Stories of the Kaiserreich

Story 1
  • Berlin was lost. By now it was clear to everyone that no help was coming. Savinkov's hordes had smashed through every defense between the Oder and the city. The Syndicalists had crossed the Rhine. The Kaiserreich was lost. For Helmut Rothman, the fall of Berlin meant that he wasn't going to live much longer. The Russians were pacifying the last pockets of resistance. Rothman had come to terms with his death. He wasn't going to die in a Siberian work camp, and now all he cared about was dealing as much damage to the Russians as possible. Helmut peered through his Mauser scope, finger on the trigger. He saw what had to be a colonel step out of a truck that rolled up to the front. Breathe, squeeze. The Mauser bucked against his shoulder. The colonel took a step and fell, dead before he hit the ground. He worked the bolt and fired, again and again, spreading chaos through the Russian lines. As far they were convinced, May 1945 was too late to die. He watched men scatter as they looked for where the gunshots were coming from. Rothman put in a new clip, and then machine guns started chattering along the German lines. A counterattack was out of the question, now they were just trying to maximize Russian casualties. The Slavs didn't take being shot at kindly. Their own guns started firing, and bullets cracked past Helmut. He ducked, worked the bolt, and popped up again. He saw a Russian speaking into a radio, and he took him out too. It was late then since artillery started hammering the Germans. Helmut ran out of the second-story building he was in, diving into a foxhole. Shells and rockets pounded the Germans. He must've really pissed off the Russians. After a while, the shelling stopped, and he heard the rumble of tanks. Nothing came easy for the Russians though. A panzerfaust took out two tanks, and the machine guns only focused on the infantry, but bit by bit each strongpoint was crushed. Helmut fired until he ran out of bullets. From the corner of his eye, he saw a man slump over his machine gun, and he rushed out of the foxhole. He was crouched and zigzagging, but it didn't matter. He got shot through the thigh and felling screaming. As he tried to push himself back up, he saw a bow machine gun turn to face him. The muzzle flashed and everything went black.
     
    Story 2
  • Something I wrote for the subreddit last year, the writing isn’t that good but I enjoyed making it:

    ”Sir, we are out of ammunition.”

    His Britannic Majesty Edward VIII, King of the British Empire, sighed resignedly. He gulped down the remainder of his whiskey and set the glass firmly down on his desk. The sound of battle echoed in the distance; it’s sharp cracks and fierce booms coming closer by the minute.

    “Order the men to fix bayonets.”

    Edward stood up and dusted himself off. By God, he was going to look good when he showed up at St. Peter’s gates. The King found himself strangely numb to the prospect of death. In fact, ever since the Syndicalists streamed over the Canadian border he had just felt empty, devoid of any emotion. Everything was just robotic instinct. He knew he was going to die; he was not going to run away like his father. He was going to go out like a soldier.

    The sun was setting just over the gentle hills of Ottawa, and Edward could just make out the dark silhouettes of the Syndicalist legions on the horizon. He gripped the hilt of his sword, and drew it from its ornate scabbard in one swift motion.

    “Men of the Empire, you have fought valiantly for King and Country, you have given your lives in every corner of the globe, and struggled against these godless radicals that you now see before you. Despite our best efforts, they have manipulated the masses and invaded our homes. Now, we stand here ready to meet our fates and that is all we can do. I am giving the order to charge... we will likely die but it is surely better than living for what comes next. Canada will be a noble monument for us.”

    A fierce cheer went up throughout the ranks, and they surged forward against their foe.

    ———

    Corporal Joseph Raymond McCarthy grunted as kicked over another bloodied loyalist corpse.

    “We sure did a number on ‘em, didn’t we Higgins?”

    “Shut up, Joe.” Sergeant Higgins snarled. It had been a long day of fighting through the ruined streets of Ottawa, and just when they thought it was over, 5,000 damned royalists came pouring over the hill.

    “Whaddaya think happened to ol’ King Ed? Tucked tail and ran like his daddy ‘s my guess.” Joe trampled over another corpse riddled with bullet holes.

    “Probably dead... can’t see him livin’ another exile...” Higgins trailed off. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to a lowly corporal about such things but McCarthy was always was running his mouth. Some of the older men said that out in Arkansas an AUS man jammed a machine gun down his throat and that’s why he kept jabbering on. The notion made Higgins chuckle silently to himself, McCarthy didn’t notice.

    Joe McCarthy trudged on, until something caught his eye. The moonlight reflected off of something on the ground. He figured it was a bayonet until he spied the curvature of it. Bending down, he picked up a blood stained sabre. Even through the wear and grime he could see it was beautiful and jeweled. Curious as to the poor bastard who owned it, Joe kicked over the corpse.

    “Sarge, think ya better come over here and see this...”

    “Think ya know someone??” The sergeant ridiculed.

    “Why, I think it’s King Edward hisself.”

    The last King of the British Empire lay in an unnamed and unmarked field in eastern Canada, bleeding from 20 different wounds. He had given his life for his country, but in the end it made no difference. It was surely an ignominious end to the greatest empire the world had ever seen.
     
    Story 3
  • A New World
    Chicago, Commonwealth of America, 15 November 1941, 19:00

    Carmen’s glasses fogged up the moment she walked into the small apartment, the deep cold that she’d been feeling on the walk home evaporating instantly.

    Katie was right beside her in a second, wheeling her wheelchair over to the door and trying to take Carmen’s coat. “You’re just in time! She’ll be on the air in seconds!”

    Carmen laughed. “Still trying to do stuff for me. But you really don’t have to.” She hung her coat up and sniffed the air appreciatively. “Like you don’t have to cook...Dios mio, I said I’d cook tonight!”

    Katie wheeled back from the door, still grinning. “Eh, no big deal. It’s just stew - I kept it on a low heat all day while I was at the library.”

    Carmen felt guilt and relief war inside her. Guilt at having Katie do that after a day’s work, and relief that she wouldn’t have to. The idea of cooking after a hard day at the factory had been a terrifying one.

    As though sensing her thoughts, Katie took her hand. “Besides, I like doing it. I never got to before the war, not in my house...”

    Carmen crouched next to her, cutting her off with a kiss. “Thanks,” she said, cupping Katie’s face gently. “For...everything.”

    Katie blushed prettily, her normally-pale skin turning a lovely shade of red. “C’mon. I got a couple of beers out, Mr Cho gave me a discount...”

    Carmen followed her over to the couch. The apartment was definitely small - one of the new ones that had been run up quickly after the war ended - but it was dry, clean, and most importantly it was free. The only costs were electricity and water, both of which were cheaper than before the war.

    Of course, not all the country was so lucky. They were still rebuilding in so many places - a lot of Carmen and Katie’s militia buddies were working Reconstruction and Reclamation across the continent - but here in Chicago was good.

    Carmen sat down, then reached forward and carefully lifted Katie out of her chair, positioning the smaller woman on her lap and putting an arm around her waist. Grinning, Katie picked up a couple of bottles of homebrew from the table and handed one to Carmen. Carmen hid a grin - this definitely wasn’t the kind of thing Katie would have drunk when she was younger. She kept that thought to herself, though - Katie had never liked to be reminded of her rich family, or how they’d cut her off when she went to join the militia.

    Carmen bit her lip as memory flooded back. It had literally just been a week from the war ending when an AUS bullet had hit Katie, robbing her of the ability to walk... She felt her eyes sting.

    Katie squeezed her hand. “It’s OK. I’m OK.”

    Carmen hugged her. “How’d your day go?”

    “OK. Quiet - most of us were listening to the news. Don’t think I really relaxed until we heard that it had finally been signed into law.” She frowned a little. “Not everyone was happy - I wasn’t surprised when Mrs Armbruster turned her nose up but a couple of other, younger folks who I hadn’t expected...”

    Carmen nodded. “Yeah...figured that. Same deal in the factory.” She drank thoughtfully. “Figure it’ll take a while for folks to get used to the idea.”

    “I hope they do.” Katie laid her head on Carmen’s shoulder. “Still glad about it, whatever happens.”

    “Yeah. Me too.” Carmen knew she’d remember today for the rest of her life, no matter what.

    Katie drank. “News from the rest of the world was mixed. The British won another big sea battle against the Germans, but didn’t sound like much had changed on the ground.”

    “Yeah. Lot of people at the factory think we’re gonna have to get involved.” Carmen sighed. "I mean, don't get me wrong, we need to support other Syndicalist countries, but...it's so soon, we're still patching ourselves up."

    "Oh, for sure! But if Canada joins in on Germany's side..."

    Carmen nodded. If that happened, the Commonwealth of America would have to drive North, and commit fully to helping the other Internationale nations rather than just shipping aid across. "Or if Canada just decides to go against the Internationale. Word is that the King and that lunatic in Russia are getting mighty close." And if she was honest, war with Canada was pretty much inevitable as long as they didn't hand back

    "True." Katie sighed. "And in Asia, Japan defeated the Dutch-Australasian fleet that was defending the East Indies. I mean, it's good that the war there's hurting Germany, but there's fighting everywhere..."

    Carmen was about to say something when a familiar voice came floating out of the wireless. A voice that by now, everyone in the Commonwealth of America recognised.

    "My friends." Comrade Flynn's tones were gentle, but with a definite firmness of purpose underpinning them. "I want to talk with the people of the Commonwealth of America for a few minutes about the legislation that was signed into law today." She paused, Carmen and Katie hanging on every word she said. "Since the Family Code was first proposed, and since debate began in the People's Congress, it has stirred debate like little else. Debate, and opposition from many, in particular from religious groups."

    "And from Southerners who didn't like miscegenation being legally protected," Carmen muttered.

    "However, with the Code's passing by Congress, and its signing into law, I felt it important to discuss the importance of the Code's provisions with the American people. In particular, its permission and protection of inter-racial marriages, and its legalisation of homosexuality."

    Carmen and Katie squeezed one another's hands, Katie squeezing so hard that it nearly hurt.

    "There is a lot I could say on this subject, but at heart, it is fundamentally intertwined with the very reason for the election of President Reed, the rise of Syndicalism and the formation of the Commonwealth." Comrade Flynn paused. "Syndicalism, at its heart, is about unity. About we, the people, coming together to make a new future for ourselves. All of the people. And this law is an attempt to, in this part of life at least, correct a historical injustice and give all of our people - whether white, black, Asiatic, Hispanic, heterosexual or homosexual - certain rights that everyone should be given in a truly equal nation, but that have been denied for them."

    Carmen saw tears running from Katie's green eyes, and felt her own eyes burn. The law wasn't everything - it didn't give people like them the right to be married - but as well as making it explicitly legal for consenting adults of both genders, the Code had also recognised cohabitation as legally equivalent to marriage, provided the couple could prove that they had been cohabiting for a year or more.

    We've been living together ever since the war ended. We can easily qualify for recognition. Which would make a lot of things easier, so much easier... And if either of them fell ill, the other could visit them in hospital and be involved in their care.

    "...because, at the end of the day," she heard Comrade Flynn saying, "if we can't all come together, if we can't recognise our common comradeship, then what was the war for? What was the creation of our new nation for?"

    "I..." Katie sniffed. "I never thought she'd go that far..."

    Carmen nodded. "Me neither."

    No. She truly would remember this day forever.

    * * *

    A/N: This is based on an event that can happen in a Syndicalist America: a piece of legislation called the Family Code gets enacted in 1941, which among other things does the following:
    • Recognises cohabitation and marriage as being equal;
    • Abolishes anti-miscegenation laws;
    • Establishes no-grounds divorce;
    • Abolishes the idea of illegitimacy - all children are entitled to parental support and equal rights; and
    • Legalises homosexuality.
    Figured that a look at a reaction to that might be cool :)
     
    Story 4
  • So here is a teaser for my AAR. Part of the introduction chapter to Jayajala Muten feel free to provide feedback and thoughts.

    The Vow
    Several weeks had passed since Muten had become an officer and he was attending a family gathering. Muten knew it was a somber occasion but it should be a happy occasion. Every few years all the family members would gather together to honor their ancestors. In the past this would be a far more happy occasion. However, because the events were now in Beijing, it was always a reminder that the Qing had lost Manchuria, something that Muten despised with a passion.

    “Mutengge, why is everyone sad? Family gatherings should be happy.” His little niece said.
    “Because we are not allowed to go to Jilin and visit our ancestors.” Muten said.
    “And why not? We have the money, and our family are nobles.” She asked innocently. She did not grasp the politics of things. Jilin was deep within Fengtian territory, the Japanese lap dogs.
    “Because of Zhang Zhoulin who rules the warlord Fengtian.” He said.
    “Well he is a big Meanie. If he ever came here, I would go right up to him and tell him that we should be able to visit our ancestral shrine. Hrmph.” She said. Now that would be a sight Muten would have loved to see even if he knew it was impossible. The vicious warlord Zhang Zhoulin of the Fengtian being yelled at to his face by a six year old girl. It was a silly image but one that brought a smile to his face.

    The Jayajala clan made their way to the shrine in Beijing. It was located within the Dongcheng district of the city. The shrine included not just the building that housed the shrine but the courtyard as well where most of the rituals would be done. In addition to the Chinese characters in the shrine there was the Jayajala's clan name written out in Manchu.

    As the day progressed, prayers and hymns to the ancestors were sung. Muten watched men and women kneel and kowtow to their ancestors, each saying their own private prayer. Each person placed the candles on the shrine or burned incenses. Everyone though was wearing their most elaborate clothes, most of which would not look out of place in court a few centuries ago.

    When it came time for Muten to approach the ancestral shrine, he followed protocol like everyone before and after him did. As he kowtowed to the ancestors he spoke his prayer softly but with conviction. "Ancestors, watch over us. The homeland I vow will be reclaimed. If I have to suffer pain and misery a thousandfold, than so be it. I shall not rest till we can perform this ceremony in Jilin where it should be done. This I vow to you.”

    Later during the celebratory feast that followed the ceremony, Muten ran into his niece.
    "Mutengge, you seemed rather tensed during the ceremony. I hope nothing is bothering you." She asked innocently.
    "Conviction, not tense. Make the prayers strong and firm and whom you are praying to are bound to listen".
    "Well I hope the ancestors hear. We did all that for them."
    She responded.
    "As do I. Lets rejoin the festivities. I do believe they are going to bring out the Nian Go." He said to which his niece smiled at the mention of nian go.
     
    Story 5
  • Oh this looks fun, let me just repurpose something else I wrote real quick:

    Excerpt from the journal of Sgt. Thomas McClellan, 1st Pacific "Grizzley" Mountain Infantry.

    "June 16th, 1938.
    Idaho Springs, Colorado.

    Well we've done it. We made it through the old pass by the blown out rail-line, McArthurites probably had a good laugh when they took it out, but they hadn't cottoned to who the hell was coming this way, and after the Rockies, this was almost a pleasant walk. Minus the couple of militia types who tried to make a stand with their grandfather's old rifles, bunch of children filed with tales about how we were nothing but servants of the Yellow Devils of Japan, or the great unwashed Mexican hoards, or the collective second coming of Benedict Arnold. Would have liked to have taken them without incident, but Fernandez took a round to the shin that shattered, but they surrendered not too long after, thank God for Japan handing out knee mortars like candy, damn kids nearly shat themselves into surrender at
    that particular surprise. Had to order Wójcik back after they were captured, he would have opened up on the lot of them, prisoners or not, for shooting one of the originals like Fernandez, not for the last time I am grateful that Freeman could out wrestle one of our namesake, never mind a 5 foot nothing Polish-American. We couldn't send them back down the pass we were clearing, not unless they wanted to run into the entire Army of the Mississippi, and even then the first unit they would have met would likely have confirmed their fears about the Japanese, and I'd probably have Lt Tanaka up here confused to hell as to what was going on. So instead I had them with us, when I took the rest of the platoon into town. Probably helped honestly, though the boys mothers were probably almost as much a threat to their lives as Wójcik was. After that, it was a matter of talking to the mayor, convincing him that we were not there to rape, pillage and burn, in that order, but were just here to do what we had been doing the whole way on the road from Salt Lake City.

    By the time the Mississippi moved up, myself and the rest of the troops were sat around the town taking a breather. Baker and Barnes had drawn a crowd, as usual, and as always I could see that some of the women talking to our two women sniper team were a mix of outrage, intrigue and down right jealousy. Reed and the Syndies may have been the first to let women serve in front line roles, but we hadn't been far behind and it appears that the wannabe Caesar still hasn't given up his bullshit views on the place of women. Freeman had a crowd as well, though thankfully it was mainly other African-Americans and not like the situation back in Salt Lake with the angry Mormons. I was sat watching as Cpt Jones caught up with the rest of the 1st to do the official flag transfer, and I couldn't help but approve as he gave up his Nissan to get Fernandez back to a field hospital, the towns doctor, bless his soul, had been working with Pavlov's field aid to keep it from being infected or totally fucked up.

    He didn't say a word to me before he started talking to the mayor and organised the correct procedure, company fall in, parade formation. It was something I had seen dozens of times now, even before I volunteered, but still it cut to my very heart. The single white bear of California beneath the white star of the Pacific on a field of red, coupled with the red and white stripes of the 13 colonies, acting as a promise for where this whole thing would end. Flying above it on the pole though, remained the Stars and Stripes of the US of A, President Merriam had been insistent that we were not going to conquer our fellow Americans, but to restore to them what a King, a Caesar and a Tyrant had taken from them. I don't care, I simply view it the same as I have every other time, an affirmation that my platoon survived, that the dream of America survives, and so long as that holds true, I will not care if I die in this year or the next.
     
    Story 6
  • So We Came Home


    It was very dangerous to play in the hills these days, or at least that was what the grown-ups said. Everyone seemed to be afraid of the constant German air raids from occupied France. Richard didn't pay much mind to those concerns though. His family was far from those big cities of London and Birmingham. Oh he had seen a handful of German planes but they never were dropping bombs on his house or in his fields. he had gotten a right good scolding from his mother for being out when that was happening though. It wasn't his fault that the one air raid siren didn't reach him when he was out with his friends!

    So who really could stop him if he wanted to play out in the hills? No one, that's who! Not his big sister Molly or anyone else! Besides, it was so lonely out here these days now that so many of the older young boys and girls were put to work. He knew that it was supposed to be good work that they were doing, but it still was sad that his friends had to go away. So for now Richard would play by himself and hope that all the older Children would be safe at home soon. Some of the adults were talking about the Germans coming in the South, but all that seemed so far away.

    It was on the crest of a hill that Richard thought he saw something funny below and to the west of him. In a standing oak tree, sitting on a strong branch, there was a man. He dressed like a soldier, but not any type of soldier that Richard recognized from the posters or the market square. Now, his mother and father taught him to never talk to strangers, but Richard was curious all the same. The soldier was sitting in the tree, leaning back easily under the other branches as if he was waiting for something.

    If Richard were older and paid more attention to the radio or the adult talk at the dinner table he might've remembered that no soldiers were supposed to be posted to this area of the hills. They were all dedicated to defending more important urban centers from the suspected German naval invasion. Curious as young boys are, and as interested in the new and unexpected as they are wont to be, Richard moved closer to the tree with the strange man. It looked like he had a radio next to him and it sounded like it was playing some sort of jazz music like the ones that the older children liked to dance to.

    When Richard got closer he could see the soldier also looked to be young, not that much older than the children that were put to work by the government. Richard got within a stone's throw from the soldier before he was properly noticed, it seemed the young man was listening so intently to the radio as not to notice the boy at first. When the soldier noticed Richard he raised a quirked eyebrow at the young lad before he cleared his throat.

    "Good morning," The soldier said with a cheerful voice as if all was right in the world, "It's a lovely day eh?"

    Richard had always been taught to be polite at least, and so with his own smile replied.

    "Yes it is! Much nicer than the four days of rain earlier!"

    In fact it was just the perfect day in the countryside. The skies were clear and bright without so much as a hint of a cloud in the air.

    "What are you doing in that oak tree mister?" Richard asked as he tilted his head to the side.

    "Me? I'm just waiting for the radio," The soldier cocked his head over to listen to his radio as the music cut out.

    "Waiting for what, your favorite song?" Richard began to take a closer look at the soldier's uniform and began to notice just how different it was from the other soldiers.

    For one thing the soldier had a funny hat instead of those round helmets the other soldiers had. His uniform was also darker and had a lot more pockets. Yet one thing that stuck out above all was that the flag on his uniform was wrong. His flag was blue with the Union Jack while the normal soldier's was red with the Union Jack.

    Richard thought he was forgetting something important but found himself sparked out of thinking when the radio perked up.

    "Oh it's starting, listen close lad!" The soldier turned on his side and leaned his ear close to his ham radio.

    Richard wasn't in the tree up with the soldier but he found himself moving closer to the tree to get a better listen.

    "This is Nicholas Faircrest and you're listening to Royalist Radio. We come to you now with an important announcement. All regular programing has been canceled. In his will, our late King George V stated that this speech was to be played on eve of Operation Reclamation. Today is that day, we are coming home. God Save the King."


    The Soldier clambered out of his place in the tree and grabbed his radio. Holding it close to his person. He looked to Richard with another bold smile and then pointed to the next hill over.

    "Lad, if you want to see something spectacular, come and follow me!" With that the soldier took off towards the hill.

    Richard remembered that from that little hill you could see the coast where a handful of fishermen took in their small catch. Sometimes he would go out to look at the waves when he wasn't playing in the hills. What could be so exciting to see today of all days. Richard's small legs couldn't carry him as fast as the soldier's, but even so he followed up the hill behind him. Richard could hear little snippets of what was being said on the radio.

    "We can go home again..."


    When they reached the crest of the hill it seemed a small fog was rolling in. A light early morning’s fog that looked like something that would blow away in the next few hours or minutes.

    The soldier put down his radio as he kept his eyes towards the sea. A old voice Richard did not recognize continued to speak up.

    “We shall fight in the Isles,
    We shall fight on the seas and oceans,
    We shall fight with growing confidence, and growing strength in the air.
    We shall retake our island, whatever the cost may be.”


    The fog began to roll away, and from the mist came a vision more fantastical than any storybook Richard had ever known. Cutting through the fog and the blue waters of the Atlantic was a massive armada of ships and landing craft. Flying above them was a flurry of aircraft in beautiful wingtip formations. Richard could not clearly see the flags from this distance, but there were so many and with so much color that he knew a great many nations were assembled here.

    “When future generations speak of what we have done here,
    they will say, it was our finest hour.”


    “Your mum and dad talk much about the old days?” The soldier asked while the ships rolled in with the tide, drawing closer and closer to the beach.

    “No Mister,” Richard felt his heart pounding in his chest with excitement, “My uncle used to a lot, before he went away to the city.”

    “My mum and da miss my uncle, I miss him too,” Richard confessed as the soldier slung his rifle over his shoulder, “Mister, what’s going on?”

    “Citizens of Britannia, no longer shall you suffer the yoke of the syndicalist lie!
    No longer, shall you cower in fear”


    The soldier reached in his pack and unfolded something out of his bag. It was a flag, a full flag with a simple Union Jack. Bright and bold, the symbol of an Empire, the true symbol of Britannia.

    “Hang this on your door, son. Go back to your mum and da, tell them to break out the King’s set of China,” He handed the young boy the flag, “Tell them, the king and your cousins are coming home!”

    “Men of Britain - Wales, Scotland, and Ireland.
    Your king demands it.
    Stand for your freedom, today is the day of reclamation.”


    Richard wasn’t sure he understood everything that was going on. But something in his heart felt as though it was leaping with excitement. He began running down the hill back home with his new flag. Above him, planes of a dozen nations flew high and proud. It was impossible to know why, but young Richard knew that he’d remember this day the rest of his life. August 22, 1944. This was the Day of Return, the Day of Reclamation.
     
    Story 7
  • That fateful day

    I remember the hope everyone had when Reed and Long came to negotiate with the president.

    Despite all that happened to us, the depression, the riots, we all thought that between these leaders, a compromise could be found.
    If the Republicans and Democrats could find common ground, whey couldn't long and reed? they both claim to fight for the common man after all.

    Remember seeing that photo of a minuteman sharing a smoke with a red guard militia in the newspaper?

    But we were wrong. Dead wrong.

    With Long's inability to compromise for all to see, everyone felt like the end is nigh and there is no turning back.
    I think that it's a self-fulfilling prophecy, you see the irony? Long being Long, but the people choose to act.
    Not just in St. Louis but all across America, in every city, everywhere.

    Brother attacking brother, Fathers against sons.

    Everyone lost their mind.

    And who won in the end? no one. We all lost.
     
    Story 8
  • New Orleans, capital of the American Union State. August 3rd 1937:

    Huey Long is with his entire cabinet. They all look quite and slightly dishevelled.

    " What's the word from the front? How are our boys doing?" Long asked.

    General George Van Horn Moseley just looked at him. Even from where he was sitting, Long could smell the alcohol on him. "We're losing mister President. Badly."

    "What?!"

    "That's defeatist talk!" William Pelley shouted angrily.

    "It's the goddam truth!" Moseley shouted. "No matter how many men we've got on the front, no matter how many gun-toting rednecks, sheet-wearing illiterates and liquored-up hillbillies we've drafted, the Reds keep advancing, with barely any causalities of their own. We've throw wave after wave at them, but the damn Jew-lovers keep mowing them down with machine gun fire and tanks. Hundreds of tanks! We may have lost half a million men across the entire northern front!"

    Pelley was undeterred. "That's impossible. Good, Godley White men would never lose that easily to those Syndicalist heathens!"

    Moseley glared at him. "They might do better if your damn Silver Legion weren't shooting them in the back!"

    Long turned to look at him angrily. " What's he talking about Bill?"

    Pelley touched his Klan lapel nervously. "It's...for discipline. To remind the men that cowardice in the face of duty will not be tolerated ."

    "Your thugs are rounding up our soldiers at random and executing them. If not, they're at the rear of the battlefield, shooting anyone they think will try to escape or surrender." Mosley snapped.

    Long slammed his fist into the table, shaking it. "This is outrageous Bill! You'll have to answer for this!"

    "We need to keep discipline in the ranks. Order!" Pelley insisted. " We need to push them forward to secure the future of the White race!"

    "It wont matter at this rate," Mosley slurred. "Our spies say that every factory in the Rust Belt is working overtime to produce ammunition and vehicles for Reed's troops. Seems the workers are happy to work long hours just to win this war. We thought they'd protest and give up...but we were wrong. That and the fresh volunteers from France and Britain have given the Reds a boost in numbers and moral. Not to mention the darkies and Red sympathisers in North Carolina have rebelled and inflicted heavy causalities on our garrisons."

    Long shook his head angrily. "But we can't lose. It's not just about us. Everyone in the Union State has made sacrifices for the good of America. I refuse to allow those sacrifices to be for nothing. I refuse to believe that after all of this suffering and death, the America we love will be destroyed!"

    Moseley shook his head. "In a different world, Mr President, you would have been one of the greatest leaders our country ever had. But not in this world, I'm afraid. It's over....they're coming."

    He leaves the room. Then after a few short moments, the sound of gunfire could be heard, and the loud thump of a body hitting the floor out in the hallway.
     
    Story 9
  • Olympic Sweepstakes Schnitzer

    This was inspired by an old episode of the Simpsons I re-watched recently....;)

    Berlin, Germany 1984


    Oskar Burkhart walked into the studio, where a set of one of his restaurants had been built. He hated making commercials. The studio lights, the makeup, it was unbearable for him. But, as the CEO of one of Germany’s largest fast food chain, it was expected for him to partake in this from time to time, especially now. It was a big year for the Kaiserreich, after all.


    Hamburg had been chosen to host the 1984 Summer Olympics, and they were determined to make it perfect. They had not hosted the games since Berlin in 1924, even with the global order they had established. Every company was unveiling their special products, hotels had been booked over a year in advance. It seemed like every house now had a flag on display, something he had not seen since the Second Weltkrieg. Even the commercial zeppelins that travelled across the world proudly displayed the Imperial flag as they floated serenely across the land.


    The director made his final checks with the cameramen, then looked to the CEO. “Alright, Herr Burkhart, please stand on your mark.”


    He sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”


    A stagehand sat down near the camera and held up the cue cards. The director announced “Rolling...in five, four, three, two...”


    Oskar forced a smile and began to recite his lines. “Hello, Germany! We are only two months from the Olympic Games, and we at Himmlers Köstliches Huhn wish to celebrate with you! That is why, we are introducing our ‘Germany Wins!’ scratch cards! Get one with each meal purchase, and if our athletes win a gold medal, you get a free Chicken Schnitzel burger!” He gave his trademark “thumbs up” and smile. "Go, Germany!"


    “And cut!” shouted the director.


    Immediately, the facade dropped. As much as he hated doing these commercials, Oskar knew they were vital. After all, HKH didn't become one of the largest fast food companies in the world by sheer luck. It was through hard work, perseverance and these annoying commercials that allowed the company to become one of the leading restaurant chains in the Reichspakt (with new restaurants popping up in the Entente, the Co-Prosperity Sphere and the Ottoman Empire; as well as neutral nations such as Ireland, Ethiopia and the Pacific States). The company certainly went through a rough patch after the founder Heinrich Himmler unexpectedly committed suicide on May 23, 1945. Although Oskar did often wonder if that was for the best, considering the unsettling rumors of Himmler's controversial political beliefs.


    He walked off as Jacob, one of his assistants, approached. “Excellent work, sir! We’ll be able to have that on every network by the end of the week!”


    “Get to the point, Jacob. How much is this going to cost us? The shareholders aren't going to like that we're giving away free food.”


    “Not to worry, sir. We’ve already rigged the cards. They're all in events that Syndicalists never loose. Especially the Americans.”


    Oskar smiled. "Excellent, Jacob. Excellent. Everyone will be too drunk to realize it. And even if they did, they'll never be able to prove it."


    At that moment, his secretary Sofie Becker rushed in. “Sir, there’s just been a report from headquarters that I really think you need to see.”


    “My flight to Dar es-Salaam leaves in an hour, Miss Becker. Please give me the short summary."


    “The Internationale are boycotting the Olympics. Germany is unopposed in most of the events.”


    Hearing this, Oskar paled. “Jacob...how does this affect our giveaway?”


    Jacob took out a calculator and put in some numbers. “The company stands to lose 44 million 'marks.”


    “Mein Gott...”
     
    Last edited:
    Story 10
  • From the New World


    Parliament Hill, Ottawa

    The feeling in the room was tense as generals and politicians alike looked to the Prime Minister at the head of the table. William Lyon Mackenzie King was not one to give away his thoughts easily in his expression. The leader of the Liberal Party, and the architect of Bill C-7 and the Constitution Act had devoted untold amounts of time and energy in building up the nation, and news from the south threatened to place that all in jeopardy. While Canada had been rebuilding, the United States had been crumbling in terms of public order and civil unrest.

    A seemingly unending Great Depression combined with Germany’s Black Monday left the economic giant reeling, and not even the interventionist Garner-Lang Bill seemed to offer the panacea that Americans were hoping for. Canada for its part had extended its hand towards the United States after the renegotiation of the war debts being deferred for the time being. It had seemed to Ottawa that Washington might look on their neighbors to the north with a friendlier eye as Canadain money helped fund shipyards in Corpus Christi and factories in Tennessee.

    But the news from Chicago and New Orleans had changed everything. Huey Long and Jack Reed had both declared themselves the rightful leaders of the country after the failed negotiations in Chicago. The Rust Belt and the Deep South were in chaos as several state governments declared they would not answer President Olson and General MacArthur’s demands for surrender. On the 59th day of the 60 day deadline, at 7:42 Eastern Standard time, a phone call came to Parliament Hill. It was President Olson, calling directly from the Oval Office.

    King had been in his private office, preparing for the special meeting of cabinet and the chiefs of staff.

    “Prime Minister, I call you today on a matter that concerns the security and freedoms of both our two great nations,” One could hear the stress and tiredness in his voice, held under a mask of professionalism and statesmanship, “It is not hyperbole to state that the fate of the entire continent might be decided in the coming months.”

    Military units and militarized portions of the mounted police were already stationed along the Great Lakes and the New England Borders. The Commonwealth had even requested forces from the Carribean to supplement the forces that were sitting, waiting. Everyone on Parliament Hill, Liberal, Tory, Progressive, and Loyalist, knew the danger of letting a new syndicalist power rise in the vast United States. Some argued for staying out of the inevitable sprawling conflict, but the phone call by President Olson put things in another potential perspective.

    “Relations between our two great nations have not always been amiable, but I believe that we share common values if not always common cause,” Olson had gone on and King listened carefully. He knew that there were times the most difficult thing, and the correct thing, was to be patient, “It is in that common cause that I call you today.”

    “Mr. President, Canada has been watching the situation to the south very carefully,” The Prime Minister bit his lip slightly, carefully didn’t begin to describe the flurry of activity and debate that had been going on across the Commonwealth, “It is the opinion of my government that the affairs of America will echo across the world. I won’t say I was expecting a call like this, but...”

    “But you had plans either way,” Olson finished for King, “Any leader would.”

    “You said you had a reason for calling, Mr. President, and I know it wasn't just to ask about the winter weather in Canada.”

    “Then I’ll cut to the point, my generals tell me that even in the best case scenario it will take months to defeat even one of the rebel factions, years to defeat them both. The fact remains that their bases of power are far from the federal bases and strong points.”

    “But not Canada’s lines,” The Great Lakes were all that seperated Canada’s armed forces from Chicago and Detroit, two of the syndicalists largest strongholds, “I don’t think I’ve jumped the gun here.”

    “No you haven’t, Prime Minister,” Olson sounded as though he had just exhaled a huge sigh, “I haven’t been blind to the buildup along the border, I’ve read all the reports. If Canada thinks it’s going to make a move across that line it’s going to be on my terms.”

    Olson stressed the my, evidently he had not forgotten his place as leader of the most powerful republic in the world despite his stress.

    “What are you suggesting?” King gripped the phone a bit tighter, but kept his voice calm, now was no time for bluster.

    What the President had offered Prime Minister King boiled down to Entente intervention in exchange for American support in future conflicts and further econonmic and politcal cooperation. President Olson had stopped short of saying that America would commit to the Entente as an alliance partner, but the door would certainly be mucher further open.

    King had put down the phone without giving a firm yes or no answer, and told the President he would call back before the sun was down. Winter meant that those hours would be coming fast, and now the generals and politicans were arguging over the merits of Olson’s offer.

    “If we do a full scale intervention the costs would be astronomical!” The Minister from the Treasury said.

    “And to do nothing would cost us everything,” Spoke the Minister of the Interior

    “A partial intervention could be in order...” Offered one of the generals.

    “That could work, Defense Plan 2 and New England at least would be secure.”

    “We have received messages from the New England governors,” The Foreign Minister brought up, “They are willing to receive our support should the need arise and we move our troops in that direction.”

    “We would be protecting them, keeping them safe from the Civ-”

    “We will not enact Defense Plan Two,” Came the decisive voice of the Prime Minister as it hushed the voices of the various men in the room, “Not the least because it would turn all of the rest of America against us.”

    “So what then is the idea?” General Ironside’s voice carried through the chamber, the old general having never lost his bite even after the Weltkrieg. “If Defense Plan 2 is not the approved course of action, what is?”

    There was a quiet in the room as all eyes once again turned to the Prime Minister. There was not a sound to be heard, and it seemed everyone was holding their breath. When William King finally did speak, he sounded strained and tired. He was making a decision that would affect the lives of millions, Canadians and Americans both.

    “How soon can we be prepared for a full intervention in the Rust Belt?”






    In the Oval Office, Chief of Staff George Marshall continued to read over the strategic situation to the President. A successful federal revolt in Texas had been offset by the news that North Carolina had been taken over by the Longists. The syndicalists had seized New York city but were being held off upstate and across the Mississippi at Missouri and Minnesota.

    All the while the President wore the same grim expression he had on his face ever since he had come back from Chicago.

    “And as the fighting is relatively close Mr. President, I do believe it might be prudent to follow General Craig’s plan to relocate the Capital from D.C. to perhaps Denver or maybe even San Francisco.”

    “If it comes to that we’ll have left much of the nation in the hands of the rebel governments,” Olson countered, “But I will tell Craig I see his point. He can begin the transfer of government documents and non-essential personnel west. If they get moved it's one thing, if they get captured it's entirely another.”

    The telephone rang, and the President raised his hand to ask the general for a moment. A tired smile grew on Olson’s face as he heard the message relayed to him. After a few yeses and thank yous he put down the phone and folded his hands.

    “Good news from the neighbors?” Marshall asked, hoping for good news after several weeks of bad.

    “You could say that,” Olson said as he looked at a map of North America and let out a large sigh before he continued again with just a bit of rebuilt vigor, “Inform MacArthur that the Pennsylvania Offensive is approved and tell McNair and Bradley they’ve got to hold against Long with everything they’ve got.”

    “And Groves’ Command in New England?” Marshall felt like he knew what was coming, but felt the need to ask anyway, one could get a small kick out of asking about it.

    “Grove’s will have the troops for his push once his reinforcements arrive. It won’t be easy to work with them and I don’t expect it to be smooth, but God willing we’ll have at least half this country back together before this year is over.”

    “Sir!” Marshall saluted his commander-in-chief and took down the notes he would need to issue the commands, “Permission to get to work!”

    “Granted, General. The United States is one nation indivisible, let’s remind everyone of that fact,” Olson reminded himself that he was elected to save this country, he couldn’t do it at the negotiating table, maybe he could do it in the war room.

    America was in crisis, there was no question of that. The world was changing, and America would no longer be able to wait behind the oceans isolated from the world, no matter how this war turned out. Olson wondered if perhaps the deal he had made with the Canadian Prime Minister was a prelude to a more dangerous road ahead, but the battle in front of him needed to be won first. Olson was not using hyperbole when he stated his belief that America’s War would echo across the world. Canada would have a part to play in this drama, and America would have one in whatever came after. For better or worse, hard choices had to be made in the here and now.

    President Olson just hoped that he had made the right ones.
     
    Story 11
  • I wanted to write this for a while, however I wanted to be on the right mood for such a narrative, something I only got it now, so let's go.

    December 28, 1937
    1584158002544.png

    Warrant Officer Oliver Stone looked forward, trying to believe on what his eyes saw. A few moments passed as he watched something that he had feared for weeks, maybe even months, but now seemed to relieve himself.
    "It is over...?" tough him, as he tried to identify something inside the smoke coming from Columbus town hall.
    "These have been terrible years..." tough him, as on a rare moment of carelessness, he took a cigarette from his pocket and lighted it, then proceeded to return to his cover as he breathed the smoke.

    These really have been terrible years.

    Oliver Stone was just 15 when the american depression exploded, his family managed their money at the best and could withstand the first months of the depression, but soon the layoffs turned him, his father, his grandfather and his younger brother jobless and the money stopped coming in, and then the hunger began to take part on their lives. A few months into the depression he joined the IWW, was lectured on syndicalism, took part on social actions, gave his family scant money reserves as donations for his local trade union, being repaid with bread and butter bought and distributed by the IWW, the depression was harsh, but they managed to pass it through.
    Then, the black monday happened. Economical chaos, further layoffs, deflation and a new major problem that had been present before, but radicalized incredibly on the following years after the american crash: The political radicalization. Clashes began to happen between the IWW and the Share Your Wealth clubs, two organizations that should be helping the population to endure as the central government ignored the pleas of their own people, now were fighting, a fight ordered by their two leaders, two very popular figures of immense following who preached war against each other. Oliver was not a ideologue, he was not a radical, he couldn't understand why so much hatred if both groups wanted to help the people, he had childhood friends that had joined the share your wealth society, but some even had cut contact with him as he told them that he was at the IWW. Horrible times, Harsh times, but not worse than what was to come.

    The second american civil war began. Columbus was taken on a state of hysteria, but not a hysteria of fear, instead people were taking over the streets with the american and the IWW flags to preach their words of revolution, of power, of unity and struggle against capitalism. Oliver was there, after being invited by his friend, but he couldn't appreciate what was coming for him, his grandfather passed away two weeks prior, and now potentially millions of people were happily going to march for the end of their lifes, to kill other americans, to stick a bayonet on someone stomach over and over again until their body stopped resisting and their eyes stopped reacting. Political violence was everywhere at that moment, he could see people being dragged outside a house where SYW meetings used to take place. "Hunger, unemployment and now violence". Oliver knew how unemployment would end, he would be drafted, along other millions of men and also women and be sent to the carnage. Even tough many held their will to serve on their hearts, in truth they had say on being drafted or not, every single able bodied men should serve the army for three years of his life.

    Soon, the dreams of a one march from Columbus, Ohio, to New Orleans crashed into a wall of river fortifications, trenches and endless air and artillery attacks. The elected President, Huey Pierce Long from Louisiana managed to use his resources on a more efficient way than the other pretenders. The War Powers Comitted was created and the industrialists flocked for his banner. The Chieff of the armed forces, Field Marshall George Patton proposed a strategy of encirclements and fast marches to take over as much strategically relevant targets as possible. On the first months all kentucky apart from a small portion on the east was captured by the AUS army. The central plains were efficiently seized, occupying everything from South Dakota to Arizona before the Pacific States could take such territories. The main AUS army marched through virginia encircling and crushing the USA army divisions and militias, until capturing Washington, and thus ending the first part of the war.
    Without the MacArthurite junta, the capitalists, the conservatives and the populist sympatizers from the USA remnants went mostly for the AUS, while a minority joined the PSA. Filled with new reinforcements, supplies and renegades from the USA army, Patton pressed even further north and broke the CSA defenses through west pennysilvania and west Ohio, soon pushing through a hole on the CSA lines following the superior river until reaching Buffalo in New York, cutting the possibility of reinforcements from the west reaching the CSA troops who had just recently occupied all New England. A force large enought to stall the CSA there was left and the bulk of Patton's army corps moved to the ohio frontline, and then rammed into it while a second spearhead came from Kentucky into Indiana, breaching the CSA large, but militia trained, force, even reaching Michigan before Patton had captured all of Ohio, thus trapping one and a half CSA army inside a huge pocket.

    His brother was somewhere in New York, Stone knew this since his unit retreated to the New Englander front after Patton reached the superior lake and he received reports of their divisions, including a list of alive members that included his brother. The three following weeks proved to be the worst part of the combat for Oliver Stone, regardless of what he had seen on the indiana front, things had been turning into hell in Ohio.

    1584161784251.jpeg

    Columbus Pre war was a beatifull city, even tough it was falling in disrepair the personal touch of the city was kept: many large streets, a few major buildings and many, many cars driving through the streets. Through september, october and november the city got mauled by the superior Unionist air force, especially after the stocks of oil began to deplete after the supply line from new england was cut, making it harder for the eastern syndicate air command to use their air force efficiently, thankfully the forces in new england still had access from oil being imported from the french commune and the union of Britain, so the situation was safer, but still difficult, for their air command.

    The pocket proved to be the worst part, as contact was also lost with Chicago, all the forces inside needed the resources from Ohio to be kept fighting. First Cleveland was encircled and captured, taking a sizeable force with it. Then the never ending unionist offensive drove all forces closer and closer to Columbus, while the CSA counter offensives from Illinois failed to break into Indiana. At this time Oliver began to be punished, sometimes phisically for his undisciplinate behavior and his defeatist attitude. It was clear that the continental army won't be able to save them and they were stripping the food from their homes, melting their own forks and knifes to make more bullets and taking their own blankets from their families at home to cover themselves at the front, there was no way to escape or to be saved, so the army should have surrendered!

    But they didn't. The war continued, more divisions were encircled and destroyed, some by the terrible and brutal Silver Legionaries, under control of General Pedro Del Vale, Del Vale was a frustrated white supremacist, as he was a latino and many of his "comrades" didn't considered him as a "true" white. He pushed his frustration on the battlefield using his legionaries on the most brutal way possible against the enemy, so until they surrender the syndicate soldiers, many of them being afroamericans, would be subject to rentless bombardments and artillery fire. Day after day his troops marched close to Columbus, and Oliver being a mestizo himself was afraid of his future, and also of his black father who was also fighting but on the northern front of the pocket.

    Finally the city was reached on decemberg and the attack would begin. The starved and low on ammunition defenders would suffer under the artillery and close air support bombardements falling on their heads, especially because the civilians couldn't be properly evacuated, thus a few comissars were selected to move them inside pre made zones on the cities from the frontline to "less dangerous" areas of the city. As they ran out of places to retreat , his units were allowed to surrender to prevent the deaths of the civilians. For weeks both sides fought valiantly, some times even ferocious as entire buildings had to be cleared, just to be counter attacked by the opposite site and losing even more manpower in the process. Long was advised a few days before about the battle that was to start, so he ordered Del Vale to use the minimun amount of violence possible to prevent as much civilian deaths inside the city, and also to hand over the surrendered soldiers and the captured civilians to the normal army units for they to take care of them. Any case of misstreatment of a citizen or a surrendered soldier by a member of the silver legion would result on the perpetrator sent to be court martialed.

    The fighting remained intense, the bombings and the artillery too, even tough the defenders were broken on pockets and entire places were cleared. Oliver killed, fled, spared and retreated with his dwillingly unit, until he ended on a building a few squares away from the combat and was put on guard on a window that allowed him to see the town hall. He had been there for two days, taking only 3 hours of sleep every night, to check any enemy advance in the area.

    Oliver sucked all the remaneing smoke from his cigarette, before dropping it on the ground. The AUS flag as on the Town Hall, the battle was over. He went into the middle of the room on the third floor and shouted for everyone inside to hear:
    — The Unionist flag is planted on the Town Hall, the battle is over, everyone.
    Lieutnant Mark Reinold face turned into red, as he pushed the table where the radiowoman was receiving orders.
    — It is only over when we receive the final order of surrender, of when we are all killed. — babbled the comissar, keeping his hand close toOl his gun on his hip.
    — The city fell. — said Oliver on his negative tone — Every death after now it is useless, they have the city.
    Mark pushed him back, making him fall into the ground and began to threaten him.
    — I can kill you now, you f*cking traitor, this would save a bullet for the enemy, what do you think?
    Oliver punched the officer on the stomach, as everyone in the room moved to stop the fight.
    — I think that the only person who should be killed is you, Mark! You have been leading us through hell and until now we all have been following your orders... but it is over, and you want us to die for absolutely nothing? The reinforcements are not coming, there is nothing we can do.
    Mark face was red on anger, but he knew something he could use to switch the morale of the others in his favour.
    — One of the units present in our area is formed by integralists, a entire infantry division. They are fighting on the stores at just 200 meters from here. If you want you can try to surrender to this Natpops, or even better, you can try to surrender to the silver legion, look at your skin colour, they would love to receive you, you just need to ask politely!
    Desobeying the hierarchy, Oliver shouted to the radio man:
    — Did you heard any order to surrender?
    The radiowoman dropped her papers in shock, but then recomposed herself and replied:
    — G-general Cannon asked all units with spare ammo to try to break their siege and to bring ammo for his headquarters on downtown... — Her face went blank after this — You said that the Town Hall was captured... — She then turned angry — The town hall is very close to his HQ! He might be dying right now! He d-didn't sent any order to surrender or to continue fighting!
    Oliver dropped his gun, as everyone looked at him.
    — Someone shoot this motherf**ker, now! It is a order! A order passed by your comissar! — barked Mark.
    — Shut the f**k up! — shouted another soldier — It is over, you are no higher than anyone here.
    Oliver asked for help, and after restraining the comissar and getting some white blankets from beds on that building, they could display the surrender message for everyone close to the building, and soon every single other building on the area began to copy the move, even the ones still on gunfights with the enemy, using their very last rounds.

    The battle ended on the following day. Some troops kept their positions until their total destruction to the last man. Others surrendered after running out of ammo or during the enemy assault. General Cannon asked for a ceasefire and received a delegation from both General Mascarenhas de Moraes of Brazil and General Del Vale, and surrendered at the 21 hours of december 28 of 1937.

    After eaving the building, Oliver was ready for what could come: He could be arrested, tortured, sent into a prisioner camp, maybe even killed by those damned natpops, harsh times were coming for him, but as he tough, if he survived, there would be peace at the end.
    — Mister? — asked a soldier that he didn't noticed. This soldier was annotating the names and tags of the surrendered soldiers, he spoke a good, but accented english.
    — Oliver Stone. — replied Oliver and then got surprised: The officer was black, and his uniform cleary was neither silver legionary nor the normal AUS one, he probably is a brazilian.

    — Follow in line, please, you will take the 55th truck to the prisioner camp achilles, in Kentucky.
    — Yes sir. — replied him.
    Oliver walked into the truck, and left for his destiny.

    The end.
     
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