Re-Jumpstarting the American Century: USA AAR 1936

[invertigo2004]

For those of you who were there for the first, I hope you will stay for the second. For those of you who are new, I just hope you'll stay. Anyway, since most of the original game files are gone, let me just say that the story remains based on the 2nd HOI2 game I ever played (1.0 USA 1936 Normal/Normal), and deals with a much more aggressive Roosevelt who ultimately manages to drag the U.S. kicking and screaming onto the world stage. All the units & battles are derived directly from the game I played, while the politics and some events are things I derived to help explain certain things. Finally, as before, each post will consist of 2 or 3 scenes concerning different characters, and each scene will be capped by a related photo with a textbook-style caption.

Now without further adeau...

Jumpstarting the American Century

1

January 13, 1936 – Washington D.C.

He sat silently, not moving, eyes glassy, staring out the frost-glazed window. His breath smoked, the fire having burned far too low to keep away the cold. He did not notice. Nor did he notice the darkness as it overtook the room, the afternoon light rapidly dwindling in the cloudy approach of dusk. The door clicked and creaked slowly open. Bright, golden light spilled over his face from the hall.

"Mr. President?"

The words were quiet, cautious, but insistent. They did not register. He continued to stare, brow furrowed, confused, oblivious to the interruption, eyes locked on the window, seeing not the sporadic wisps of snow now flittering down in the Washington winter. Instead, he struggled to focus the scene in his mind, the beach littered with the dead, swarming with the living, writhing under the hateful fire from the ridge above. The sun rose blindingly bright, scorching the sky till it glowed richly red.

The dream would not leave him alone. It had first come in October, a peculiar montage of macabre visions; battered cities, bloody beaches, burning jungles. He'd dismissed it then, written it off to indigestion. But it had returned a few nights later with a vengeance, different this time, but no less disturbing, the sun just as bright, the sky just as red. He’d kept ignoring it, but it kept returning, always changing, yet always the same. Christmas had come and gone, but the dream remained, returning every night. No amount of prayer or medication could make it stop. He slept less and less, dreading each night, eventually refusing to sleep. He’d struggled through stack after stack of paperwork, drank pot after pot of coffee, desperately striving to stay awake, but even that had failed. The dream now followed him into the waking day, lurking behind his eyes, assailing him in every private moment. It was vivid, it was intense, it was horrifying, and it was constant. And now, finally, alone in this room, he truly believed.

It was real.

“Mr. President?”

Roosevelt's Great Depression

Despite the best efforts of his publicists, the melancholy that overtook President Roosevelt in the winter of 1935-36, referred to deridingly as “Roosevelt’s Great Depression,” quickly became public knowledge, but has never been fully explained. Although apparently aware of the reasons behind her husband’s sudden change of mood, Mrs. Roosevelt adamantly refused to discuss the situation with anyone, press agents or historians, to her dying day. Nevertheless, most historians agree that, whatever its cause, Roosevelt’s depression marks the beginning of a definite shift in his foreign policy away from the isolationism he publicly supported and toward a much more aggressive international stance. Henceforth, the American military budget would see constant, if painful, expansion, and Roosevelt himself would undertake the arduous task of preparing the nation for the difficult years ahead.


March 22, 1936 – New Jersey

First Lieutenant Scott Welch was a troublemaker. He always had been, long before he’d joined the Air Corps, and he’d remained one since. He was no criminal, no one could accuse him of - or prove him to be - that. But he was a prankster, a scrapper, and had a mischievous streak under his officer’s stripes that landed him in trouble nearly as often as he landed his Bolo on the New Jersey airfield that had been his home for most of the last year. He grunted a chuckle as he ran a quick polish over his boots. All the extra flying we’ve done lately, all the extra training, and I still managed to piss someone off. Damn I’m good!

After a thorough check of his uniform in the mirror, he nodded at its perfection, and hurried off into the early morning. He may have enjoyed his problem-child reputation, but he was no fool. He pushed himself harder than any of the other pilots, and he knew it, probably better than they did. He was always up earlier, studying harder, and flying longer than anyone. His right hand gave a sudden twinge of pain, startling him. He looked down, surprised to find his knuckles red, scabbed, and swollen. He hoped his hard work would make up for the fact that he also drank harder and fought more often than any other officer in the barracks. He was about to find out. When Major Mason wanted to see you, you didn’t dawdle.

Unfortunately, Major Mason’s office was clear across the base, and his aide hadn’t bothered to wait long enough to give Scott a ride. Cursing silently, he strode along with purpose, staring straight ahead, preparing himself to ignore the distractions that would surely beckon to him along the way. Indeed, temptation waited around every corner; mechanics playing poker, pilots and crew jawing together in clumps, a sprinkling of nurses skittering and giggling off to work. Keeping his mouth shut took an act of physical will, but he managed. His focus backfired, however, as he only noticed the puddle of muddy, oily water when he splashed into it.

“S###!!!”

He was soaked to the knees, the muck seeping swiftly into his socks. He cursed again, face burning red as the cackles of his compatriots filled the air. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and did his best to de-slime himself. His best was none too good, but he had no time to walk back to barracks for a change of slacks. Major Mason was strict, but not a stick in the mud. He favored substance over style, and had let such things go before. But he would not tolerate tardiness. Boiling with his misfortune, Scott trudged on. After a few moments of heel-cooling, and a few disapproving looks from Mason’s aide (Had you waited a few minutes to give me a ride, you wouldn’t be worrying about mud on your precious floor, you snooty little bastard!), Scott finally made it to his rendezvous with his commanding officer.

He saluted smartly, standing at rigid attention, for all the world as though he didn’t look like he’d just been out in the paddy, planting rice. Mason’s face quivered as he returned the salute, the only indication he noticed anything amiss.

“Please be seated, Lieutenant.” He waited just long for Scott to sit before continuing. “No doubt, Lieutenant Welch, you have some idea as to why you are here today?”

Scott’s hand twinged again, but his face remained stony. “No, sir, I do not.”

The Major cocked his head, eyes flitting to Scott’s injured hand. “Really? You have no idea why you’re here?”

I know what I did, but I don’t remember doing it. Damnit, this must be it. The Major’s gonna personally stick me in the stockade. Just play dumb. “I think so, sir, but I’m not sure.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What, you’ve heard some rumor?”

“Oh, yes, of course, sir. This is about my promotion.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Mason started, narrowing his eyes. “Pardon me, Lieutenant?”

Damnit! Bad time to be a smartass! Keep your mouth shut you moron!

“Uh….sorry sir….just a…uh…”

“How did you know about that? Has Captain Beard been running his mouth again?”

Scott blinked. “Excuse me, sir?”

“It was Beard, wasn’t it? Fine pilot, but no discretion whatsoever. He’ll probably be a captain the rest of his days.”

Scott stared at the Major, not sure what was happening. Had he just tricked Mason into promoting him?

“Sir?”

“Well hell, Lieutenant, I was all ready to play a little trick on you before sending you off to California. Y’know, you beat the hell out of Lieutenant Chatman last night. The son of a b#### probably deserved it, but still I thought I could use that to scare a little sense into you. But you turned it right around on me, didn’t you.” Mason chuckled, shaking his head.

Scott blinked again, still unsure. “I’m being promoted? Wait…California?”

Mason nodded. “Yes, California. There’s a new squadron activating there in a few weeks, and they’ll need some experienced pilots. What’s more is they’ll need pilots good enough to handle a plane that’s bigger, faster, flies higher, and can carry more than anything we’ve ever had.”

“You think I can do that, sir?”

Mason sighed, the mirth of moments ago fading. “You’re a problem child, Welch, but you’re the best pilot I’ve got, so I recommended you to them.”

“I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“Say thank you, for one thing.”

“Of course, thank you, sir!”

“And for another, promise me you’ll keep your nose clean. I’m staking my reputation on this too, y’know.”

“I swear, sir, I’ll stay on the straight and narrow, scout’s honor!”

Mason snorted, a dark look crossing his face. “I know damn well you were never a scout, Welch. But I’m gonna hold you to your word.” He leaned forward, aiming a finger at Scott’s chest. “If I hear even one peep of trouble from you, I’ll have you back here boiling coffee so fast your head will spin. Do I make myself clear?”

Scott quickly sobered. “Crystal, sir.”

“Good.” Mason leaned back, seeming to relax a little. He slid a manila folder from the stack on his desk and flipped it open. With a flourish, he presented Scott with a small stack of photographs.

“Perhaps you’d like to see what you’ll be flying, Captain?”

B-17C Flying Fortress

Although the design had come long before, the B-17 Flying Fortress was the first beneficiary of Roosevelt’s rearmament program. Against considerable political opposition, the President managed to free enough funding to pay for the production of a few squadrons worth of the revolutionary heavy bomber, the first of which became operational in the middle of March, 1936. Pilots from all over the Air Corps vied for the honor of joining the new squadron, while political pundits and armchair strategists chattered amongst themselves. Much was made of the new plane’s capabilities, but when plans leaked, revealing the intention to expand its numbers from 100 to 1,000 within the year, a strong undercurrent of opposition to the President developed as the public displayed its first concerns with his international intentions. After all, against whom would this marvelous new weapon of war be used?

[Michaeru]

It's back. I found the first one some days ago and enjoyed it immensly.
And, bombers ... you can never have enough of 'em.

[GeneralHannibal]

I remember reading your work when I was just a lurker and I'll certainly follow you Re-Jumpstarting of the American Century.

[lifeless]

excellent rebeginning!

[Adaptation]

As usual, e-mazing.

[Fulcrumvale]

Will Roosevelt’s dream ever be explained? I always found it to be the single most intriguing part of the first AAR.

Then again, perhaps I’m just reading way too much GRRM. Great [re]start!

[invertigo2004]

Just a little note, the next post will not be up till tuesday at the earliest. This time around I have significantly less time to write, so expect 2 posts per week at the most, with 1 per week being the usual. Sorry for the slow progress, but that's just the way it is.

As for Roosevelt's Dream...there was never any detailed explanation as to what the President saw, although I tried in this post and the original to make it fairly clear. Since I clearly failed in that attempt I will make a more thorough explanation a part of this second, expanded version.

Thanks for the complements, and see you all next week!

InVert

[AOK. 11]

Wow..

Excellent in every way so far. The detail is well done indeed. I will follow this AAR for certain.

We do not mind wating.

[stnylan]

I am incredibly delighted to see this get started again.

[Fulcrumvale]

I know what the dreams were. What I meant was who/what caused them? Perhaps it will be revealed at his deathbed?

[invertigo2004]

I've found the scenes I write are generally too long to string together, and so in the interest of more frequent updates (say 2 or 3 a week instead of 1), I've made the decision to limit each post to one scene. So please enjoy the new, simplified version .

2

April 11, 1936 – Michigan

Travis Bernard hunched his back as he walked home, struggling to protect his exposed neck from the frigid rain. He was only marginally successful, as the occasional cold driblet managed to trickle down his back. He noticed the discomfort only peripherally, long used to the odd mix of hot, sunny days and cold, soaking rain that comprised Spring in middle Michigan. Besides, he was nearly home, the warmth of the kitchen (and undoubtedly the sweat of afternoon chores) beckoning to him. He heaved a sigh that was half relief, half dread; one more day of school to scratch off the calendar, one step closer to graduation, and the yawning abyss of his future.

What would he do? He was a man now, after all. He was supposed to move out and move on, to start his own life, eventually his own family, maybe even his own business. But to do that he’d need money, and money, as his father repeatedly reminded him, did not just spring out of the ground. Travis snorted, eyeing the icy clouds with disdain. A cold snap like this, if it lasted any longer, would ensure very little would spring out of the ground here, and his family would be in even deeper trouble than they already were.

He should leave, he should move on, but how could he? His oldest brother Troy was married and out of the house. His sister Tonja would also be married by the beginning of summer, so she would be gone. That would leave his father and younger brother Tim to tend the farm while his poor mother looked to the house by herself. And no matter what his father claimed, Travis knew well enough there was little money for hired help. If he left, how would the family survive? The short answer was they couldn’t

And yet his father refused to even contemplate his remaining on the farm. He didn’t so much avoid the argument as he acted as though there were no other viable option. And his father had never been one to argue with. Of itself, Travis’ tongue slid over the lumpy line on the inside of his cheek, a wound unwittingly inflicted by his own teeth, a stern reminder of the one and only time he’d truly believed he could whip his old man. How very wrong he had been.

The only home he’d ever known loomed ahead of him, tall and proud despite the somber weather. Not for the first time, a pang of apprehension shook his chest. It would always be home, but very soon, he would leave it forever. I don’t want to leave! Tears threatened his eyes, the emotion of the young’s perception of forever temporarily overtaking him. His ears perked, however, as he stepped onto the porch. Soft music wafted through the window, breaking the spell of melancholy he’d cast on himself. Music meant radio, and radio meant Troy was visiting. Travis quickly tugged off his boots, set them near the stove to dry, pecked his mother on the cheek, and hurried into the den.

Sure enough, there sat his older brother, contentedly puffing a pipe as the music played on. His wife Amber sat next to him, their infant son cradled in her arms, contentedly flailing and cooing about. His father sat as he always did in the chair in the far corner, from where he could survey the entire room, his own pipe smoking serenely. He acknowledged Travis with a nod, but otherwise said nothing. Troy, ever the imitation of his father, nodded as well, but also stood, shaking his little brother’s hand. Tonja lounged on the divan with her fiancé, a muscled farmer named Frank. She leaned forward, accepting her brother’s kiss on the cheek. Frank stood and shook his hand warmly (the family had approved of the match nearly from the beginning). Tim, the youngest at 15, stood near the radio, arms folded across his chest, sneering, the morning’s argument apparently still fresh in his mind. Travis shrugged mentally, unconcerned with his younger brother’s angst. Only the baby failed to notice the interruption.

“How’s Harold?” Travis asked, flicking his eyes and the wriggling bungle in Amber’s arms.

“Moody,” Amber sighed. “No idea where he gets it from.” She cast a playful glare at her husband. Troy raised an eyebrow, but otherwise refused to rise to his wife’s challenge. She chuckled to herself, content in her victory.

Travis turned his attention to his father, still smoking quietly in the corner. This is it, he thought. This is the opportunity I need. With everyone here, I can convince the old man I need to stay, just for awhile, long enough to save the farm. They’ll help me make him see.

“Pa, I…”

“Shhh!” his father hissed, suddenly leaning forward, head tilting toward the radio. “Finally,” Troy grunted, sitting up alertly. The music had gone, replaced by the tinny voice of a reporter. He spoke quickly, excitedly, importantly.

“Please stay tuned for an urgent news report!”

The room fell silent and tense. Travis rolled his eyes with frustration, catching a similar look from Tim. His father, a farmer all his life, was nevertheless a newshound. He listened to each day’s report religiously, and was a vigorously political. Troy was of a similar ilk, and the two often met on nights like this to listen to the news and argue politics. Travis wanted none of it.

“Pa, may I be excused?”

He knew what the answer would be, yet he asked all the same. A single look from his father convinced him of the wisdom to be found in quietly taking a seat. A few seconds later, the man with the important voice resumed speaking.

“Despite fervent and frequent denials by the White House over the last few weeks, it is now confirmed that detailed plans, long rumored to exist, and concerning the massive expansion of the United States Army, Navy, and Air Corps, not only exist but are already underway. According to sources wishing to remain anonymous, President Roosevelt has not only approved these plans, but appears to be the instigator behind them.”

Troy’s face flashed triumph, and he sent a hard stare at his father. The two had traded barbs over Roosevelt’s presidency for years.

“While the President refuses to openly deny or concede the truth of this report, evidence has recently arisen confirming large allocations of Federal funding for military research, recruitment, training, and production of war machines, most notable of these the recent scandal over the B-17 bomber.”

“In an apparent attempt to deflect criticism, the President pointed out today the large reductions in strength of the U.S. Navy, most of which have occurred within the last month, as evidence that his military policy is one of modernization, not expansion, and that his current plans for the military have been distorted by the Republican opposition. The President referred specifically to the decommissioning of nearly four-fifths of the Navy’s combat vessels, all of which had seen at least twenty years of service, in order to free additional funding for the construction of a smaller, but quote “significantly more powerful fleet.” However, evidence that surfaced today appears to refute this idea, as the decommissioned ships are not only to be replaced by more modern counterparts, but form the nucleus of a new Navy nearly three times as large. The President had no comment on that particular issue.”

“Of course, he didn’t,” Troy grunted, a deep frown creasing his face. His father glared, and his oldest son quailed under its power. The report continued.

“Other notable details of the President’s military expansion are; to increase the size of the standing Army from 4 to 80 divisions by the end of 1940, including entire division-strength formations of tanks; to increase the size of the Air Corps from its current strength of 700 combat aircraft to more than 3,500 of all types, again by the end of 1940; to build a significant two-ocean submarine force of as yet unknown strength; to significantly expand existing military bases of all kinds, and construct several new bases around the country, including remote areas such as Alamagordo, New Mexico. When pressed on these details, the President again refused comment.”

“Bah!” his father growled in frustration. “ ‘No comment’? Dear Lord, he can’t possibly think that will work.”

“I told you there was something wrong with the man, Pa," Troy spat. "Never shoulda voted for him. All these years and there’s still no work to be had. Jesus Christ, (“You watch your mouth, young man!” his mother hissed from the kitchen) Trav here is about to graduate, and he’s in a worse spot that I ever was. You can’t split the farm again, Pa…”

“I don’t intend to…”

“You do that, you’ll have three broke farmers instead of two poor ones…”

“I know…”

“And now this sonofabi### (“Troy!!") is gonna use tax money to build tanks and planes instead of bread and soup for the poor?”

“Son, I will not have this argument again!”

Troy fell silent and sullen. His father rarely raised his voice, but when he did, he meant business. The fight over the President’s mysterious military plans was an ongoing one, had been since the first reports of strange budget items and heavy military spending had surfaced in mid-February. Their political fights, always spirited and passionate, were now turning genuinely mean. They sat, tense and angry, glaring at each other, through the rest of the report. When it was over, Travis stood cautiously, hoping to sneak up to his room before the fight could reignite. He didn’t quite make it.

“Travis, hold on a minute,” his father ground out. “Tim, tell him.”

“Tell me what?”

A confused look flashed over the young man’s face, replaced a second later by dawning comprehension. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“When I was walkin’ home from school today I saw this.” He pulled a crinkled, damp piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Travis. He unfolded what proved to be an advertising circular. He stared at it, uncomprehending, then glared again at his younger brother.

“A flying circus? What…”

“Travis, be quiet and listen,” his father growled again. “Tim, tell him what you told me.”

Tim nodded, visibly gathering himself. He looked at his older brother and began to speak. “Well, it says they’re lookin’ for experienced mechanics, and well, you’ve always been the one to fix things around here. You fixed the tractor last year when even Mr. Stiles couldn't figure it out. And you got Mrs. Mount's old jalopy up and runnin'. You gotta admit you gotta knack for engines. I don’t know what the pay is, but it’s gotta be better than nothin’. And you get to travel all over the country, and you know how you always wanted to do that, right? And think of all the people you’ll meet, it’ll be so swell! And Pa says…”

“I can speak for myself, Timothy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Their father stood, walked deliberately toward his middle son, setting a calloused hand on Travis’ shoulder. “Son, I know you think we need you here. I know you want to stay and help.”

Travis nodded, glancing toward the kitchen. His mother stepped quietly into the room, eyes glistening. His father went on.

“You’re schooling is nearly finished, but we all know that’s not where your talents really lie. You’re a hard worker, and I’d be a liar if I said we won’t miss your help around here, but truth be told, you’re no farmer. You just don’t love it the way I do, the way Troy does. And if you don’t love it, you shouldn’t do it. You need to move on, son. I’ll give you some money to get started, to support yourself until you can pay me back. But it’s time for you to go.”

Travis stood, unbelieving, not sure of what to say, not sure if he should be thankful for his father’s help, or angry at his rejection. His mother set a hand on his other shoulder, tears streaming down her cheeks, but her voice firm. “You must go, Travis. The Lord has more in store for you than this farm.”

He nodded, looked again at the flyer. It blurred behind his tears. He steeled himself against the sadness, unwilling to cry in front of his brothers.

“I guess that’s it, then.”

The President's Purge

One of the most curious events of the 1930s was the nearly whole-sale scrapping of the United States Navy in early 1936. Of fifteen battleships operational in December, 1935, only three remained in service a year later, the USS Maryland, pictured above, among the lucky survivors. Similarly, only five of fifteen heavy cruisers remained afloat, while amazingly not a single aircraft carrier, light cruiser, or destroyer survived what came to be known as the President’s Purge. This perplexing event, coming as it did on the heels of the President’s queer change in mood, mystified the country, but aided significantly in the political defense of changes in the nation’s defense priorities. As the firestorm over the President’s leaked plans raged into the summer, Roosevelt increasingly pointed to the weakness of the Navy and the ever aggressive behavior of Italy, Japan, Germany, and the Soviet Union as sufficient reasoning for the expansion of the nation’s armed forces. Regardless, the administration would suffer heavy political penalties, as thousands of grounded seamen chose to vote Republican in November.

[Fulcrumvale]

This was the one thing that I never quite understood about the original AAR. Surely the benefit of all those BB’s and CV’s isn’t outweighed by their annual cost in supplies?

[GeneralHannibal]

I am guessing our young Travis will end up in the airforce one day, just a guess but .

[lifeless]

an excellent update! seems like the us is getting a head start on the military!

[Adaptation]

Amazing update.

“I guess that’s it, then.”

Perfect line to finish the discussion.
Are you playing DD or vanilla?

[stnylan]

Well, off he goes.

Of course, those with a little more sense, perhaps, than Troy would have notice that expanding the army that much will, most of all, mean work. I know that is true across the services, but the army is surely the most manpower intensive.

[Vann the Red]

Excellent updates as usual, Invert. Can't wait for the next!

Vann

[invertigo2004]

Originally Posted by Adaptation

Are you playing DD or vanilla?

The game the story is based on is vanilla 1.0 normal/normal with no cheats...yep, it really was that long ago

[Adaptation]

that means the uber 12 plane stacks under one commander!

[invertigo2004]

3

May 29, 1936 – Upstate New York

“Stee-riiike Three!!!”

Kyle West whooped, hurling his cap into the air with sheer joy. His team rushed the mound, cheering wildly, hoisting him onto their shoulders. The few hundred fans howled, stomped, and clapped, the noise magnified to thousands in his mind. He pumped his fist in the air, screaming his head off, reveling in his school’s first ever baseball state championship, reveling even more in the fact that he had pitched them to that title. They toted him around the bases, the victory lap his catcher, a husky farmer’s son named Doty, had made tradition early in the season. He enjoyed every minute, wallowing in the attention, especially when that attention wore a knee-length white dress.

“Kyle! Oh, my God! Kyle, you did it!” his girlfriend (well, one of them, he thought mischievously) Clara screeched over the crowd. He waved to her from his perch, deigning to blow her a kiss. He had no concern any of his other female acquaintances would notice the interchange. He had more sense than to date more than one girl from the same school. That he should have had better sense than to date more than one girl at all never once crossed his mind.

“Alright, c’mon boys, let the hero down,” Coach Madsen quipped, his grin wider even than Kyle’s, though he wasn’t sure how. He hopped gleefully into the soft dirt, shaking the hands and slapping the backs of his teammates. The celebration quickly petered out, however, when Coach Madsen suddenly recalled the losing team was still waiting to shake hands. They conducted the traditional closing to the game with barely restrained joy, struggling to contain their excitement while reassuring the other players that they had indeed played a good game.

Kyle had never really liked this part of the game. If they’d really played that well, why had they lost? What he really wanted to do was thank them for playing so poorly. Hey pal, thanks for botching that double play. Thanks for constantly chasing that sinker. Thanks for being such a lousy baseball player. He could never get away with that kind of thing, not without a fight at least. But he’d won more than his share of fights anyway, so that’s not really what stopped him. No, what stopped him was his need to preserve his reputation. He’d never land a spot on a college team if he proved to be a bad sport or a brawler. So he bit his tongue, smiled, and lied through his gleaming teeth.

“Kyle!” Clara screeched, materializing suddenly, hurling herself into his arms. He grunted with surprise, and more than a little annoyance, returning the hug weakly. Clara was sweet, but he’d only ever really been marginally interested, and his interest extended to little above her waist. She wasn’t very intelligent either, and her father only tolerated his courtship because of his name. Kyle’s father Clarence was a prominent industrialist, and an aspiring politician with a growing reputation. Young debutantes from all over the state vied for (and more often than not received) his son’s attention (if not his commitment). He was a catch, a match far above this simple clerk’s daughter, and he knew it. Still, she had…talents he just couldn’t ignore.

“Hey darlin’,” he whispered, gently pushing her away. She beamed at him, clinging, releasing him only reluctantly. Then for a moment, Kyle noticed something else in her eager eyes, an anxiety, an unexplainable flash of fear.

“Something wrong?”

Before she could answer, a strong hand landed firmly on his shoulder, forcibly turning him round. There stood his father, tall, fair, broad-shouldered, the intimidating presence Kyle was long familiar with. But in this one case, familiarity did not breed contempt. Those cold, grey eyes instilled the same subservience at eighteen as they had at eight. And now those eyes glared hard at the young girl in the white dress.

“What is she doing here?”

Kyle sulked, shoulders slumping. He’d feared this would happen.

“Sir, I…”

“Stand up straight. And look me in the eye when you speak to me. Be a man, for God’s sake.”

Kyle straightened, gathering himself, looking into those horrible, icy eyes.

“Sir, she came to watch us play. All of us. This is still her school’s baseball team, and I am still her friend.”

“Friend?!” Clara hissed.

“Hush, girl! I am speaking to my son.”

Anger flashed through Kyle’s body, his muscles tensing with the urge to strike. He stood perfectly still, however, the eyes paralyzing him with fear.

“Well, finish with you ‘friend’ here,” He loaded the word with more scorn than Kyle had thought possible. “And hurry home. We have very important guests tonight, and I expect you will not be late.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure you are early enough to wash. You smell like common filth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. With any luck at all, we will secure your place at Harvard tonight.” The smile that cracked his face looked painful and contrived. “Won’t that be…”

“Harvard?”

“Do not interrupt me, boy!” Clarence growled, the smile evaporating, his hands curling into fists. Kyle quivered, not daring to speak further. He knew full well this was not an idle physical reaction to anger, but a very clear signal of impending violence.

“Yes, Harvard. You are going to study the law, to commit yourself to something worthwhile for once, something more important to the country than this ridiculous, meaningless game.” As he had with ‘friend,” Clarence made the word ‘game’ something foul in his mouth.

“But Father…”

The slap was sudden and stinging, but strangely lacking its traditional power. Kyle quickly straightened, ignoring the blood flooding his mouth, trickling from his nose. He did so not out of audacity or some sudden urge to stand up to his father, but rather because he knew if he didn’t, the beating would be much, much worse. Mollified for the moment, Clarence continued.

“I will hear no more of the ‘college baseball’ rubbish. You cannot escape your name, Kyle, however you may wish to.” He sighed, rubbing his temples, the anger swelling. “I do not understand you, son. You simply refuse to acknowledge just how lucky you truly are to be born a West. Instead, you appear to prefer…”

He glanced loathingly at Clara.

“…mediocrity.”

Clara gasped.

“If you want to waste your God-given talents, then perhaps you should join the Army. At least then your upbringing and education would allow you to become an officer. Who knows? You may even prove yourself worthy of the honor you have failed to live up to thus far. But I will be damned if any son of mine will make a career of playing silly games and consorting with foolish, loose young women!”

Clara gasped again, tears sparkling in her eyes.

“I will not wait for you. I expect you will be home within the hour.” Clarence turned smartly and stalked off.

Kyle stood, stunned, unsure of what to do. He turned to Clara, embarrassed, not knowing what to say.

“I should go,” he whispered. She nodded, eyes wide, staring, wet with tears. He made no move to hold her, no attempt to console her. He barely recognized the insults his father had leveled at her, his mind locked in confusion and despair, for he wanted nothing more in life than to play baseball. He stumbled away, his feet guiding him more or less toward the locker room, ignoring the calls of his teammates, the concerned inquiries. He did not hear them even as their concern turned to anger at his ignorance. He was consumed with his own depression, and the foreboding knowledge that he would never play baseball again.

He didn’t notice her frantic calls, the running steps, until she grabbed his shoulder, turning him bodily to face her as his father had. He spat blood at her feet, furious she would dare risk making him late after what had just happened. Before he could rebuke her for her idiocy, she whispered fiercely.

“I’m pregnant!”

The Army’s Swelling Ranks

Despite the political furor, the President found no shortage of Americans willing to volunteer for the expanding armed forces. With the economy still slogging slowly out of the Depression, recruiters found themselves inundated with the broke, homeless, and displaced. While this early flood of recruits proved politically beneficial to the President, who pointed to their numbers as proof the public supported his plans, the unwillingness of Congress to further loosen the purse strings meant that literally hundreds of thousands of able-bodied men were turned away from recruitment offices that had long since met their quotas. Indeed, as early as June, 1936, the Army announced it would accept no more volunteers for the year, as it hadn’t the funding nor the facilities to support them. With the Air Corps similarly hamstrung, and the Navy severely truncated, the President’s political opponents, both Republican and Democrat, took advantage of the frustration bubbling within the public, exploiting the confusion over an expanding military that had suddenly ceased recruitment. Coupled with frustrated sailors, fearful isolationists, and political opportunists, these issues would form a formidable obstacle to Roosevelt’s reelection hopes.