Also, what happened to Italy's monarch? It was a queen, right? What's her current situation?
Considering Goering has already reduced his king to a mere puppet and that Adolf is planning to nominate himself emperor of Austria, i have no doubts that something similar will happen to her.
Either she will become a simple figurhead with Peter II being the real guy in charge or she gets overthrown like the Shah of Iran back in 1979.
I wouldn't be surprised if this caused Napoleon V to side against the Supercatholics, mostly because they are becoming a treath to his power as much as the Illuminists.
Is he a supercatholic sympathiser or has the futility of the last war shown him moderation in all things?
The latter would be quite cool to show that not everyone in a position of power in WMiT is a crazy lunatic and that there are still some sane people in positions of power.
Funny you should bring up that post:
The following has been an excerpt from BECOMING A MAN: THE RYAN HARVEY HENDRICK STORY (First Edition, Douglas Publishing, 1955) by Ryan H. Hendrick, Supreme Chief of the Space Force
The RU is intentionally launching things into space (I'm guessing the Bible he sent up there isnt expected to return) by 1955 at the latest, which isn't too far behind OTL (the war probably ends before 1950, letting the Space Force focus on space for it's own sake). That means advances in rocketry are due in the next war. So there's yet another thing for the South Americans to worry about, or maybe even try to steal...
Quick thought I had: I should do a chapter sometime based on the regional lore and superstitions of America. With how readily Yankees believe in mysticsm, who is to say they don't believe in all sorts of nonsense like vampires, werewolves, witches, and shapeshifters and whatnot. After all, the Union IS a successor state to the original Puritan colonies.
Quick thought I had: I should do a chapter sometime based on the regional lore and superstitions of America. With how readily Yankees believe in mysticsm, who is to say they don't believe in all sorts of nonsense like vampires, werewolves, witches, and shapeshifters and whatnot. After all, the Union IS a successor state to the original Puritan colonies.
Quick thought I had: I should do a chapter sometime based on the regional lore and superstitions of America. With how readily Yankees believe in mysticsm, who is to say they don't believe in all sorts of nonsense like vampires, werewolves, witches, and shapeshifters and whatnot. After all, the Union IS a successor state to the original Puritan colonies.

Ahem, jokes aside, seeing the regional mythology of the US evolving in the world of Madness seems neat. And just in time for the season of Spoopy
Quick thought I had: I should do a chapter sometime based on the regional lore and superstitions of America. With how readily Yankees believe in mysticsm, who is to say they don't believe in all sorts of nonsense like vampires, werewolves, witches, and shapeshifters and whatnot. After all, the Union IS a successor state to the original Puritan colonies.
Fearsome Critters are so much fun!
I've got an idea for Churchill's successor
David Robert Jones, known to his detractors as "the Thin White Duke" for his heavy handed leadership, would become one of the most powerful Brittanic leaders in modern history, eclipsing even Pt.-St. Churchill in glories won under his administration.
Quick thought I had: I should do a chapter sometime based on the regional lore and superstitions of America. With how readily Yankees believe in mysticsm, who is to say they don't believe in all sorts of nonsense like vampires, werewolves, witches, and shapeshifters and whatnot. After all, the Union IS a successor state to the original Puritan colonies.

You should absolutely do this! That could also be another place of Cokie influence seeping in, where all those backwoods stories about feral animals and.... things in the woods could play a part. It's a fittingly Madness way to commemorate Spoopy season.

Now, on an unrelated note, this thread here from Something Awful is pure Madness material, especially for the Custer era:

My favorite:

A.P. Brown said:
Two days prior to this day, and with absolute faith in the infinite possibilities of science, I climbed the highest peak of the Ozarks in search of the aerie of a North American condor. Having located a particularly fearsome specimen, I engaged the patriotic beast in hand-to-hand combat atop its mountain fastness. I dispatched its mewling young with contemptible ease, but the enraged matron of the flock scored several brutal pecks to my hands and arms. Weakened by these expert exsanguinations, I grabbed the bird around its feathered neck and throttled it.

During what I assumed to be the creature's last moments of life I was overcome with a natural and complete love of country. I could see bombs bursting red in the sky and singed flags flapping beneath a gently tooting bugle. In my patriotic fugue I unwittingly lessened my grip on the condor's gizzard, allowing it to slip free my grasp and begin anew its attack on my face. My love for the Union was so powerful that I became blinded by the tears streaming from my eyes.
You should make Midas Goldstein the new Santa Claus of America. Turning antisemitism on it's head by having a Jew give gifts...
Abraham Lincoln and Patriot-Saints Day has already taken that role.

That said, Goldstein could be folded into the holiday as an assistant to Father Abe via a children story like Rudolph. Father Abe and his Pinnacle Blood brigade, bringing you blessings this holiday season?
SEPTEMBER 11, 1936
Reposting this to put it in its proper threadmark order. One of the issues with the scope of the TL is me constantly telling myself, "Oh Yeah! I should write about this even though it is set before the last chapter." lol

SEPTEMBER 11, 1936


The R.U.S. Sweetwater slips beneath the waves at Port Pierce

Edgar Fishlove smiled to himself as he pinned up a picture of Juliet Bradshaw in his locker. The Kissimmee starlet was wearing a tasseled red evening gown and the hand-tinting of the picture really brought out the green in her eyes. Fishlove was one of many lonely young American marines and seamen stationed around the world with a locker full of actress pin-ups and chocolate bars. He grabbed one of the bars, a Sweet Victory-produced Bacco Bits, gingerly unwrapped the silver foil, and broke off a chunk of the real tobacco-infused chocolate. The smell of his hometown candy store back in Smithville, New Canaan, drifted into his nostrils. He sighed and took a bite, still staring at the actress' snapshot. Fishlove was never the ladies' man, and didn't even have a girl to write letters to every night like some of the other guys on the 600 foot long R.U.S. Vulture, stationed at Port Pierce, still known by some of the gangly, local Infee laborers as "Santiago de Cuba," or at least, those of the foul prisoners on the penal colony that still spoke or even remembered their ancient Spanish tongue. The R.U.S. Vulture was one of the two Innsmouth-class "pinnacle dreadnought" vessels in Navy Group V, the main arm of American strength in the Caribbean. Fishlove was a Marine private who had joined up in 1934, and had been serving on the Vulture since his graduation from boot camp. The other Innsmouth-class pinnacle dreadnought battleship in Navy Group V, the R.U.S. Peabody, with its likewise accompaniment of 14 inch Mach II triple guns--45 in caliber and with a range of over 20,000 yards--was anchored just a hop, skip, and a jump away, with its full compliment of 1,000 sailors, 100 marines, and 60 officers. The entrance to Port Pierce was defended by the very tip of Cuban landmass at Promontory Point, a shore battery and base forged from the ruins of the centuries-old Morro Castle. Promontory Point oversaw all traffic in and out of Port Pierce, and its excellent placement was ideal for the massive big-bore heavy cannons and howitzers stationed along its walls.

The Vulture and the Peabody were hardly alone in the harbor, however. Backing up the two pinnacle dreadnoughts were six battleships, namely the Sweetwater, Galveston, Ford, and Virginia, with a further accompaniment of three submarines (Donkey, Galahad, and Talon), and 30 destroyers, as well as 35 smaller vessels. Navy Group V was in full form that day, September 11, 1936. While a young Chuck Oswald was studying away in a Benedict Arnold University dormitory, one day away from his fateful enlistment in the Navy, Ed Fishlove took another bite of his Bacco Bits bar. He smiled again, enjoying the pleasant pick-me-up. He had spent another boring day manning the radio room. The time was 3 pm when the buzz of foreign planes could be heard by the young marine.

At the same time that Edgar Fishlove was enjoying his afternoon snack, a 28 year-old Aeroforce Captain Franklin Mathew Johnson, son of long-time New Canaan Governor and Steele-supporter Sam Johnson, was overseeing the daily maintenance on the planes at the aerodrome inside Promontory Point. Franklin, known as Jumbo to his associates, was calmly sipping a coffee and enjoying the tropic sun. There were roughly 200 planes there, mostly M-1935 Hatchets, produced by Colonel Ford. Like the massive amount of navy ships present, the reason for the large buildup of planes at Port Pierce was the impending launch of Operation Manifest Climax, the Steele-ordered plan drawn up by Supreme Marshal Ambrose Jansen and the rest of the cabinet focusing on invading Colombia as a punishment for the humiliation of ORRA during the 1933 Maracaibo Incident and as the beginning of Steele's full occupation of the Americas. Little did they know that General Stanley Dale had betrayed the Republican Union and gave the Neutrality Pact a complete copy of Operation Manifest Climax in exchange for substantial economic reward. On July 31, General Dale, one of the foremost veterans of Lincoln's Hammer, had handed the files over to a Colombian spy in Philadelphia and from there the Neutrality Pact had drawn up their own plans of attack and defense.

According to the doctrine agreed upon by the Pact High Council, defeat was almost certain. They were well aware that defeat to the American people was a concept unheard of since 1812. With America as the New Jerusalem, victory in any conflict was certain and divinely-ordained. However, a crippling attack, fast and quick, and/or a never-ending guerrilla operation possibly force a truce, as seen in Ireland at the end of the Great World War. In fact, many of the Neutrality Pact nations, especially Colombia, saw Irish expatriates and exchange officers leading the way in military doctrine. War had been certain since Maracaibo, and Catholics and anti-Americans the world over had found their way to South America. Even a tiny surviving fragment of the old Mexican race served in the army of Gran Colombia. With all this mind, the main goal of the Neutrality Pact was to smash Navy Group V at Port Pierce with an overwhelming and devastating aerial assault. With many squadrons of M35 Hussars purchased from Europa, the light and nimble craft could prove deadly in the right circumstances. When paired with the M36 Cuirassier dive bombers, also purchased from the Empire and decked out in the yellow-blue-and-red and the Gran Colombian Republican Aeroforce, an assault on Navy Group V looked promising indeed. The Colombian Navy sported only one aerocarrier, the native-designed and rather slip-shod Vitoria, but the Colombian planes were also carried to the point of operation by Peru's two carriers, the Andes and the Magnifico. With dozens of other smaller vessels in tow, the Neutrality Pact's Central Fleet Command would steam to Port Pierce and assault it with everything it had. While the attack commenced, highly-trained squads of paratrooper commandos would jump behind American lines and raise hell at the many, many Infee prisons and work yards on the island penal colony. With Cuba in full disarray and Navy Group V ablaze, it would possibly give just enough momentum to halt any Yankee advance along the Panama border. If the Pact could advance and take Georgetown, Panama, immediately, they could seize control over the canal. They would then rig the canal for detonation and leave it in ruins, crippling the ability of the American Navy to respond to further attacks.

And so we venture back to September 11, 1936, as the first Hussars and Cuirassiers buzzed across the horizon toward the anchored American warships. Ed Fishlove stopped chewing his Bacco Bits as he finally took notice of the unexpected din. Over the next twenty seconds, the drone of the engines grew only louder until finally they sounded as if they were right overhead. A massive explosion ripped through the Vulture, sending Fishlove and hundreds of his fellow crewmen flying to the floor as debris shook from the ceiling and furniture and equipment overturned. As Fishlove pulled himself to his feet, he could tell the ship had not fully recovered from the blast. It was listing ever so slightly to the right. An Innsmouth-class was taking on water. Immediately, the claxons rang out and the petty officers took to the ship's intercom to announce:

As Fishlove grabbed his green-painted helmet and sidearm and ran into the hallway of the crew quarters and up to the deck, he could hear the gasps, cries, and howls of injured and dying sailors and marines all about. One sailor, wearing nothing but his boxers and a t shirt, came flying down the stairs from the deck, blood flowing like a fountain from the side of his head. Even more followed, pushing Fishlove out of the way as they scrambled for safety, some carrying the dead and dying. At the same time, however, a detachment of Marines were headed the opposite way, right behind Fishlove. When they all reached the deck, a horrific sight greeted them. A massive crater had been blown in the rear end of the Vulture and water was pouring in. Overhead, like swarms of wasps, the Europan-made Pact planes buzzed and danced about, guns blazing. Bullets raked the deck of the Vulture as a squadron zipped by in a strafing run. Not ten feet away, dozens of bullets eviscerated a group of sailors, turning their crisp white uniforms a pulpy red. As Fishlove tried to figure out where to go, he could see similar incidents unfolding all over the harbor. "Oh God," he muttered to himself as he saw a direct hit from a Cuirassier send a small Yankee patrol boat to the locker, its crew--what survived--screaming and sputtering in the seaweed-tinted water.

"Fishlove, man, snap out of it! We need to man these AA grinders!" bellowed Private Henry Lincoln Johnston, one fellow marine from Appalachia whom the New Canaan-born Fishlove did not particularly care for. While before they had been rivals and had even thrown hands at each other, they were now brothers in arms. Fishlove raced to Johnston's side and the blonde-haired marine yelled out, "Feed me, Fishlove! Let's show these Infees what pure fluidation looks like!" Without hesitations, Fishlove began feeding ammunition into the heavy anti-aero grinder. Within seconds, they had scored their first hit, downing a Hussar and sending it smashing into the sea, its inexperienced Colombian pilot bailing out, parachute deployed.

Just a few seconds' walk down the length of the ship, another Hussar, plummeting aimlessly with its left wing gone, slammed into the central smokestack, another smashing blow to the Vulture. Pillars of smoke and flame rose from the beautiful ship as it fought back with all it had against the foreign hordes. But it was not enough. Just ten minutes later, another Cuirassier bomb hit the forward end of the ship. With water pouring in from both ends, the captain of the Vulture, Frank Falconburg, announced over the remaining ship speakers:



The R.U.S. Vulture slips to the seabed at 3:45 pm

As Fishlove and the other surviving sailors and marines headed for the lifeboats amidst the hail of gunfire and bombs, Captain Falconburg stood watching in the conning tower, just behind the fiery, crippled smokestack. With debris and wreckage blocking the way out, Falconburg, a 28-year veteran of the Union Navy and a veteran of the Great World War, drew his cutlass from his belt, saluted the flag that still raggedly hung in the breeze before him, screamed out "VIA, VERITAS, VITA!" and then forced the cutlass into his own guts. The white-and-gold uniform, propped against the command table, soon was set alight by the fires. The R.U.S. Vulture was gone. As the crew scrambled to the hopeful safety of the nearby Peabody pinnacle dreadnought and as the destroyer Sweetwater steamed over to deliver covering fire for the escaping Vulture crew, the Colombian aerocarrier Vitoria opened up an intense barrage from its deck guns, sending more shells raining down on the shocked Yankees.

While the Vulture sank beneath the gentle Cuban waves, Captain Jumbo Johnson was frantically ordering every available plane into the air. The atrocity unfolding before him was unbelievable, and he knew he had to do something and do it right now. Leaving Colonel Buford Lang in charge of the ground operations, Jumbo Johnson sprinted aboard a state-of-the-art CGE A-12 Soaring Eagle, a beefy bomber and aerial gun platorm, and ordered the crew to fly straight for the Vitoria. Ed Fishlove and his mates watched in awe as the Soaring Eagle and its squadron of M-35 Hatchets rocketed off toward the enemy, guns blazing.

Within thirty minutes of the beginning of the attack, the control of the skies had shifted toward the Union, blowing the untrained and young Colombian pilots out of the air by the score. Thirty-five minutes after the Vulture dipped below the waves, Johnson's Soaring Eagle was dropping its full compliment of bombs onto the Vitoria, detonating its ammo cache and forcing the poorly-made ship into a retreat, flanked by several gunboats and a destroyer. Johnson was well aware that two more Peruvian aerocarriers, the Andes and Magnifico, were still steaming about, but was unsure of their locations. With bullet holes peppered throughout the plane and his right gunner slumped over the belt-fed coffee grinder, Johnson, manning the left gun, ordered his pilot to fly him back toward the harbor. On their way back, another American plane was struck by enemy fire and slammed into the side of the A-12, killing its pilot. Saying his last prayers, Johnson, the last surviving crewman, headed for the exit and jumped out, deploying his parachute ten seconds after. As he drifted through the smoke and clouds, he saw dozens of planes in every direction. Plumes of smoke and flame rose from Promontory Point and the aerodrome. a quarter of the American planes within were destroyed. To the left, the Peabody, Galveston, and Sweetwater circled around the lifeboats of the Vulture, desperately trying to rescue their patriot-comrades. Seemingly out of nowhere, the Sweetwater's hull tore open like a can of soda, sending water gushing in. A Peruvian submarine had just blasted a hole in the destroyer's side. The Sweetwater would be the second major vessel to be destroyed that day. All about, gunboats and support vessels were strewn about like bath toys, tipped every which way. Bodies drifted on the water like ragdolls, some missing more pieces than others. Colombian pilots and American seamen both were washing up on the sunny shoreline. Just before Johnson hit the water, he saw a Yankee minelayer, the Tea Party, detonate with all hands aboard. Jumbo had tried his best to turn the tide of battle, but things were still grim.


The American Aerodrome at Promontory Point erupts into a gigantic fireball

Fishlove saw a bullet tear through Johnston's head beside him in their lifeboat. With a grimace, he tossed the dead weight of his comrade overboard. Seconds later, an Aeroforce officer splashed down into the sea, his parachute wrapping around some wreckage. After some short work with a knife to cut his cords, the officer extended a hand to Fishlove, who heaved him up to take Johnston's place. "Are you all right, sir?" Fishlove asked, his voice hoarse from screaming.

The captain drew his sidearm, a silver revolver, looked up at the sky, and replied, "No, marine, I am not 'all right.'" Jumbo Johnson raised his pistol and fired a bullet at a passing Colombian plane. Like an act of God, the bullet passed clean through the canopy and into the pilot's head, sending the plane sputtering into the Caribbean. Fishlove and the other men in the lifeboat sat, mouths agape at the trick shot. Johnson turned to Fishlove "I have had a hell of a fucking day, in fact, marine. But in New Canaan we always say when the going gets tough, the tough get tougher."

For a split second, Fishlove's morale raised. "You're from New Canaan, sir? Me too! I'm a Smithville boy, myself."

Johnson fired a few more stray shots before turning and saying, "My daddy's the governor. Sam Johnson. Good to see a fellow New Canaanite in this shitshow!"

As the lifeboat finally knocked against the hull of the Peabody and the crew began ascending the rope ladders, Fishlove and Johnson grimaced and followed suit. The two were soon on the deck of the remaining Innsmouth-class. The Neutrality Pact planes appeared to be pulling back to their own fleet, the few remaining American planes nipping at their heels. The attack seemed to be winding down. The Andes had been spotted, swooping in from the southeast to allow the Hussars and Cuirassiers to land. The Magnifico still remained sight-unseen since the beginning of the attack. As one of the Aeroforce commanders on duty, Jumbo Johnson soon found himself in the conning tower of the Peabody, blanket draped over his shoulders as Admiral William Huggins, the supreme commander of Navy Group V, asked him questions about the whereabouts of the Magnifico. Telling Admiral Huggins he had no clue, both men feared another wave was coming. Little did they know that the Magnifico had evaded the Yankee warships and had gone west, slinking along the coast. Every so often, shore batteries opened up and reported sighting a large foreign vessel, but it remained relatively stealthy. That night, several transport planes took off from the deck of the Peruvian ship and flew over areas well-known for forced labor camps and prisons. Commandos made the sign of the cross and the bailed out, on a mission from God to liberate the oppressed Infees of the Cuban Penal Colony. All hell was about to break loose.

"Citizens of the Republican Union! A great travesty has taken place upon our soil. This day, at roughly three in the afternoon in beautiful, sunny Cuba, swarms of South American planes, bombers, and ships descended upon Navy Group V, stationed at Port Pierce and our base at Promontory Point. Thousands of American lives have, in the span of just a couple of hours, been snuffed out like candles. Young men in their prime, cut down like rabid animals by Inferior mongoloid Hispanic gauchos and savages. Equipped with Europan planes and Europan bombers, the forces of Satan have leveled a devastating blow upon the New Jerusalem. Knowing that our victory is divinely ordained, Lucifer has turned the so-called Neutrality Pact, a gaggle of Inferior demons, against us! September 11, 1936: a day which will live forever in the hearts and minds of our countrymen! But we do not sit and reflect on the losses we have just sustained! We do not weep and gnash our teeth over our fallen sons! Rather we must meet the enemy, the forces of evil, with bayonets fixed! Full steam ahead! Mark the words of your President, Atheling, and Commander-in-Chief: The subhumans who did this to us, we God's Chosen Few, shall be hearing from all of us very, very soon! Enlist now! We will smash the Pact and bring glory to our memory. May the Blessings of Almighty Jehovah be showered upon our homeland. All hail!"

- Joe Steele's September 11 Address to the Nation

Not that I'm against this thread achieving its Manifest Destiny of 1000 pages, but I've seen other TL authors move around the order of the threadmarks on the Index without moving around the posts themselves.
Not that I'm against this thread achieving its Manifest Destiny of 1000 pages, but I've seen other TL authors move around the order of the threadmarks on the Index without moving around the posts themselves.

I didn't know that was possible? How does one do this? lol

EDIT: I just found the "Edit Display Order" button for the first time ever. I'm dumb sometimes. lol I'll leave this one because I don't wanna mess with it again, but I'll know from now on at least.


Neutrality Pact paratroopers touch down in Cuba

A parrot's harsh caw sounded over the dense jungle foliage. The tropic air was thick and muggy that morning, and Reilly Fergus, Inmate Number 129B of the Elberton Camp, wiped the sweat from his brow with his yellowed sackcloth of a shirt sleeve. This was his daily life, chopping down sugar cane for the Yankee overlords. This was all he had ever know. Ever since the Beckie Flu of the 1910s, most Inferiors of Society were concentrated on the island prison, far and away from the Betters of Society who had now outgrown their use for the Inferiors in the factories and assembly lines. With new Clan regulations in effect, Betters gladly did their old jobs, and with more skill and precision than mere slaves, or, as the American government liked to call Inferiors in the factories, "compensated laborers." Reilly was paid for his work. One dollar a month. Food was also free, and it consisted of stale bread, water, a ration of citrus-infused rum to ward off scurvy, and some sort of horrible gruel that was an odd pinkish color, a color seemingly nonexistent in nature but somehow quite readily available in the Union camp counselor's kitchens. "Not a man shall be a slave," said the American songs and chants. That was true. Reilly was not a slave. He was paid. That meager one dollar was what kept him a "free man."

Reilly was illiterate, almost entirely lacking in any sort of education, and his pasty-white Irish skin burned to a crisp every day under the scorching rays of the Cuban sun. Mosquitoes and gnats gnawed at him every second. Many of his fellow camp inmates had breathed their last laboring to the bone in the tropic heat, some dying in his arms before ORRA men beat him off the corpses with the butts of their guns and their nightsticks. Reilly had more than a few scars from "counselor correctional action."

As for why he was here, Reilly knew little. He knew the great big country to the north hated him, and so did the Camp Counselors, but that was all he knew. Sometimes he saw big planes taxi down the nearby runway. These planes would be emblazoned with strange logos. Sometimes the logos said, according to the few inmates who could read, "FORD." Sometimes "GOODYEAR." According to the elder inmates, these were huge "companies" in the mainland and they liked to use Inferior inmates to test products and to use in horrific working conditions where no Better dared to tread. Some of the older Inmates even said they, at one time, worked for these "companies," before the big war and the Beckie Flu ended their inglorious working careers. Of what little Reilly remembered of his father, who died when he was very young, he definitely recalled Horace Fergus mentioning the filthy, disgusting "factories" where he worked for those Goodyear people. He said after the outbreak of the Flu and the subsequent Inferior revolts, he was sent to Cuba to labor out the rest of his days, which would only be a year or two before a counselor shot him while trying to escape a work detail in the jungle. Supposedly, Reilly himself worked for a company called "Sweet Victory," and the sugar he cut down was shipped to candy and soda factories

Our protagonist took a sip of water from his rusty metal canteen, desperately trying to avoid overheating.

"Yo, 129B!" bellowed an obnoxious voice from behind him. "Pick up the pace, you piece of Satanspawn. We don't have time for a teaparty!"

"Oi, I'm fookin' dyin' o're here, lad!" Reilly shouted back.

Clack. A live round moved into position inside the chamber of the ORRA "Camp Counselor's" shotgun.

"Right! Movin' on, then, dammit," Reilly slung the canteen back over his shoulder and once again picked up the dangerously thin and rusty machete. It had lost its handle years ago, and in its place was some simple packing tape. Not exactly ideal, but it worked to cut the sugarcane down, which Reilly once again began to do, sweat streaming from every inch of body.

The ORRA man, a stout black fellow with brown knee-high lace-up boots, a khaki Tropic-issue service uniform, and a pinch-crown hat, moved forward and yelled, "You talkin' back to your Better, son?"

"Nosir," Reilly answered, glowering and boiling inside. Every day was the same. He had been alive for 19 years, and every single one featured an ORRA man yelling obscenities and threats his way while chambering rounds in a gun. He sighed and kept cutting.

Little did Reilly, the other members of the work detail, or the counselors know that Port Pierce had just been attacked by a massive force of Neutrality Pact ships and planes last night. Navy Group V lay in ruins, crippling American might around Cuba. Despite the inevitable American counter-attack that had pushed the Neutrality Pact away from the port, the game was just beginning. High over the sugarcane and the jungle trees, M36 Cuirassiers, painted in Colombian livery, flew with bellies full of elite "Condor Commandos." They had flown off the decks of the Magnifico, the one and only remaining aeorcarrier in the Peruvian arsenal that had now slunk its way along the Cuban coast. Its mission was simple: while America tried to regroup following the attack on Port Pierce, the planes on the Magnifico would drop the commandos over Inferior camps and liberate them, causing chaos and mayhem behind enemy lines. The Pact had little hope for victory in this war, but its one strategy was to cause as much discord and anarchy behind American lines as possible. Little did Reilly and the other inmates at Camp Elberton know that this would be their last day as prisoners. War had begun, and they were pawns about to be craftily and violently thrust to the front of the board.

A low hum sounded in distant sky. The sound of planes. They probably were company planes coming to pick up more laborers. But they sounded different to Reilly. As the noise grew closer, Reilly definitely knew it wasn't the typical vessel. That was when the alarm sounded.




The arrogant ORRA man who had just yelled insults at Reilly was suddenly of a very different tone and bearing. "By the Prophet! What's going on?!" the Yankee exclaimed with a hoarse voice, the cigarette dropping from his lips and onto the muddy jungle floor. The sounds of the parrots and animals grew silent as the alarm rang out. In the distance, more Yankee screams and shouts could be heard. The camp was under attack. Reilly looked up, squinting through the sunlight as little white sheets with men attached came tumbling out of the planes like daredevils. Anti-aircraft guns located along the coast to the southeast began to open fire on the unwelcome guests. One shell ripped right through one of the strange-looking planes, tearing it in half with a fiery burst. Debris, men, corpses, and equipment came screeching out of the new breech in the hull as the plane began its descent.

All hell broke loose. The guards who were supposed to watch their work detail were now in a state of sheer panic. Someone threw a punch. A guard went down. Another guard fired a shotgun, blasting an Italian man's head off his shoulders. General mayhem ensued. The guard who killed the man was ripped apart and his gun was used on the fat man who had been accosting Reilly. A full riot was breaking out.

"Get the fuck back, Satanspawn! Get the fuck back or I will send every damn one of you to the void!" shrieked a blonde-haired ORRA officer wearing an envelope hat. Not a second later, he opened up with a Pierce Automatic Rifle, maiming and killing several more inmates. Reilly knew he had to do something. Shocked by his own courage, he sprinted toward the man with the PAR and drove his machete into his skull. As the gunfire fell silent and the last guard was overpowered, Reilly picked up the PAR and threw Blondie's ammo belt over his shoulder. Hoisting the gun over his head, he cried out, "Freedom! We are free, brothers and sisters!"

Raising their machetes and few captured guns over their heads, the ragtag group of bloodied rioters let loose a loud cheer that chilled Reilly to his core. This was it. The day of reckoning had arrived. Reilly had lived through several attempted riots, but nothing came close to this. They were being helped from outside now. There was a chance, however slim, of taking control of the camp.

As the group celebrated their freedom and began to march toward the camp, the first of the paratroopers began to touch down. With skullcap helmets and Hispanic faces, they were a welcome sight from the Anglo-Saxon and Black guards. They wore odd uniforms with a pattern Reilly had never seen before. Tiny flag patches on their sleeves showed a yellow-red-blue banner and a red-and-white one. As long as they weren't sporting red-white-and-blue they could have been pink with purple polka dots for all the inmates cared. They cheered as each one rained down like angels from above. Some of them were caught in the trees and were busy cutting themselves down while others landed in the small clearings of the sugarcane fields and were already on the move, snub-nose grinders hammering away. More shells burst overhead, but the planes seemed to be heading back to wherever they came from.

"¡Viva la liberación!" one paratrooper shouted over the din of the battle. What few camp guards that remained outside of the camp quickly began to buckle under the strain of the assault and fell back, many to be shot in the back by the attackers and the rioters. "Madre María, protégeme!" came another scream. Reilly had known enough Spanish-speaking inmates to know Spanish when he heard it.

Camp Elberton, run by Chief Counselor Robert P. Anderson, was now bristling with guns and troops. The camp loudspeakers came to life with the sound of Anderson's voice. "

"This is your commander, Chief Counselor Anderson! All inmates will hold their positions or face immediate termination! All ORRA personnel are expected to hold their ground at all costs. Not one step back to the Papist aggressors! All hail!"

The Neutrality Pact commandos conveyed essential ideas to Reilly and the rest of the angry mob headed toward the camp, enough at least to form a cohesive strategy. While Reilly and the other rioters provided covering fire, the commandos blasted their way up to the gates of the prison before throwing little gray balls at the iron-and-wood doors. Yankee troops up on top of the walls picked off many of the commandos, but the damage was already done.

"Granada fuera!"

"They threw grena-"


The mighty doors to Camp Elberton came crashing down. Whooping and hollering, the rebels and the commandos entered the facility, guns blazing. He loaded another magazine into the PAR. Reilly Fergus was going to war.


Location: R.U. High Command, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Republican Union
Date: September 13, 1936

The Supreme Marshal of the Grand Army of the Republic, Ambrose Jansen, took another drag of his fourth cigarette that hour as he read the report of the Neutrality Pact's assault on Cuba. To put it simply, the last few days had not exactly shown great promise for his Operation Manifest Climax.

"...Inmates at the Camp Elberton Reeducation Facility, otherwise known as Camp 457, utilized support from N.P. aeroborne commandos to take control of the facility and execute the staff. Every single ORRA officer and member of personnel present was brutally murdered and given no quarter, aside from three survivors who were lucky enough to escape in time. The American flag was cut down from the pole over the Chief Counselor's office and was replaced with a bloody rag the inmates are apparently rallying around. Survivors believe it is the shirt of an Inferior Irishman who was killed in the final assault. Chief Counselor Anderson ran himself through with his short sword before they were able to storm his quarters. His body was cut in two and impaled on spikes before the camp entrance."

"Hell of a mess," muttered Jansen, tossing the paper onto his desk and leaning forward to take another frantic puff of cigarette. "And you say this was from eyewitness testimony by these three survivors?"

The junior officer standing at attention on the black-and-white marble floor before him and knodded, answering with a shaky voice, "Yessir." Dozens of men and high-ranking officers were dancing about a huge map of Cuba in the other side of the large room. They were trying to quickly figure out a solution and a way to effectively counter the Neutrality Pact's surprise attack. The public demanded swift retribution at all costs. An eye for any eye and a genocide for a tooth.

"Have them executed," Jansen said coldly.


"The three survivors. Execute them immediately. ORRA men under siege fight to the last man, even if escape is available. If we let these men live, then that sets a rather poor example for the rest of our boys in blue. I am sure Supreme Chief Patton would agree with my command. Have them shot immediately for cowardice."

Tight-lipped and pale, the officer clicked his heels, saluted, and scurried off.

Jansen sat and watched the men pushing toy soldiers and boats around the huge map. They were trying to manage a conventional war. But with the Inferiors rising up, this was clearly going to be anything but. Phone calls were just coming in about a Neutrality Pact assault on the Panama Canal, as well. Jansen sighed, snuffed out his cigarette, and rose from his chair. "I can't believe this shitshow," he said to himself as he walked toward the table to inform the generals about the latest happenings. "Steele is gonna have my throat slit if I don't get this under control."
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I really like the NP commandos. They may not be as many or as well equipped as the Americans, but damn they have guts! Let's hope they can do as much damage as possible before the RU retaliates.
The northern half of South America has all the right conditions for prolonged guerrilla warfare. So the empire is going to have some serious trouble holding onto any potential conquests there.