soul sapped of its energetic will. He turned and walked out of the recruitment office, eyes downcast at the concrete floor, unable to even look at those men who would go on to fight for Germany.

Germany, the Fatherland he never had. A nation of Germans for Germans, a place he could call home and a country he had come to love in his months of living in Munich. He had hoped that with the outbreak of war the requirements for enlistment would have lowered. But he was wrong, and now he was defeated. What was he to do? He had only a couple of Goldmarks in his pocket, the remnants of his family inheritance, his clothes were worn thin, rough, and patchwork. He had not showered in days and his stomach rumbled from hunger, a minor pain wracking his abdomen.

Grimacing, he turned to walk… somewhere. He didn’t know where to go anymore.

“Hey, you!” called a voice from behind, coming from the recruitment center. The Austrian turned, excited, thinking that at last the officer had come to his senses. But instead of the portly mustachioed officer, a man about his age with dark hair and eyes approached him, a friendly smile on his face.

He noticed the gentleman’s expensive clothes and top hat, and the way he walked, assured as if nothing would ever deny him or be out of reach. The Austrian could almost smell the wealth coming off of the man. While he detested the wealthy elite, many of whom were Jews, he nonetheless smiled and tried to present a friendly face. It was after all what he did to help sell his art down in the <enter district area>.

“Hello,” said the rich man as he neared, holding out his hand. “I must say I loved your speech back there. Really fired up the flames of patriotism in myself! Well done, well done indeed!”

“Oh, umm, thank you. Much obliged, herr-”

“Walter Schulz at your service!” The man took off his hat and gave a small bow while smiling.

Good God, he was like the theatre in the flesh, he thought sardonically.

Herr Schulz. Thank you for your kind words. They have lifted my spirits somewhat.”

“It’s a damn shame you weren’t admitted. We could use you in the Army. Like you said, you might be an Austrian by birth but you’re a German by blood. And it’ll be that same noble blood that sees our two countries emerge victorious in the months ahead.”

“Thank you, that means a great deal to me,” he said, truly touched by the man’s comments. A brief silence existed between them, the nearly-penniless Austrian not knowing what to say and the rich German having spoken his piece.

“Well I’m sure you’re busy, Herr Schulz, and I must be off as well. I have… other matters to attend to.”

Schulz’s eyes flicked over his appearance and a look of pity flashed over the well-to-do German’s face.

“I see, yes, of course, I’m sure you are quite busy.” Schulz went for another handshake but with the opposite hand, it having emerged from his pocket. The Austrian shook it awkwardly, eager to end this odd meeting, and felt something in the man’s palm slip into his. He looked at it and saw a fifty Goldmark banknote. His eyes widened and he stared up at the taller man.

“I-” his tongue felt stiff and dry so he swallowed. “I don’t know what to say other than thank you.” The relief and honesty in those words poured forth with conviction.

“That’s more than enough for me. While you may not be able to fight for Germany directly, perhaps you could do so indirectly by joining your nation’s army. Our countries share the same enemies after all. You would still be fighting for Germany, if indirectly. I overheard your comment about fighting beside mongrels races, but better to fight beside the Slav and Magyar then to not fight at all, eh?”

The Austrian nodded, realizing the truth of the words.

“Use that,” Schulz gestured towards the banknote, “to eat a hot meal, stay in a comfortable hotel tonight, and take a first-class ticket to Vienna.”

A tear formed in the Austrian’s eye that he was quick to blink away. “Thank you so much, this… this has saved me.”

Schulz nodded, understanding. As the German turned away, bidding farewell with a wave, he stopped mid-turn.

“I apologize, mein freund. I never asked your name.”

“Ah, the fault is mine, I forgot to give it. My mind was a whirlwind of emotion.”

Schulz laughed. “I’m sure it was. So what is your name?”

The destitute, dejected, recently elevated from impoverished by the fifty mark banknote painter from Austria scratched his cheek and locked his blue eyes with Schulz’s hazel.
“My name is Adolf Hitler, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

----------------------
Constructive feedback and thoughts are welcome.
 
It was to be, Hitler concluded privately in his tent, a time of reflection. It had been over a month since the charitable Schulz had provided the means for him to return to his homeland and join its ranks. He had spent the days traveling from Munich to Linz, having decided to try his luck there rather than Vienna, sleeping well and eating better. He had put on some weight and a healthy color to him, as well as a vigor obvious to all. It had helped land him in his current state.

While he had been previously disqualified from conscription due to his health, he was not denied a second time like he was in Munich. This time the Austro-Hungarian Army welcomed its newest volunteer and slotted him into the Landwehr, the German-speaking Territorial Army of Cisleithania. Thus Hitler became a private in the 87th Landwehr Infantry Brigade, 21st Regiment (Sankt Pölten).

Training had been quick, mostly learning how to march, salute, aim and fire a gun as well as clean it, and there Hitler had gained more strength, eating the plentiful albeit bland food the Army provided. As his health improved it had come to match his hawkish persona, his patriotic drive now being able to be pursued in full force. Austria may not be Germany, but it was home. Perhaps he would view it as his Fatherland, in time.

But not only was it a time of reflection on his improving health and the pride he displayed wearing the pike grey uniform of the Landwehr, but also a reflection on Austro-Hungary thus far in what some were labelling the Great War. Unlike his own pathway through life the past month, the path the Dual Monarchy of the Hapsburgs underwent was much less savory. Disastrous, truth be told.

Many had predicted a short victorious war, one in which the Austro-Hungarians would stall the Russians in the east while simultaneously quelling the unruly South Slavs. Those predictions turned to ashen hopes as several defeats against the Russians in Galicia threw the Empire on its heels.

Only the quick thinking of the German Army and the bravery of the Austrian soldier staved off an irrecoverable blow long enough for the front lines to stabilize along the Carpathian Mountains. But already so much had been lost. Eastern Galicia and Northern Bukovina were now in Russian hands, Premissel was surrounded and besieged, and casualties for Austro-Hungary numbered in the hundreds of thousands. The “short victorious war” had nearly been the undoing of the Empire in the first six weeks of hostilities.
The Battle of Tannenberg in East Prussia may have destroyed an entire Russian army, but the Battle of Lemberg hemorrhaged the Austro-Hungarian Army of its trained officer corps and veteran soldiers. It was on this front that the 87th Infantry Brigade was deployed alongside a dozen other brigades to help replenish the greatly depleted forces under the command of Field Marshal Conrad von Hötzendorf.

Attached to the Third Army under the Croat Baron Boroëvić von Bojna, the 21st Landwehr Infantry Regiment settled in alongside the other regiments of the 87th, digging tertiary trenches some distance from the frontline, showcasing High Command’s lack of faith in holding the current positions, and readying itself for the inevitable Russian assaults that were sure to come.

Hitler sat in his tent, his squadmates snoring beside him on their pallets, looking out through its opening as it rained. Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning crackled across the sky. While some in the camp complained about the weather, or whispered it was God’s anger at the succession of military defeats, Hitler felt peace. He wondered if the Vikings of old had felt this calm during a storm. The thunder was the sound of Thor beating his anvil, tempering a new weapon, the lightning the sparks from his strike. The weapon was the vengeance of the Austrian people, ready to make right the wrongs that had so recently transpired.

It would be in the next few days, he thought, before battle was joined. Where Austrian might would face off against Russian savage and avenge the disastrous month that preceded it.

Crestling his M1895, he stared out into the storm and it stared back.

  • + +

Days later, the 87th Brigade marched in full strength to the front, with Hitler marching alongside his comrades in the 21st Regiment. They marched from the rear echelons towards the rapidly expanding primary and secondary trench network that was quickly becoming a hallmark on the Carpathian Front, and in truth was becoming a staple of the war as a whole. News of the German defeat at the Battle of the Marne was sweeping through the ranks, as were reports of vast entrenchments by both sides beginning to form in northern France.

Not even the news that the Germans had secured a significant amount of French industry, thereby affecting the French war effort, could alleviate the mood setting into the Austro-Hungarian Army. The men of the 21st marched proudly into the trenchworks, passing by trench lines far more extensive and formidable than the ones they had dug several kilometres away just a few days before. The trenches were bolstered with countless foxholes bristling with machineguns, mortars, while dedicated artillery positions were frequent alongside the supply depots needed to feed such an army, both the men and the weapons they fielded. They passed columns of men heading to the rear, tired and dirty. They were not far in the trenchworks when the cat calls came, largely from the withdrawing soldiers.

“Look at these clean boys, so young and eager,” laughed an Austrian whose dirty appearance and ragged look contrasted sharply with the 21st. Mud and dried blood caked his uniform. His comrades laughed, hollow and almost desperate.

Two other men, Hungarians, leaned on their rifles, sneering and spoke German in thick accents. “Did you lose your mommies? You all look like you are barely old enough to shave and… is that milk I see dropping from your mouth?!” they pointed and derided a young trooper, aged eighteen whose pale complexion darkened with fury.

Before the situation could deteriorate, an officer approached. He was dirty as well, but he did not let it bring him down like it did the common man. He seemed to excel, standing erect and walking with lethal confidence.

He walked over to the two Hungarians, spoke to them in their godawful language. The two men were humbled and withdrew, but the officer was not done yet. He turned, saw the Austrians continuing to jeer the newcomers and promptly marched and berated them in German.

“You fools, these are our comrades. They may be new to this, but they’ll learn soon enough. Cease your derision and keep marching.”

The Austrian trooper nodded before joining his fellows as they continued marching away. The officer turned to the 21st. “My name is Major Wilhelm Boehler. Welcome to hell.”

  • + +

Major Boehler directed our regimental commander, Major Olbrecht, to the section of the trenches we were to man while the rest of the 87th plugged in the gaps elsewhere along the frontline. The soldiers we replaced were of the Common Army, the largest land force in the Empire and as ethnically varied as the Empire itself. Austrian soldiers took orders from Slavic commanders whilst fighting beside Hungarians. It was supposed to show the unity of the Empire, instead it showed an army that fielded most of Austro-Hungary’s manpower yet was not as well equipped when compared to the Austrian Landwehr or Hungarian Honvéd.

This was the mixing of races that Hitler abhorred, though he privately admired the brotherhood he saw on display. A man with a bandaged face was led by a comrade, while three men walked side by side speaking a mix-mash of German, Hungarian and… Slovenian perhaps? It was obvious those they replaced were relieved that they had lived another day and would have some time behind the lines to sleep peacefully and bathe to be rid of lice and the odor of death and smoke that seemed to permeate everything here..

They walked into the trenches and were aghast at the state of it. Puddles of water turned the floor to liquid mud that sucked on the boots and filled them with cold dirty cold water. Rats were running to and fro, squeaking as they scuttled away. Carved into the sides of the trenches were little hovels to lay down but were obviously better suited for more of a hunch-like position than proper laying down, while every few hundred metres was a bunker, slabs of cement and wood plaster with opening towards the northeast where Russian lines resided, machinegun barrels poking out, ready to fire. This misery is what the 21st settled in, dismayed at their new lodgings.

It quickly became home.

Major Olbrecht scowled and after a quiet but likely furious discussion with Major Boehler he walked away, resigned.

“Settle in men! Clean the trenches to the best of your ability, firm up the mudwalls with wood so they don’t collapse on us, and dig proper latrines. Ready yourselves, Ivan could attack at any time.”

+ + +

Olbrecht’s words soon proved prophetic. Two days later the Russians attacked. It was late in the afternoon, hoping to catch the Austro-Hungarian positions unaware after a day of little more than infrequent potshots. Artillery thundered, hundreds of pieces unloading shells onto the Empire’s lines.

Hitler was startled awake. He had dozed off in one of the wall hovels, his pencil and sheet of paper falling off of him into the trench floor, his failed attempts at facial realism being further ruined by the mud.

Looking at his squadmates, he tried to speak but the artillery was so loud and so all encompassing the only thing that came out was a terrified scream. A piercing wail approached, the men half-frozen in fear and uncertainty. The shell detonated on the rim of the trench wall, showering Hitler with mud. His squadmate, Hans Stückel, was not so lucky. A shard of metal was lodged in Stückel’s throat and despite having his hands around it to stem the bleeding, blood was leaking through at an alarming rate.

“Adi…” Stückel coughed and died, his eyes staring up into the red-tinged sky.

Hitler threw up, noisily and messily. He and Stückel had been acquaintances at best, but the camaraderie that had been developing was now forever quashed. He slipped into his hovel and sat there staring at his comrade’s corpse as the barrage continued.

For three hours Russian explosive steel fell from the sky, killing a few dozen and reshaping the landscape. Within moments after the beginning of the Russian barrage, the Austro-Hungarian artillery batteries replied in kind, with the deadly bombardment making only the soldier in the trench miserable, fear-ridden for his life, and eager for the rumbles of shell impacts and the piercing wail of their passing to stop.

With the three hours ending the sun began to set over the horizon, with it blaring from behind Austro-Hungarian lines. Yet this would not have been as advantageous as it would have been in flatter country. The trench the 21st Regiment occupied was in hilly country, not far from the Russian controlled pass in the Carpathians that they had seized in the initial offensives of the war. Therefore the Russians that came spilling forth from their own trench lines, whistles bleating sharply to rouse the men and instill discipline, would not have the sun in their eyes as they advanced up the hill to the Austria-held lines.

Major Olbrecht moved into the trench from the bunker he had waited out the bombardment, pistol in hand.

“Ready yourselves! Here they come!” He leaned down to Stückel, closed the dead man’s eyes with his hands and then grabbed the deceased private’s rifle. Holstering his pistol, the major took up the slot next to Hitler. Hundreds of Austrian men readied themselves, their rifles aimed at the encroaching Russians.

They came in their hundreds and then their thousands, an ever growing horde of khaki-clad Slavs.

“Hold, men! Hold!” Obrecht yelled, voice hoarse from the smoke and strained from the effort. He coughed. “Hold!”

Hitler aimed at the center mass of a Russian and waited, hand shaking, wavering his bead on the man.

“Hold!”

The Russians were around a hundred metres away now. Mortars were being fired from Austro-Hungarian lines, felling some and causing more to seek cover but the vast majority still advanced, yelling bravado as they suppressed their fear by charging forward.

“Fire!”

Hundreds of M1895s fired alongside a half-dozen machineguns. The Austrian firepower cut through the Russians like a scythe through wheat, blood spraying in the air, appearing as a pink mist, while the Mosin-Nagant hefting soldiers fell like dolls thrown by a disgruntled child.
Hitler fired and pulled back the straight bolt, the empty casing flying into the air. He slammed it forward, loading a new round into the chamber. He took aim and fired again.
On and on he fired his weapon, reloading when the last casing flew out. Again and again in what felt like eternity but eventually the Russians retreated, whistles heralding their withdrawal.

A Russian rose from the ground, limping as he ran away. Hitler raised his rifle but did not fire. There was no point. He lowered his rifle and took a deep breath, shaking.

“It isn’t fear,” Paul Lutjens said. “My pa, he said that the shaking wasn’t nerves or fear. It was adrenaline, or at least most of it is.”

Hitler looked at his squad mate before looking at the long cooled corpse of Hans Stückel.

“Shame,” Lutjens said. “Hans has a girl back in Linz. She’ll find out soon enough when his family does.” Lohr rubbed his brow of sweat. “Another one fallen for the Fatherland.”

“For the Fatherland,” Hitler mumbled before stumbling down onto the trench floor, relieved to have survived.
 
@Tanner151 Nicely written. Very brutal realism. Perhaps his Hitler learns that multiple cultures can live together after all.

At first I thought you where going to go ‘Steve Rogers’ with Adolf, then I remembered this is not a fandom thread.
 
@Tanner151 Nicely written. Very brutal realism. Perhaps his Hitler learns that multiple cultures can live together after all.

At first I thought you where going to go ‘Steve Rogers’ with Adolf, then I remembered this is not a fandom thread.
Thank you! I’ve been working to make my Battle sequences brutal, realistic and showing that war is hell.
 
Last edited:
So, THIS IS FOR MY TL the Penisula ablaze, I wanted to know your take on it on what might happen
  1. Mao dies during the Chinese Japanese War
  2. De Gaulle dies during the Battle of France, what happens postwar ?
  3. Besides a further partition of Germany, if Operation Long Jump actually goes on but fails, what could happen?
  4. A much more brutal (non-nuclear) Indopakistani war of 1971 : what are the consequences?
  5. Is it possible to have an independent Sikh state post-1947?
  6. Salazar dies while Francisco Craveiro Lopes is President of Portugal, what happens next?
  7. Ho Chi Minh dies of dissentery when the Americans are visiting him during WW2
  8. A even better Thai performance during the 1940 Franco-Thai War (not even 1 lost battle), what happens ?
 
So, THIS IS FOR MY TL the Penisula ablaze, I wanted to know your take on it on what might happen
  1. Mao dies during the Chinese Japanese War
  2. De Gaulle dies during the Battle of France, what happens postwar?
  3. Besides a further partition of Germany, if Operation Long Jump actually goes on but fails, what could happen?
  4. A much more brutal (non-nuclear) Indo-Pakistani war of 1971: what are the consequences?
  5. Is it possible to have an independent Sikh state post-1947?
  6. Salazar dies while Francisco Craveiro Lopes is President of Portugal, what happens next?
  7. Ho Chi Minh dies of dysentery when the Americans are visiting him during WW2
  8. An even better Thai performance during the 1940 Franco-Thai War (not even 1 lost battle), what happens?
for 7 I'd think that the Nationalist Party of Vietnam might be the ones who take over since they were the other pre-eminent independence organization
 
Plausibility check: Could the German Empire in a decisive CP victory conceivably take all French colonies while also annexing a significant portion of mainland France?
 

Grey Wolf

Gone Fishin'
Why were US soldiers hung by US army executioners in France in 1944? I just watched a documentary that says that the chief hangman at Nuremberg had previously hanged 34 US soldiers himself
 
Question on pronoun for German KM ships during WW2: I read that if they are named after people, they follow that person's gender, but otherwise they are referred to with feminine pronouns. Would that be correct?
 
Why were US soldiers hung by US army executioners in France in 1944? I just watched a documentary that says that the chief hangman at Nuremberg had previously hanged 34 US soldiers himself
There were a few executed in Shepton Mallet in Somerset for rape or murder. Mostly hanged but a few were firing squad.
 
What really bugs me is those people who think gore was electable. OTL was practically a perfect storm in gore's favor with lewinsky, the DUI, bush flubbing his campaign and yet he couldn't get enough votes in the right states to break 270 EV.
 
What really bugs me is those people who think gore was electable. OTL was practically a perfect storm in gore's favor with lewinsky, the DUI, bush flubbing his campaign and yet he couldn't get enough votes in the right states to break 270 EV.
The fact the election was so close (and that he won the popular vote) proves he was. There's any number of minor butterflies that could lead to Gore winning Florida or New Hampshire (and thus winning the election). An "unelectable" candidate isn't one who wins the popular vote and nearly wins the entire thing.
 
Top