Star, Cross, Eagle, Bear, Hammer and Sickle: Stories of the Second American Civil War

Star, Cross, Eagle, Bear, Hammer and Sickle: Stories of the Second American Civil War

STAR

1936, GREATER OHIO COMMONWEALTH, AMALGAMATED STATES OF AMERICA

“Ah, hell,” the enlisted man cried, his rifle jamming. “What’s the matter?” asked the other. “Nothing much,” replied the first. “Damn rifle‘s jammed.” “Mmm. Sorry ‘bout that.” The two were trying at exercises, their guns pregnant, aimed at targets in likeness of Fed soldiers. Then the colonel came around, whacking his baton repeatedly, as if to the tempo of a sort of drum. “Shirkers!” he cried. “Lazy no-good red mugs. If you don’t work, then hell, the Feds’ll win. This great union wasn’t built for bastards like you.” “I know, sir,” said the first enlisted man, “but this damn rifle, well, sir, it’s jammed.” “Then fix it!” bellowed the colonel.

He turned away from the squabbling enlisted men, and the sat, and fastened his attention to the radio he had with him. The radio, like the colonel, was a few years out of date, but still maintained a sort of modern facade. The colonel, perhaps, would have been a happier man had he been born somewhat earlier, for his ideals of honor in combat and chivalry had been crushed through his service. He had sided with the Mals for no good reason, to be honest; it seemed to be the right thing to do, he supposed, but the ultimate morality escaped him. He was about six feet tall, going on 50, with white hair. His physicality was one that should have been a good one if it had been better used. The colonel’s name was Smith, and he came from Ohio.

The two enlisted men, he observed, were scum, pure and simple. Just civilians, he thought to himself idly. One, he recalled, was some sort of actor. Probably a homosexual, he thought to himself. And with a name like Humphrey. What was the last name? Bell? Boxer? Something with a ‘B’, anyways. They had found him in New York. They had persuaded him to come join the Amalgamated States Armed Forces. Of course, they had persuaded him with a gun, and they threatened to give him no rations besides. They had killed a friend of his, some other actor. Humphrey was real sad when he saw his friend bite it. What did he call the dead man? Spence, or something like that. But that was the thing, he thought, about this war. There was so much more violence. Not compared to the Great War, of course, but the barbarism that one encountered in the fighting was like a sickness, and after a time, one was only compelled to infect others. There was no code of honor in this war, but there had been in ’18. That was what really ate at Colonel Smith.

The radio then cracked to life, and the voice of Father Charles Coughlin came on. Now here, the colonel thought, was a man you could trust. Father Coughlin knew the score, and it was a damn good thing that he was in government these days. His iron voice began its lecture. “Citizens of the Amalgamated States of America! It is I, Second Secretary Coughlin!” he began. The signal went a bit fuzzy, but it stabilized itself once more. Smith, feeling a bit generous, turned up the volume on the set, and when the soldiers came to him to listen to the holy Father, Smith did nothing to stop them. He saw that one soldier, that Humphrey, standing off. It figured that a practical anarch wouldn’t listen to a good man like Coughlin. In a flash of intuition, it suddenly came to Smith that Humphrey was probably a Jew. That would explain it. Well, they’d check later; they’d confirm. Besides, it wouldn’t matter, anyhow. Any man could serve America, and he would serve in whatever capacity his race was best suited for.

“Soldiers of the AFAA!” Coughlin continued, and he said that last like “afar.” Smith’s ears perked up, but he was disappointed to notice that the men barely seemed to notice; while they had assembled, they were chatting away, and they barely heeded the Father. Bellowing, Smith roared, “QUIET! Don’t you want to listen?” but the men barely heard. It was their loss, anyhow. Oh, that was good. It seemed as though Smith, in all the hubbub, had only missed more of Coughlin’s introductions. “I have great and important news to tell all of you. It is with a heavy heart that I must announce the death of the Vice President, Floyd Olson of Minnesota.”

The men did quiet down for this. “I know it’s quite the shock, what with President Long’s untimely demise so soon. How tragic it was that President Long died of a heart attack, and now Vice President Olson has left this world, too; he succumbed to stomach cancer.” Any man knew that Huey Long sure as hell hadn’t been killed by his heart, although perhaps a bullet of a legionary had hit him there. Then again, it was doubtful that Long even had one, at least one not of steel. With Olson, it seemed as though old Coughlin told the truth. Now the priest took on a somber tone. “Therefore, as Second Secretary of General Affairs and Secretary of Information, it is my duty to assume to most important duty of governing this country. Secretary Moseley and I will be most busy in the days to come. You and yours may make sacrifices, and you may have to work harder than you had before. But,” and he paused for effect, “it is all for our country. I bless all of you, and may God bless all of you, and may God bless America. Let us now sing the national anthem. O say can you see-” Coughlin began.

The men, who had been singing with the father, fell silent. “Alright, men,” and he turned to the soldier nearest him. “What’s Humphrey’s last name?” he whispered. “Bogart,” said the soldier in response. “Private Bogart!” yelled Smith. “Sir?” he replied. Oh god, that obnoxious growl. It was so aggravating. “Private Bogart, do you know that the way you speak is rather irritating?” Bogart, confused, said “No, sir, I wasn’t aware of that.” Smith said “Could you stop? Change it?” Bogart, now visibly worried, said (and he kept his resolution adamant; spinelessness was not a flaw of Private Bogart’s) “No, sir, I can’t. This is how I speak.” “Are you defying an officer?” Bogart was terrified. “Si-” “Private, you are disobeying an officer. I could have you put in irons for this disobedience, but there’s no need. I think all I need to do is simply cut out the root of the problem. Do you get my meaning?” Bogart nodded. “Come here, Private.” And Colonel Smith reached into his pocket, and got out his knife. He held it with one hand, and with the other, he opened Private Bogart’s mouth. He had always wanted to be a dentist, he remembered.

******
In Washington, D.C, Father Coughlin finished singing. He sat in a sort of dark room, built perfectly for radio. He coughed a bit, and then he gathered up his speech, carefully placing it in a manilla binder. He motioned to an aide, who followed him out. Now they were on the street. Coughlin could see flags on each and every building, posters lining the walls. He and the aide got into the car, a Ford custom-built just for the Father. “Take me to the General,” said Coughlin. “Take me to George.” The car began to speed away.

Welcome to the world of 1935! This a TL where the Business Plot succeeds, and now a Second American Civil War rages. More updates should come very shortly. Most of it's going to be in this sort of prose style. I hope you enjoy.
 
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