Vignette Collection: Worlds At War

You keep writing "Devastator", not its should be "Dominator"? "Devastator" is the torpedo bomber, right?

So, in this TL the Japanese goes north against USSR instead invading the South? I hope they got good tanks this time:D

How they manage the lack of oil? USA still give the economic sanctions right?

And "sneak attack" is a crude word. Its more like "preemptive strike":cool:
 

Japhy

Banned
You keep writing "Devastator", not its should be "Dominator"? "Devastator" is the torpedo bomber, right?

Thank you for pointing that out, my mistake. I don't really have an excuse for how they pull off Go-North. Other than prehaps the magical handwave of "Manchurian Oil". Sorry.

And "sneak attack" is a crude word. Its more like "preemptive strike":cool:

No, sneak attack works just fine for the scenario. I certainly wouldn't consider the situation cruel. I think its understandable why the US would use the bomb to try and end the war quickly, but I wouldn't consider it cool, or try to white wash it.
 

Japhy

Banned
Vignette #5

Орел эскадрильи​

Lev Shestakov had wanted to to be the pilot for this flight himself, but the Premier had been adamant about it. This wasn’t going to be an “old exiles club” event.

And so instead he stood on the tarmac at Khodynka, one of the scattered old veterans mixed in amongst the great mass of the Members of the Soviet as the cargo plane landed. It was in that crowd that he saluted as the casket was brought out by a detachment of Guards troops, draped in a flag similar, but not quite what the man who lay beneath it had died under.

There was great fanfare as they held a secular service for the Old Man.

A lot of talk about honor, about determination. There was probably too much about his time before the war, a loyal toiler under Lenin, Martov, Stalin and Ramishvili. About his role in the Constitutional Conventions, the first elections.

And then his flight. Not even a word of what other MS’s referred to as “The Unpleasantness.” Not about the final, painful, bloody, glorious, lonely years.

Thats fine though, thought Shestakov, none of them could understand.

Only those of us who answered the call know what it was like. To them he’s a Hero of the Revolution.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver hip flask. The television cameras were all pointed towards these dullard speakers. No one outside of this hall would notice.

He twisted the cap and raised it towards the casket to the his Premier, Maxim Litvinov, and drank.

He savored the Greenall’s. The old man would have wanted that at least.

The receptions that followed were endless. The British Foreign Secretary and the American Vice President had come for the reinterment. Which meant they were here to talk shop with the newly elected government.

And while the Premier didn’t want the pageantry to be wrapped up in the Exiles’ remembrances, hosting foreign delegations was another matter entirely.

It didn’t even matter that Lev was sitting in the opposition benches. He’d been more or less prodded and so, he’d come.

Vice President Stassen spoke in pretty awful Russian on a speech he’d surely practiced for weeks. He kept using that term that the Americans had coined for the last two years. “The Soviet Spring.”

At least there was free Gin here, on account of all the British.

While the bartender failed to realize that enough bitters was enough, a palm hit Shestakov hard on the back. As he turned around to see who it was he found a face he hadn’t seen in the better part of two decades.

Old habits dying hard, he found his back straightening, and then with added height and years out of the service came a great hug, careful to mind the Old Man’s tin legs.

“Douglas Bader, as I live and breath. Its been too long.”

His old squadron commander hugged back, his awkward leans and wobbles lost amidst the old meeting. “Lev you old sonofabitch, its good to see you.”

The two old pilots stepped back, or more accurately, Lev did and Bader stopped leading forward. The old man was gray now, but still full of that flame that had burned the night he’d hobbled out of his car to yell in that slow loud manner reserved by Englishmen for foreigners that they were the saddest lot in his RAF that he’d ever seen.

The same flame that had kept many of his pilots Lev included alive far longer than they’d had any right too.

“I didn’t know you’d be part of the delegation. Group Captain.”

“I didn’t know they’d damned well elected you to Parliament over here, Old Man.”

Lev shrugged at that. “The first election in 21 years, these parties were just looking for anyone with a name to stick out on their lists. I don’t know why I even said yes.”

“Because you’ll do a damned good job of it, for a Red I think.” Said Bader. He leaned past and grabbed Lev’s pink gin and took a sip, cringing.

“Good God, I would have hoped you boys had convinced your countrymen of the value of a good spirit these days.”

“We’ve tried.” Said Lev, singling to get another one. He started to lead Bader to a table, the old man would never say it but those legs couldn’t have been as easy to use as they’d been for him in 1940.

“They didn’t mention you boys in the Service.” Said Bader as they took seats. “Not you, not the Army Corps, not even the rest of his government. I know, I had a translator.”

“We’re an embarrassment.” Offered his host. One of the bartenders had walked his drink over and he took it and thanked the man.

“Embarrassment? You all helped save the world. How can they be embarrassed?”

“Because we went when the rest stayed. Because no one else stood up to Tukhachevsky. No one else stood against the Emergency Government.”

“Bloody Hell.” Offered Bader. Lev could only smile grimly.

“The Premier got his start in that Government. A lot of my fellows did. Even if they weren’t Pro-Regime, they were nearly all Anti-Treaty.”

Bader nodded understandingly. “Would have been nice you know, had they gone through with it. Would have ended the war quicker. Still, it mattered a lot. What he did, what you all did. It was a hell of a speech when he’d started the government in London. Hell of a speech.”

The Russian nodded at that. The war would have wrapped up in a matter of months had the Red Army been ordered to go back in ‘39. Instead Soviet Democracy died for a generation and the mighty host of the Motherland had stayed home. Instead of the largest Air Force in the world, all that could be offered had been them. The flotsam and jetsam of the Soviet state, led by the most discarded man of all.

Bader pulled him out of that historical sojourn. “Any of the other old boys here? I’ve found a few of the chaps from the 325, but none from our lot.”

Lev shrugged. “Golovachev is one of the government’s MS’s. Should be around with all the fellows in uniform I think.” The old squadron leader smiled and thanked him, and said he’d be around again in a few minutes.

Lev sipped on his gin and closed his eyes again. It was good to see Bader again. But he hadn’t been one of them, just their commander. He’d respected the Old Man. All of the British and Americans had. But he hadn’t been theres.

He hadn’t heard the broadcast November 22nd. Everyone knew it now, but not many folks had heard it at the time. The BBC was not a regular source for most Russians to listen too. Between the coup and the General Strike most of the young men like he who’d gone over had simply decided on their own. They wanted adventure. Lev had been itching ever since he’d gotten back from Spain the year before, and if the putschists were going to keep him bored in peace, he’d figured he might as well go.

It had been convenient that Litvinov had been trying to beg the Poles to let troops move in country. It had been convenient that he had formed that Free Soviet Government, given them a cause beyond that.

The Old Man had driven down to Biggin Hill in the midst of the Blitz to meet them. He was already old, older still by his exile, but behind those glasses were loving eyes. He’d called them his boys, he’d congratulated them on activation. He’d told them important things, true things.

Shestakov hadn’t realized how true they were at the time. They seemed silly. “Honor of the Country”, “Fighting for Democracy”, that they were the promised commitment. He’d just thought he’d gone for adventure and to fight Nazis.

But the Old Man was right. They’d kept something going. They’d fought to keep the Revolution alive. While at home a Bonapartist had flushed that all down. It was in 1941, when things had gotten real bad, before the American entry, that as they stood in some podunk grass field, that they were keeping the torch of liberty alive.

Thats the flag they should have buried him in. The Union Banner with the Torch. They’d all worn it on their British Uniforms. While their Motherland had made deals with the regime that sought to kill them all.

Long years after that. Most of the original squadrons died out, replaced by newcomers. When the final push had come, with Germany collapsing into Civil War, Lev had commanded a squadron of Azerbaijanis and Turkmeni exiles, none of whom had come in 1940. Then exile. and then a decade ago “reform”, Tukhachevsky dead, but no real change yet.

The Old Man happy in his wife’s homeland, broken because everything he’d built was being lost under the military rule. He hadn’t lived to see the protests break out. He hadn’t lived to see elections again.

But maybe, just maybe, in spite of everything the old man had ever said, he wasn’t quite gone. After all, as Lev looked around the room, there were quite a few of his boys here. And not a one of them was ever going to let the Government repeat that sort of thing.

As the American Vice President was putting it, with his long remarks that seemed to still not be at an end. “It's 1960, and the Cold War is over.”

And that, Shestakov thought as he walked back towards the bar, was a legacy worth toasting.
 
'Wooden decks' might be the best so far, this thread is a real treat. I can't see the Japanese surrendering particularly quickly, even with the fleet being completely crippled they're still in a stronger position than in August 1945, especially with the implication that the Army has seen more focus than the Navy ITTL. I imagine it will depend on how quickly the Soviets can get their armoured divisions east and how quickly the US can find a less haphazard way of bombing the Home Islands themselves. The wording of this alt-Potsdam declaration will likely be important too, are the United Nations going to press for unconditional surrender?

The Soviet vignette was also a lot of fun, an inversion of the usual trope of a bonapartist Soviet junta being able to sort everything out. Whilst the Red Army almost certainly would be in better shape, you have to wonder how many Kronstadt's we'd have seen under a Tukhachevsky regime.
 

Japhy

Banned
'Wooden decks' might be the best so far, this thread is a real treat.

Thank you on both counts. On review I'm rather proud of Able/Oboe no matter how uncomfortable some of its implications were. I'm glad to have decided to go with a collection as it is, but I'm pretty sure next time I'm not going to limit the focus so much. World War Two not being my usual gag, I'm occasionally finding myself struggling. Just flushed a little piece about a French Scenario for example over it being perhaps a bit too close to the Italian piece.

I can't see the Japanese surrendering particularly quickly, even with the fleet being completely crippled they're still in a stronger position than in August 1945, especially with the implication that the Army has seen more focus than the Navy ITTL. I imagine it will depend on how quickly the Soviets can get their armoured divisions east and how quickly the US can find a less haphazard way of bombing the Home Islands themselves. The wording of this alt-Potsdam declaration will likely be important too, are the United Nations going to press for unconditional surrender?

They're in a stronger position for sure, the Soviets have been pushed back quite a bit, but as you say, the Armor is coming. And while the Navy has just been crippled I think you're right, they're going to fight it out for a while to come. Mind you they're about to see landings in the Marianas, on Taiwan and on various points of the South East Asian Mainland/China Coast, so there is definitely going to be some painful shocks. Couldn't say for sure where the next A-bomb is going to get used, but I would say that the shock of the Anglo-American entry will be akin to the Soviet one, though perhaps less pressing. I figure the war might be a bloody year/18 months before peace.

As for Potsdam, the Western Allies certainly aren't that interested in unconditional surrender, but they'll have been cornered into it by the Soviets. Their main hope is at this point though to try and prevent a Soviet Occupation zone in Japan. Though considering how small the Russian zone is in Germany, they're probably going to lose that one.

The Soviet vignette was also a lot of fun, an inversion of the usual trope of a bonapartist Soviet junta being able to sort everything out. Whilst the Red Army almost certainly would be in better shape, you have to wonder how many Kronstadt's we'd have seen under a Tukhachevsky regime.

Quite a few Kronstadt's which helped the Litvinov regime in London quite a bit, British shipping and Free Soviet officers were waiting in the Northern Ports and in Persia for defectors throughout the war.

As for it being an inversion, yeah, I had a lot of fun with that. I figured that with this Democratic Soviet Union (Still don't know how it happened in any meaningful terms) that the country would have been weaker to a degree, without the violence of the five year plans, so a Bonapartist coup would have a decent chance if the government starts talking collective security. The army is in better shape in that the ex-white officer corps that got brought in durring the Civil War is still around but they're not as advanced a force as they were IOTL.

Honestly I'd love to do more with a democratic USSR but I can't even say who was the Premier that Litvinov was working for before the coup.
 

Japhy

Banned
Vignette #6

Unilateral Declarations​

The sights and sounds of these bars at this hour are nauseating to any British Patriot. A combination of decadence, softness and horror come together as the internees, their supposed guards and their uniformed civilian-paramilitary friends all keep drinking, keep playing cards and keep having a fun time with the locals who come for the enjoyment of these nights.

The Operative wasn’t a man who naturally enjoyed this sort of rowdy night. The fact he was having to spend it once more with German Sailors, while their compatriots were trying to starve England into submission certainly made it worse. It was soul-eroding.

But it was also part of the war. His foot on the rail he raised himself up again and in a voice that was just a little too whiny to be acting called the bartender over.

“Another round of Collins’ for anyone who wants ‘em.” He said, pushing another large Rand note across the oak counter. The bartender smiled, the Kreigsmarine boys around him cheered as they all leaned in to get theirs too. They loved it. Had loved it for months, its why they kept talking to him.

“You’re a good man Somerset,” Offered one of the Junior Officers who now always sat near him for this, slapping The Operative on the back. “A good man for a, for an Englishmen.”

“I’m not one of them anymore.” The operative replied, wobbling as he turned his head to chat with Müller. “Not now, not anymore. Thanks to those… Jews.”

His German compatriot offered a sad, knowing smile. “One day soon friend, Churchill and gang of gangsters will pay for what they did to you.”

“I was lucky to get out you know…” The Operative replied, turning to face his drink. “Bloody Home Guard, grabbed everyone else. My Brother, his wife, their kids. Dragged ‘em all out of their houses in the night. Off to Internment.”

He spat out the last word as if it were pure sin.

“They’re all going to die in there. Lined up and shot right before Churchill and those Communists fly to get paid in New York. So’ll Mosley for that matter.” His shoulders seemed to give way. “I don’t know what will happen then.”

His German friend put a hand on his back to comfort him. “It won’t be that bad Somerset. You’ve said it yourself. Lots know that the warmongers are full of it. When the time comes, when they know that those bastards are finished, they’ll do the right thing. Your family will be safe and you can come home a hero.”

The Operative sipped the drink in front of him. Savored the taste of lemon with the bitterness. His eyes were closed and his face was a mask. He’d waited for this response for a long time.

He thought of what London had looked like last time he’d been home.

He turned back, to his drinking companion, somber and with tears in his eyes. “You know thats not true Jocko, they’re all dead. And all I did was skip out on a freighter at the first sign of trouble. I’m hiding out down here. I could have been a hero had I taken my pistol and headed towards Whitehall. Not now.”

“What if I told you it wasn’t too late, Somerset? To do the right thing for Fascism?”

-------​

The Operative moved a potted plant in his window and then fell back on his bed. He’d waited for this, for weeks. How many awful drinks at those awful bars had it been? How many times had he had to go around, the proud and broken BUF exile? How long had he been in this awful republic of traitors?

He lay motionless on the bed, for a moment. He hated these kinds of operations, but it was too important to have turned down. Just like in the summer before the war, when he’d had to sit in Monte Carlo and watch the Roumanians in their sunglasses, playing games with the Poles and the Russians and the Germans.

The Operative reached behind his bed and made sure his Colt Police Special was still there.

He’d talk to his contact in the morning. And then, hopefully in the next few nights he’d be able to figure out who’s who finally.

-------​

None of them were in Uniform now, but they didn’t need to be. The Operative knew them all after all this time. Jocko Müller and Fritz were officers on the Graf Spee. Fritz being the man that the Admiral had assured him was undoubtedly the chief spy for the internees.

And out of his OB uniform was the thug Leibbrandt, with his toothbrush mustache and a face that showed the sign of every fist that had rearranged ugly into new patterns. No surprises there either.

They were sitting in a cafe away from the docks, in a more upscale part of town. It hadn’t opened yet for the day but that hadn’t been a problem, and now except for a few of the black staff getting ready for the day, and the manager sitting in his chair on the other side of the room, they were alone. The former boxer and The Operative both looked ill at ease here. The Germans on the other hand were polished and at ease, like fish in water here their crews would never venture.

“You see, the issue is this Somerset.” Explained Fritz in perfect, well polished English. “We need to know what’s coming around the Cape. Our hosts,” He put his hand on Leibbrant’s shoulder “give us a decent go at things. Even though poor dumb Barry Hertzog likes to tell himself nothing is happening. But even then, there are limits to what we can do.’

The Operative nodded with understanding. “But can’t the OB lads help you out?” Fritz and Müller both shook their heads.

“Churchill and his admirals are smarter than that. They hate having to stop convoys in Capetown but its impossible to make the trip around all of Africa without doing it. So when they do come its rather hard to get anyone close enough. Especially not anyone their Consulate keeps track of around here. And Robey here, and his friends are definitely on their list.”

“And I’m not?”

“No, thats the beauty of things, you jumped ship up in East London. We’ve checked with our man in the Consulate here. No one even knows that you’ve made it down the coast yet. You’re only to be looked for up in Natal.”

The Operative put on a cocky smile for that. “I thought it’d been a bit easy for me since I made it to the Town. Bastards couldn’t get me in London, definitely weren’t going to get me in East London.”

They all smiled at that.

Müller now leaned in over the table. “So you see Somerset, you’re the perfect man for the job. If you set yourself up as a Chandler we can get you close. Pick up what information you can on the ships, who’s carrying what, where they’re going. And then you’ll pass the information along to one of our mutual friends…” He turned towards Leibbrandt.

“And we’ll make sure it gets to the Spee, and they’ll make sure it makes it to the right hands.” The boxer finished up.

The Operative lit up. “It’s bloody brilliant!” He seemed to struggle to keep his voice down. “And it’ll show Churchill thats for sure!”

“So you’ll do it?” Asked Fritz.

“In a damned heartbeat.” But suddenly he stopped. “But, the Merchant Fleet is on lockdown orders here in the Republic. They wont let just anyone pull along side to sell the goods. You need paperwork.”

“We said we had a man working for us in the Consulate, remember? You’ll meet him in a few days, and he’ll make sure you get the papers.”

-------​

It wasn’t Leibbrandt who picked him up when the time came, but another one of these Ox-wagon thugs, a fellow named Vorster. The Operative and he barely talked on the drive. Mostly just Vorster going on about how as soon as “The Emergency” was finished the OB was going to made damned well sure Malan took over, elections or no elections.

They were only two blocks away from the British Consulate when Vorster brought the car to a stop and told The Operative to head into a bar.

Inside he ordered a beer, one of the local brews, some Dutch-descended recipe that seemed to be pure hops.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Mr. Somerset I presume?” Said an exquisitely manicured man with a polished etonian accent as he sat down next to The Operative.

He was almost surprised for a moment when he recognized the inside man. It took quite a bit not to be surprised. “Y-yes sir.” He offered, giving a show of nervousness as a man getting involved in treason for the first time ought.

“Well then, lets get going shall we? We’ll need your photograph for the papers I’m going to have for you, and I’ve got the studio to myself at this hour.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The Operative left a few Rands for his bill and followed the man out.

They turned the corner onto the quiet street of the Consulate, at this late hour, it was completely empty, The Operative came to a stop between the streetlamps and the Inside Man, a few steps further stopped and turned around.

“What is it, my man?” He asked.

“How do you intend to get me into the Consulate?” The Operative asked.

The Inside Man was not particularly interested in going through this. “You’re with me aren’t you? Who's going to argue with an Earl?”

“Ah, yes, of course. Just one more thing.”

Josslyn Hay took another step closer, straining to look at The Operative in the dark of the night. “What is it?” He asked, squinting.

The Colt Police Special was exceptionally loud in this quiet. The Operative squeezed the trigger three times, he was so close he couldn’t miss. Hay stumbled backwards for a moment before falling over. The Operative pulled the trigger one more time, the round expertly ensuring there would be no miracle survival.

There was a commotion down the road, the guard in front of the Consulate was trying to see what was going on. The Operative, leaned over the body and then got up and started running towards the Consulate with his arms raised.

The Sergeant at Arms had his gun drawn “What the hell is going on?” He demanded to now.

“I’m with Naval Intelligence.” The Operative responded. “Someone just murdered the Earl of Erroll.”
 
Is there actually a conspiracy theory that the Earl was working for the Nazis or was this purely your conception?
 

Japhy

Banned
Is there actually a conspiracy theory that the Earl was working for the Nazis or was this purely your conception?

South Africa didn't declare neutrality in WWII so...

He was a BUF member so I didn't really feel by of accusing him of collaboration.
 

Japhy

Banned
Honestly at this point I think that I'm going to wrap this Collection up. I've been trying to rewrite several further stories time and again, and I'm not sure they're ever going to be worth it.

One more coming and that will be the end of it. Lesson learned, next time the theme will be far broader.
 

Japhy

Banned
Vignette #7

Loathing and Not Much Else: London '73​

A new dawn has broken over this country today, as the long night of the black shirted chief comes rapidly to an end. Far more rapidly than we of the Foreign Press were expecting, as the wire has just come in: The King Is Dead. Long Live whatever comes next? No one at this moment is sure, least of all the scum-suckers that at present sit in Whitehall Palace.

We, that is the Foreign Press have descended on the usual haunts, waiting. The doors are all tightly shut at this point and there’s no way that any of our connections are going to be able to pass anything on to us yet. Not at least until they figure out whats going to happen and then figure out who in the British Press is worth talking to first, second, and last before anyone decides to talk to the utterly respectable papers of the New York Times, the Washington Post, or as you know dear reader, Rolling Stone Magazine.

I’ve avoided that awful parade for some time, building connections with those who know that this is a paper worth talking about and that the beers I’ll buy are a solemn pact that I can at least go out of my way not to rat their names to the system that would get mad at line-cutting. But even I know its not yet time to hit these good, hardworking men and women up yet.

And so its off to the streets, my beer finished, to try and see what I can find out. The first thing’s first: The bunting is not coming out. Its not that the death of the Bonnie King Eddie is a shock, he’s been hospitalized publically for over a week. Its that these hardworking, uptight folks remember everything.

Everything.

Everything that their dearly departed king ever said, ever snubbed about, ever skipped out on a flight to Canada during. Who is chums were. What his games were. And how much he seemed to have liked those Black uniforms, even if people say, there is no photo.

Morning comes, morning goes. The Prime Minister addresses the nation, great sadness at the passing of the man. He fidgets a lot with his glasses. The Conservative’s Republican wing is weak compared to the rest of the country, they’re the only place where Monarchists have to go after all. He is a reactionary being dragged out by the tide and its obvious, no matter how many folks around town want to brand him as being reasoned or calculating.

“Oh and Australia and Canada are going to be Republic's tomorrow” is left unmentioned in the brief address. And then its back to meetings and silence.

On this most British of days it seems necessary for me to have a true English lunch. And so it is that I stagger about and find myself in my usual little dive eating Fish and Chips unlike anything you can ever really get in America, no matter how many times restaurants try to capture the likeness. And its there I meet and chat with the people of London about the news. There’s no need to try and focus on anything, there’s nothing else to talk about on a day like this.

“You Americans had the right idea back in seventeen-seventy-six.” One old ‘bloke’ in a three piece suit tells me. This discussion goes on long enough he starts paying for my beers, like God Intended. The crux of the matter is simple. “We might as well have someone sitting around cutting ribbons up top we can get rid of, rather than causing all this trouble.” I ask about the housewife with all the charities and I’m bluntly told. “The Princess is all right and good, but I’ll be damned if I ever want to go through the whole sordid process again.”

Like any good son of the Republic, all I can do is nod knowingly.

That afternoon the wire does come in and its official: The Hophead PM over in Ottawa just declared a Republic. So long and thanks for making sure we didn’t wind up in Kennedy Kountry. Lucky them.

The Canucks will have some sort of honorary President by the end of the week.

It doesn’t take long for that news to spread about, and the vibe in town is very much a rocky one, that is to say, lots of quiet nodding.

I check back in with the noble Foreign Press, they’re all politely typing up reports based on the Canadians and what might follow up here and elsewhere, and with the official press releases. None of that for me thank you, they’re missing the truth of the matter and I’ve got no time for that sort of cheap nonsense. If I did you, my dear readers wouldn’t be bothering with a magazine of such political acumen and esteem the likes of Rolling Stone.

And so its off, more conversations. The shock is wearing off, I wind up debating the finer points of the Plastic Ono sound coming from the other side of the Pond with some kids whose only thoughts on the passing of the monarch was that he was “Fascist Scum.” None of the decent people around them who notice even bother to try and tell them that he was just friends with Moseley.

Eventually I find an old fellow who actually served in the late War against the Nazi shittes, and we chat for quite a while. This sonofabitch fought his way out of France in 1940 and then Burma from 1942 to well past VJ day. This is just the kind of man to offer a glimpse into the experience of the King’s most famous moments.

“It was Eden’s job I reckon, to have at least suggested it. ‘Tour of the Dominions’ and all of that.” The old fellow shrugs. “He didn’t have to go though. And he didn’t have to stay over there as long as he did. Not while we were fighting for our lives.”

That's the main feeling around town from the generation that holds all the cards these days. When the Prime Minister finally walks out with the spare they have in this country in case the other party has to take over, the address is short and clear. There will be a vote in the Commons and then, the golden word:

“Referendum”.

The would-be Queen says a vote is in the National Interest and she’s glad to refrain from any titles until the results are in, whatever that result is. “She drove a truck in France.” Someone says as we’re listening to the broadcast. More nodding. The Lady knows she’s going to lose, but she’s playing her part none the less. it would be nice if a certain American President felt the same way, but then last November was last November.

More beers, this civilization is based solely on pints. Trans-Atlantic Call from the Editorial Staff, asking how soon I can have a piece sent over on the news. The Revolution is coming home to roost finally, everyone wants to know.

So I run a poll. At this pub below the flat I stay in and the result is clear: the monarchy is kaput. The Princess better find herself a day job. I cannot guess though what the uptights will do. But I know the young population of this country is shedding no tears.

And the question really is will the younger members of Labour, these Anti-Politicians actually deliver?

A Republic, government by the people, from the people, for the people, is a real tool for change. We can’t even imagine what its like, back in the United States to have this sort of option laid out.

We settle for Pete McCloskey turning a revolution into a corporate pitch. Will these young little ex-aristocrats actually deliver and remake the country?

Or will they allow these old establishment types allow for a President Lord Louie?

Or worse a continuation of things with a Queen now on the throne?

I can’t say, this isn’t my country, I’m an exile.

Word comes in that Vice President Connally is flying over for the funeral service, God help these poor people, for they know not what's coming for them. That said, they wouldn’t have taken the President too well, being as his Father was so Pro-Adolf back in 1940.

Eden, the man of the year back in 1940 gives an interview later that day. So have Gaitskell and Churchill but Eden’s the one that matters. Its really amazing how few ex Prime Ministers are walking with us at this point in this country, but that's irrelevant.

The Old Man has as much reason as anyone else to take this chance for a good old hate secession, it was the King who sent him into the political wilderness before VE Day after the triumph in the failures of the Blitzkreig.

But he is nothing but polite. The monarch is the monarch to men of this age. One can actually hear people laughing down stairs to the radio when he calls Edward VIII a “Great Leader”. The 1944 elections being a “Preservation of Democracy” is laughable at best, and all the fun that followed, Mistresses in Paris, rah-rahing the Army to go harder in Kenya. Or applauding the ‘59 Coup in France, everything is just swept under the rug as part of “Strong opinion and a great abundance of Patriotism.”

Eden was the world’s hero once, probably because when push came to shove he was willing to tell the King to ‘keep mum’. Now he simply is stating the time in this country.

Its not that crazy if you believe the stories though. Blackshits and “The King’s Party” in thirty-eight, and the supposed messages via Stockholm.

Just whatever happened to Rudolf Hess in 1941.

Or just what he may or may not have said in Paris behind closed doors. Or what he’s said to Labour here, every chance he’s gotten.

The game is up for the old establishment, the King’s sins were theirs too, more often than not. And if the people of these rainy isles are lucky, his passing is going to mark there’s as well. We’ll have to see Dear Readers, when they announce the referendum date.​
 
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Japhy

Banned
Okay, so there's the last one. This one took a few rewrites as well, and I have to admit I did a piss poor job of channeling HST. That said, the previous drafts were worse. Anyway its finished.

I've got plenty of drafts of other things but I'm going to sit on them for now. They're either shit or they're probably better suited for a later collection.


I'd love to hear people's thoughts on if this was even a good idea as a means of releasing these? On one hand I feel like the theme was definitely too tight with it being "World War Two Related" and some vauge mental parameter about PODs having to be after 1933 or so. On the other hand, I don't think I'd have even come up with Able/Oboe which without those limits, it was the first one of these that was not roughly formed in my mind when I posted Götterdämmerung. And since I think it was probably the best piece of the collection, no regrets on my part in that instance.
 
I think the theme worked, although some pieces were better than others.

I think the method of release--a collection of thematically related vignettes--was a good idea. Kept all of the updates in one thread, kept the various stories interrelated in some way... it was a good idea.

I think Able/Oboe would make a good TLIAD/W or whatever. I also liked the Japanese Emperor-As-Fuhrer piece, and the clever use of Downfall parallelism in the Germany piece.
 

cpip

Gone Fishin'
I enjoyed reading these! Nice, brief, self-contained. Some I was better able to recognize and understand what was going on than others -- I fear "Unilateral Declarations" was lost on me, for instance.

Still, thank you for posting them all.
 
I admit I'm pushed for time at the mo but couldn't resist reading your final one when I saw the title. A glorious channelling of HST, you capture his rhythms and gonzo approach very well. AH.com has to be the only place on the internet with two fictional HST extracts set in alt-1970s London ;)

As for the setting, it makes sense. An Eddie who somehow held on after a war that went similarly but - and I like this idea - doesn't seem to have led to Europe learning the lessons it learned IOTL. Like a sort of plausible For All Time Europe. It's older, more stuffy. More imperialist. At least, that's the impression I get.

HST making Kennedy (implied to be at least the second to become POTUS, probably Joe Jr was first BECAUSE BUTTERFLIES) his bete noir rather than Nixon makes sense - he'd loathe the aristocracy of America coming clean and just treating the Presidency as a monarchical title to be handed from one family member to another.

Well done, Japhy - I'll read the rest of them soon.
 

Japhy

Banned
I enjoyed reading these! Nice, brief, self-contained. Some I was better able to recognize and understand what was going on than others -- I fear "Unilateral Declarations" was lost on me, for instance.

Still, thank you for posting them all.

On review Unilateral Declarations was a piece of garbage, badly trying to apply Fleming's famous secret agent to a neutral South Africa was not a working combination.

I admit I'm pushed for time at the mo but couldn't resist reading your final one when I saw the title. A glorious channelling of HST, you capture his rhythms and gonzo approach very well. AH.com has to be the only place on the internet with two fictional HST extracts set in alt-1970s London ;)

As for the setting, it makes sense. An Eddie who somehow held on after a war that went similarly but - and I like this idea - doesn't seem to have led to Europe learning the lessons it learned IOTL. Like a sort of plausible For All Time Europe. It's older, more stuffy. More imperialist. At least, that's the impression I get.

HST making Kennedy (implied to be at least the second to become POTUS, probably Joe Jr was first BECAUSE BUTTERFLIES) his bete noir rather than Nixon makes sense - he'd loathe the aristocracy of America coming clean and just treating the Presidency as a monarchical title to be handed from one family member to another.

Well done, Japhy - I'll read the rest of them soon.

I do appreciate you dropping in then. And yeah it was rather fun to do a fake Thompson, even if it wasn't the best it could possibly be. I'd say that Europe isn't as bad off as Dr. Gonzo thinks it is, but its also, inherently not as good as it should be, unreliable narrator to take the cake for unreliable narrators and all that.

Like I said to cpip the 6th Vignette is crap, I'd just skip that. Folks on the Facebook group I was chatting with seemed to like Able/Oboe best, if you decide to jump though any others. The rest after that are all pretty good.

I think the process worked pretty well with this collection, though I'm not sure what to do as a theme for the next one, Maverick keeps telling me to shut up and just write stuff and then find a theme, but nothings really saying "This needs to get written up, now." at the moment. We'll see what happens eventually I guess.
 
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