This'll be a story-driven AAR, playing as the Spanish Republicans on 1.03 Very Hard/Furious.
It'll also be my first real attempt at an AAR, so enjoy...
It'll also be my first real attempt at an AAR, so enjoy...
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Barcelona, Spain 7:30 AM Januanry 1, 1936
Defying Catalonia's tradition of chilly Winters, the beginning of the new year was a warm, sunny day. One of Barcelona's many barbers, Juan Rodgriguez, took it as a sign that the mood of the times were lightening. War is not inevitable, he considered, and the fascists will never havey any power in Spain. But the young man immediately dismissed this as superstition. The modern man doesn't believe in superstition, he pictured his uncle lecturing. Juan's uncle Umberto, the brilliant engineer, the brave Zapatista, had been almost a father to him since his own had been killed 10 years earlier when he protested against conscription for the war in Morocco.
Juan basked in the unexpected heat in his daily walk to work. Travelling through the streets, he noticed several young children playing football. Juan called out to one of them, "Caesar, how goes your sister?"
"Feck off," the kid answered. Juan was courting his beautiful sister Isabella. Isabel's parents were nominally of the aristocracy, however landless, so they strongly discouraged the possibility of her marriage with a poor barber like Juan, and the sentiment spread to their son. Much better, they thought, that she marries a nice industrialist. Unfortunately for them, titles hadn't been much of a commodity in Spain for over a century.
Sighing, he continued on to the shop in which he worked.
"Juan, I have a feeling we'll have a lot of business today," shouted his co-worker Alvar on the other side of the barbershop. Evidentally, Alvar got the same vibe as Juan from the weather. Alvar and Juan jointly owned the barbershop. Juan took great satisfaction in the fact that he worked in a socialist business, and even more in the fact that this made him "subversive." Which might've discouraged some potential customers were not most barbers in Barcelona anarchists, and nearly all of them socialists of some variant.
"I missed the CNT meeting last night. Can you tell me what happened?" The CNT, or the National Confederation of Workers, was the primary anarcho-syndicalist union in Spain, extremely popular among the workers of Catalonia.
"Oh.. nothing much. Obviously, not many people showed up; incompetent scheduling again. So what made you pass up the excitement of a CNT meeting?"
"Isabella...," Juan grinned at the thought of the previous night. "I'm thinking of asking her to marry me."
Alvar smirked. "Wait, marriage perpetuates the dominance of man on woman and whatnot, right? What would Emma Goldman say?" Alvar was never what one could call ideologically orthodox.
He grinned again, "Well, better my authority than her father's."
When they reached their shop, they noticed that five people were waiting outside. As Alvar was right, Juan thought, perhaps that means he was as well...
Defying Catalonia's tradition of chilly Winters, the beginning of the new year was a warm, sunny day. One of Barcelona's many barbers, Juan Rodgriguez, took it as a sign that the mood of the times were lightening. War is not inevitable, he considered, and the fascists will never havey any power in Spain. But the young man immediately dismissed this as superstition. The modern man doesn't believe in superstition, he pictured his uncle lecturing. Juan's uncle Umberto, the brilliant engineer, the brave Zapatista, had been almost a father to him since his own had been killed 10 years earlier when he protested against conscription for the war in Morocco.
Juan basked in the unexpected heat in his daily walk to work. Travelling through the streets, he noticed several young children playing football. Juan called out to one of them, "Caesar, how goes your sister?"
"Feck off," the kid answered. Juan was courting his beautiful sister Isabella. Isabel's parents were nominally of the aristocracy, however landless, so they strongly discouraged the possibility of her marriage with a poor barber like Juan, and the sentiment spread to their son. Much better, they thought, that she marries a nice industrialist. Unfortunately for them, titles hadn't been much of a commodity in Spain for over a century.
Sighing, he continued on to the shop in which he worked.
"Juan, I have a feeling we'll have a lot of business today," shouted his co-worker Alvar on the other side of the barbershop. Evidentally, Alvar got the same vibe as Juan from the weather. Alvar and Juan jointly owned the barbershop. Juan took great satisfaction in the fact that he worked in a socialist business, and even more in the fact that this made him "subversive." Which might've discouraged some potential customers were not most barbers in Barcelona anarchists, and nearly all of them socialists of some variant.
"I missed the CNT meeting last night. Can you tell me what happened?" The CNT, or the National Confederation of Workers, was the primary anarcho-syndicalist union in Spain, extremely popular among the workers of Catalonia.
"Oh.. nothing much. Obviously, not many people showed up; incompetent scheduling again. So what made you pass up the excitement of a CNT meeting?"
"Isabella...," Juan grinned at the thought of the previous night. "I'm thinking of asking her to marry me."
Alvar smirked. "Wait, marriage perpetuates the dominance of man on woman and whatnot, right? What would Emma Goldman say?" Alvar was never what one could call ideologically orthodox.
He grinned again, "Well, better my authority than her father's."
When they reached their shop, they noticed that five people were waiting outside. As Alvar was right, Juan thought, perhaps that means he was as well...
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Near Ceuta, Spanish Morocco. January 13th, 1936. 5:00 PM
A man of 41 had been sitting inside his son-in-law's house struggling to breathe. Ksar was never able to breathe very well. In his earliest memories, his lungs shut down due to extreme physical exertion. The Arab doctors in Tangiers weren't able to remedy his breathing problems. He once met a French doctor who diagnosed it as "asthma," but he couldn't afford the medicine he sold, and couldn't be assured that it would work. Besides, he had been a brave young man under absolute submission to Allah; how could the herbs of the Europeans possibly defy His will? But times change. Ksars now damns His name, all 99 variations of it, every second of every minute of every day.
Ksar wasn't alone in the room. His son-in-law, Abd, along with several of Abd's "friends" were in there with him. They met every week to discuss how best to eliminate the baby-eating infidels. Usually, they spent most of the time describing the glorious exploits of the soldiers of Islam and atrocities of the Spaniards, with some demonizing of Arabs and French for good measure. As such, Abd's house was a popular meeting-place. Ksar would tell them how much of a bunch of damn fools they were being were it not for the gas. Abd was getting to that in his speech.
"Brothers, to this loyal Kif, this devout Moslem, this veteran of the glorious Battle of Annual where he singlehandedly slaughtered 20 Spaniards, our Abba, Ksar, the Spanish in an act of desperate cowardice unleashed their poison gas. Now his innards are so destroyed, he can no longer speak out or fight against the Spanish." And on and on he went.
Of course Ksar could never correct his many errors, some Abd knew he was making, some he did not. Ksar didn't kill a single Spaniard in the battle, and he killed but a single Spaniard in the entire uprising and that was through a fluke; his gun was was jammed and in his attempts to fix it, he accidentally dropped the the weapon, the force of the impact of the ground causing it to fire and hit a Spanish cavalryman's horse which consequentally lethally crushed the rider. It just as easily could have killed a fellow Berber.
Nor was the battle glorious. No battle is ever glorious. The only ways a person could consider the mass-slaughter of human beings glorious are through ignorance or bloodlust. Ksar used to think the same way of course, just as every boy has. But during that fateful day fifteen years earlier, he became a man.
And he wasn't a loyal Rif Berber, not even during "glorious" Annual. In his youth, his interests were with himself alone. He was an opportunist. As soon as he could, he left his tribe as he was tired of being treated a second class citizen by the Arabs in the city; rather, he wanted to be able to treat others as second-class citizens. So he adopted an Arabic persona and moved to Casablanca. His mother was Arabic so it wasn't entirely a lie. When Abd el-Krim, the namesake of his son-in-law, revolted against the Spaniards, he saw an opportunity for power and therefore moved back to his home to join the army.
Of course, that changed like so many other things after he joined the army, and particularly after he was gassed. Being unable to speak, he was forced to listen, to watch and most importantly, to think.
They'll simply be pawns to other Europeans, he felt like shouting to them. Can they not see how the Germans have been fostering discontent? Do they really think they'll ever get their freedom in this way? They are sheep lusting to do the bidding of wolves. He wished he had learned how to read and write Arabic so he could tell them. But he squandered his opportunities of growing up in a strong family with access to wise tutors. Instead of seeking knowledge, he sought glory. Such is the idiocy of youth.
Getting into another coughing fit, his daughter and Abd's sister escorted him to his bed. After reaching the bed, he glanced at his daughter, and saw total understanding in her eyes. When they left, he shed a rare tear contemplating his daughter and his infant grandson's bleak future. Eventually he fell asleep.
OOC: A major historical error has been pointed out. Very, very few Arabs fought in Annual, etc., or the Spanish Nationalist armies. Rather the Moroccan forces involved were almost invariably Berber. So the post has been changed accordingly. Feel free to re-read the post as many things have been changed.
A man of 41 had been sitting inside his son-in-law's house struggling to breathe. Ksar was never able to breathe very well. In his earliest memories, his lungs shut down due to extreme physical exertion. The Arab doctors in Tangiers weren't able to remedy his breathing problems. He once met a French doctor who diagnosed it as "asthma," but he couldn't afford the medicine he sold, and couldn't be assured that it would work. Besides, he had been a brave young man under absolute submission to Allah; how could the herbs of the Europeans possibly defy His will? But times change. Ksars now damns His name, all 99 variations of it, every second of every minute of every day.
Ksar wasn't alone in the room. His son-in-law, Abd, along with several of Abd's "friends" were in there with him. They met every week to discuss how best to eliminate the baby-eating infidels. Usually, they spent most of the time describing the glorious exploits of the soldiers of Islam and atrocities of the Spaniards, with some demonizing of Arabs and French for good measure. As such, Abd's house was a popular meeting-place. Ksar would tell them how much of a bunch of damn fools they were being were it not for the gas. Abd was getting to that in his speech.
"Brothers, to this loyal Kif, this devout Moslem, this veteran of the glorious Battle of Annual where he singlehandedly slaughtered 20 Spaniards, our Abba, Ksar, the Spanish in an act of desperate cowardice unleashed their poison gas. Now his innards are so destroyed, he can no longer speak out or fight against the Spanish." And on and on he went.
Of course Ksar could never correct his many errors, some Abd knew he was making, some he did not. Ksar didn't kill a single Spaniard in the battle, and he killed but a single Spaniard in the entire uprising and that was through a fluke; his gun was was jammed and in his attempts to fix it, he accidentally dropped the the weapon, the force of the impact of the ground causing it to fire and hit a Spanish cavalryman's horse which consequentally lethally crushed the rider. It just as easily could have killed a fellow Berber.
Nor was the battle glorious. No battle is ever glorious. The only ways a person could consider the mass-slaughter of human beings glorious are through ignorance or bloodlust. Ksar used to think the same way of course, just as every boy has. But during that fateful day fifteen years earlier, he became a man.
And he wasn't a loyal Rif Berber, not even during "glorious" Annual. In his youth, his interests were with himself alone. He was an opportunist. As soon as he could, he left his tribe as he was tired of being treated a second class citizen by the Arabs in the city; rather, he wanted to be able to treat others as second-class citizens. So he adopted an Arabic persona and moved to Casablanca. His mother was Arabic so it wasn't entirely a lie. When Abd el-Krim, the namesake of his son-in-law, revolted against the Spaniards, he saw an opportunity for power and therefore moved back to his home to join the army.
Of course, that changed like so many other things after he joined the army, and particularly after he was gassed. Being unable to speak, he was forced to listen, to watch and most importantly, to think.
They'll simply be pawns to other Europeans, he felt like shouting to them. Can they not see how the Germans have been fostering discontent? Do they really think they'll ever get their freedom in this way? They are sheep lusting to do the bidding of wolves. He wished he had learned how to read and write Arabic so he could tell them. But he squandered his opportunities of growing up in a strong family with access to wise tutors. Instead of seeking knowledge, he sought glory. Such is the idiocy of youth.
Getting into another coughing fit, his daughter and Abd's sister escorted him to his bed. After reaching the bed, he glanced at his daughter, and saw total understanding in her eyes. When they left, he shed a rare tear contemplating his daughter and his infant grandson's bleak future. Eventually he fell asleep.
OOC: A major historical error has been pointed out. Very, very few Arabs fought in Annual, etc., or the Spanish Nationalist armies. Rather the Moroccan forces involved were almost invariably Berber. So the post has been changed accordingly. Feel free to re-read the post as many things have been changed.
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By the way, I'm planning on doing a 3-5 points of view Turtledove-style AAR. I was wondering if I should've developed the first story line more (which'll be the primary one) before I moved on to the second story line.
And thanks Dan.
And thanks Dan.
An AAR by an admirer of Bakunin? Now this I will follow.
I like the way you tell a story, Ramo.
I like the way you tell a story, Ramo.
Thanks, Norgesvenn.
Yep, I agree with a lot of what Bakunin has written. Hence, the AAR story.
Yep, I agree with a lot of what Bakunin has written. Hence, the AAR story.
Madrid, Spain. 2:00 PM. February 16, 1936
.
General Francisco Franco was a small man. Physically, he looked weak. His voice was shrill and uncommanding. In fact, it was almost feminine. Yet, every man in the room followed his every syllable, including Major Fernando Diaz. Most of his audience was made up of military officers. To them, Franco was considered a national hero, given his extraordinarily decorated military career.
After graduating from the infantry academy at 18, he rapidly rose through the ranks. During the Moroccan War, he was sent to help quell the rebellion; due to his success, at 33 was promoted to Brigadier General, the youngest in Europe since Napoleon. But rather than Napoleon, Diaz thought of the General as a modern-day Prince Eugen of Savoy, with his frail physique, yet undeniably awesome prowess in the battlefield. Diaz personally witnessed it, when he served as his Adjutant in Morocco. Franco was now Chief of the General Staff, and hopefully would remain so after today's election.
"...God. Country. Family. Discipline. This is what we are fighting for. No, it is not a military struggle, as most of us are accustomed to, but one equally as important," the General told the assembly of right-wing parties, the CEDA, the Carlists, the Monarchists, and so forth. Diaz, in the distinct minority, was a member of the Falange, or the Spanish Fascist party. Diaz, like most Falangists, didn't associate with the other right-wingers even though many beliefs were shared between them. They were traitors, just as the anarchists and communists were. The only reason he went to the election rally was the fact that his beloved former commander was the main speaker.
"The socialists, the liberals, the anarchists, the communists, and all other subversive scum want to steal our land! They want to steal our businesses! They want to rape mother church! They want to make Spain weak by freeing traitors and supporting the seperatism of the Basques, the Catalans, and the Moors! They must be stopped!" This wasn't entirely true, Diaz thought. The "Popular Front," or the coalition of leftist parties, excluding the anarchists who refused to vote, in general opposed Moroccan autonomy and independence. Of course, some of the Communist traitors supported Moroccan autonomy, but what else could be expected from them? Franco himself certainly knew that it was a lie, but it was good propaganda, so Diaz couldn't complain.
This lead to the fortieth or so standing ovation in his speech, albeit longer than usual. After a couple minutes, the roar died down.
"So, we must support Spain by opposing the vile Popular Front for our children, and our chilrends' children. Thank you." This lead to more applause.
A few minutes later, Franco weaved his way out of the meeting hall taking praise from the various men in attendence. Unexpectedly, the general himself approached Diaz and called out his name. It had been nearly a decade since they had last met. He made motions to his body guards to clear out the path to the exit. "Walk with me," Franco commanded Diaz.
Despite the shock, Diaz managed to respond, "It's good to see you, sir."
"Indeed, Fernando. So what are you up to nowadays? Still experimenting with new doctrinal techniques?" Franco replied jovially.
"Armor, sir. They truly are amazing machines. If I may say so, they are Spain's future."
"I'm not so convinced. They're slow and they break down far too easily.
"Yes, sir. But the new German models are amazing, and men like Guderian are doing astonishing things with them," Diaz replied forcefully, as in most arguments regardless of opponent. "Trenches and machine gun nests immediately fold to the new panzers in the German wargames."
"Interesting, Fernando. I may have to pay a visit to Guderian. But armor requires oil, and oil is something the Spanish government is short of." Franco smiled, "But it is true that armor is not unlike heavy cavalry, and as the knight had been able to instill obedience into traitorous peasants, so may the panzer."
"Absolutely, sir!" Diaz responded proudly.
"There is something I need you to do..."
"Anything, general."
"You are familiar with the Moroccans. With the Arabs. With the Berber tribes. With the political currents in the region. In the event of a leftist victory, I may need your... unique services. Not definitely, of course, but in case they go too far, I need you in Ceuta."
Diaz gasped. "Of course I'll be there sir!"
"Excellent! I'm glad you've agreed. Good luck, Lieutenent Colonel."
"But sir! I'm a Major, not a Lieutenent Colonel..."
Franco winked, "You are now. Good day, Fernando."
As the general left, Diaz babbled incoherently, attempting to thank him.
.
General Francisco Franco was a small man. Physically, he looked weak. His voice was shrill and uncommanding. In fact, it was almost feminine. Yet, every man in the room followed his every syllable, including Major Fernando Diaz. Most of his audience was made up of military officers. To them, Franco was considered a national hero, given his extraordinarily decorated military career.
After graduating from the infantry academy at 18, he rapidly rose through the ranks. During the Moroccan War, he was sent to help quell the rebellion; due to his success, at 33 was promoted to Brigadier General, the youngest in Europe since Napoleon. But rather than Napoleon, Diaz thought of the General as a modern-day Prince Eugen of Savoy, with his frail physique, yet undeniably awesome prowess in the battlefield. Diaz personally witnessed it, when he served as his Adjutant in Morocco. Franco was now Chief of the General Staff, and hopefully would remain so after today's election.
"...God. Country. Family. Discipline. This is what we are fighting for. No, it is not a military struggle, as most of us are accustomed to, but one equally as important," the General told the assembly of right-wing parties, the CEDA, the Carlists, the Monarchists, and so forth. Diaz, in the distinct minority, was a member of the Falange, or the Spanish Fascist party. Diaz, like most Falangists, didn't associate with the other right-wingers even though many beliefs were shared between them. They were traitors, just as the anarchists and communists were. The only reason he went to the election rally was the fact that his beloved former commander was the main speaker.
"The socialists, the liberals, the anarchists, the communists, and all other subversive scum want to steal our land! They want to steal our businesses! They want to rape mother church! They want to make Spain weak by freeing traitors and supporting the seperatism of the Basques, the Catalans, and the Moors! They must be stopped!" This wasn't entirely true, Diaz thought. The "Popular Front," or the coalition of leftist parties, excluding the anarchists who refused to vote, in general opposed Moroccan autonomy and independence. Of course, some of the Communist traitors supported Moroccan autonomy, but what else could be expected from them? Franco himself certainly knew that it was a lie, but it was good propaganda, so Diaz couldn't complain.
This lead to the fortieth or so standing ovation in his speech, albeit longer than usual. After a couple minutes, the roar died down.
"So, we must support Spain by opposing the vile Popular Front for our children, and our chilrends' children. Thank you." This lead to more applause.
A few minutes later, Franco weaved his way out of the meeting hall taking praise from the various men in attendence. Unexpectedly, the general himself approached Diaz and called out his name. It had been nearly a decade since they had last met. He made motions to his body guards to clear out the path to the exit. "Walk with me," Franco commanded Diaz.
Despite the shock, Diaz managed to respond, "It's good to see you, sir."
"Indeed, Fernando. So what are you up to nowadays? Still experimenting with new doctrinal techniques?" Franco replied jovially.
"Armor, sir. They truly are amazing machines. If I may say so, they are Spain's future."
"I'm not so convinced. They're slow and they break down far too easily.
"Yes, sir. But the new German models are amazing, and men like Guderian are doing astonishing things with them," Diaz replied forcefully, as in most arguments regardless of opponent. "Trenches and machine gun nests immediately fold to the new panzers in the German wargames."
"Interesting, Fernando. I may have to pay a visit to Guderian. But armor requires oil, and oil is something the Spanish government is short of." Franco smiled, "But it is true that armor is not unlike heavy cavalry, and as the knight had been able to instill obedience into traitorous peasants, so may the panzer."
"Absolutely, sir!" Diaz responded proudly.
"There is something I need you to do..."
"Anything, general."
"You are familiar with the Moroccans. With the Arabs. With the Berber tribes. With the political currents in the region. In the event of a leftist victory, I may need your... unique services. Not definitely, of course, but in case they go too far, I need you in Ceuta."
Diaz gasped. "Of course I'll be there sir!"
"Excellent! I'm glad you've agreed. Good luck, Lieutenent Colonel."
"But sir! I'm a Major, not a Lieutenent Colonel..."
Franco winked, "You are now. Good day, Fernando."
As the general left, Diaz babbled incoherently, attempting to thank him.
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That Diaz! Selling his soul to the representatives of the Devil like that!
I hope the sharks'll get him!
I hope the sharks'll get him!
Go Franco
Hope you do well as Nationalist Spain. I had a lot of fun playing them, until Germany started crumbling under the Commie onslaught.
Hope you do well as Nationalist Spain. I had a lot of fun playing them, until Germany started crumbling under the Commie onslaught.
Thanks guys. Expect an update this weekend.
Yep, that's right. I wanted him to be an anarchist hero, etc., so I figured him being Mexican was a little more plausible than him being a Ukranian.
I'm actually playing as the Republicans. Given how crappy the AI fares in 1.03, I'll be happy if I survive the Civil War.
Expect an update this weekend.Yep, that's right. I wanted him to be an anarchist hero, etc., so I figured him being Mexican was a little more plausible than him being a Ukranian.
I'm actually playing as the Republicans. Given how crappy the AI fares in 1.03, I'll be happy if I survive the Civil War.
New York City, USA. 7:00 AM. March 10, 1936.
Horsea Shaw still wasn't accustomed to living in a place like New York, even though he hadn't been outside the city for two years. He hadn't lost a bit of the awe he initially felt towards the sea of people, cultures, and food in his city. Horsea could only think of himself as the farmboy he was during his first 17 years.
He and his family were tenant farmers from rural Alabama. When the Depression hit, his family, while always plagued by economic difficulties - the norm for sharecroppers, faced particularly tough times. Debts were rapidly mounting, and they were about to lose everything. This lead to his father organizing with other sharecroppers. They joined the Southern Tenant Farmers' Union so they could collectively fight for survival. For a time, it looked like their economic prospects were looking better. But then came President Roosevelt and his AAA program. These were subsidies to encourage farmers to farm less, so the prices of agriultural produce would be driven up. While helping landed farmers, this meant tenant farmers and migrant farm workers, who made up nearly half of the country's farmers, lost their jobs, including the Shaws. Some folk in the Union said there were jobs up North, so they decided to move.
New York seemed as good a place as any. Maybe Chicago or Detroit would've been a better choice, but they found jobs anyhow. Horsea always had a way with words, despite his lack of formal education, so he started a career in journalism. "The Daily Worker" was the name of the paper that we worked in. He was a Communist thanks to the Southern Tenant Farmers' Union. There were always Yankee Communists coming down South helping them organize, so it seemed like a decent organization to belong to. He was going to check out an interesting situation he was informed of. All he could make of the initial reports was that there was some strange sort of strike that caused the management of a business to call in the cops.
Horsea drove down to the Firestone rubber plant inside one of his friend's aging Ford. He hoped it wouldn't break down as it did so often since the situation piqued his curiousity intensely. His friend was Albert Jones, a colored man he knew from Alabama. They, and their families, had been good friends almost since the Depression. Albert's family was in debt and his father had the gall to join the Union, which wasn't acceptable given the color of his skin, so the police tried to take away everything they owned. Horsea's older cousin, Nate, told the deputy that he wouldn't allow their belongings to be stolen from them. So when the deputy brought force, they shot Nate wounding him. Nate shot back, so he was arrested, and is stilling serving time in prison. Albert's father was killed. When the Jones' lost everything, they moved to New York too.
"Albert, what do ya think is goin' on?" Horsea asked in his thick Southern accent.
"It'd have to be somethin' mighty effective to cause so much panic. If it's gonna stay effective, we oughtta set up some food for 'em."
"True. How many people are in the plant? Must be a few hundred at least."
"Sounds about right... Here we are."
Horsea got out of the car, and walked towards a police officer standing nearby.
"Sir, I'm from the press. Can you tell me what's going on?" Horsea said in his best Yankee voice. He'd been practicing at it, and could switch between Yankee and Southern dialects easily enough.
"These lazy workers were complaining about their wages again after Firestone cut them to more reasonable levels. These greedy fools can't see that the Depression hurts everyone and we can't afford their luxuries." Horsea knew that Firestone didn't pay anywhere near decent wages. One of his friends who worked at Firestone couldn't afford his apartment and food given the wages and he lived a pretty damn Spartan lifestyle. "So when Firestone fired a few workers, the entire damned plant suddenly just stopped work and sat down on their jobs. Oddest thing I've ever heard of. I hear they call it a sit-down strike."
"Really? Imagine that..." Horsea responded, attempting to suppress a smile.
"This is no laughing matter. What paper do you work for anyways?" apparantly he failed.
Horsea grinned, "Daily Worker." The police officer walked off in anger.
Figuring it prudent to leave at the moment, he went back to the "Daily Worker" office to report his findings.
When he reached there, the few people at the office were frantic, but not because of the sit-down strike, which they didn't know of yet.
"Horsea, there's been a major victory for the left in Spain. Fascism has been rejected overwhelmingly! It turns out that the 'Popular Front' just got a very secure electoral victory!"
This is turning out to be a good day, Horsea thought.
Horsea Shaw still wasn't accustomed to living in a place like New York, even though he hadn't been outside the city for two years. He hadn't lost a bit of the awe he initially felt towards the sea of people, cultures, and food in his city. Horsea could only think of himself as the farmboy he was during his first 17 years.
He and his family were tenant farmers from rural Alabama. When the Depression hit, his family, while always plagued by economic difficulties - the norm for sharecroppers, faced particularly tough times. Debts were rapidly mounting, and they were about to lose everything. This lead to his father organizing with other sharecroppers. They joined the Southern Tenant Farmers' Union so they could collectively fight for survival. For a time, it looked like their economic prospects were looking better. But then came President Roosevelt and his AAA program. These were subsidies to encourage farmers to farm less, so the prices of agriultural produce would be driven up. While helping landed farmers, this meant tenant farmers and migrant farm workers, who made up nearly half of the country's farmers, lost their jobs, including the Shaws. Some folk in the Union said there were jobs up North, so they decided to move.
New York seemed as good a place as any. Maybe Chicago or Detroit would've been a better choice, but they found jobs anyhow. Horsea always had a way with words, despite his lack of formal education, so he started a career in journalism. "The Daily Worker" was the name of the paper that we worked in. He was a Communist thanks to the Southern Tenant Farmers' Union. There were always Yankee Communists coming down South helping them organize, so it seemed like a decent organization to belong to. He was going to check out an interesting situation he was informed of. All he could make of the initial reports was that there was some strange sort of strike that caused the management of a business to call in the cops.
Horsea drove down to the Firestone rubber plant inside one of his friend's aging Ford. He hoped it wouldn't break down as it did so often since the situation piqued his curiousity intensely. His friend was Albert Jones, a colored man he knew from Alabama. They, and their families, had been good friends almost since the Depression. Albert's family was in debt and his father had the gall to join the Union, which wasn't acceptable given the color of his skin, so the police tried to take away everything they owned. Horsea's older cousin, Nate, told the deputy that he wouldn't allow their belongings to be stolen from them. So when the deputy brought force, they shot Nate wounding him. Nate shot back, so he was arrested, and is stilling serving time in prison. Albert's father was killed. When the Jones' lost everything, they moved to New York too.
"Albert, what do ya think is goin' on?" Horsea asked in his thick Southern accent.
"It'd have to be somethin' mighty effective to cause so much panic. If it's gonna stay effective, we oughtta set up some food for 'em."
"True. How many people are in the plant? Must be a few hundred at least."
"Sounds about right... Here we are."
Horsea got out of the car, and walked towards a police officer standing nearby.
"Sir, I'm from the press. Can you tell me what's going on?" Horsea said in his best Yankee voice. He'd been practicing at it, and could switch between Yankee and Southern dialects easily enough.
"These lazy workers were complaining about their wages again after Firestone cut them to more reasonable levels. These greedy fools can't see that the Depression hurts everyone and we can't afford their luxuries." Horsea knew that Firestone didn't pay anywhere near decent wages. One of his friends who worked at Firestone couldn't afford his apartment and food given the wages and he lived a pretty damn Spartan lifestyle. "So when Firestone fired a few workers, the entire damned plant suddenly just stopped work and sat down on their jobs. Oddest thing I've ever heard of. I hear they call it a sit-down strike."
"Really? Imagine that..." Horsea responded, attempting to suppress a smile.
"This is no laughing matter. What paper do you work for anyways?" apparantly he failed.
Horsea grinned, "Daily Worker." The police officer walked off in anger.
Figuring it prudent to leave at the moment, he went back to the "Daily Worker" office to report his findings.
When he reached there, the few people at the office were frantic, but not because of the sit-down strike, which they didn't know of yet.
"Horsea, there's been a major victory for the left in Spain. Fascism has been rejected overwhelmingly! It turns out that the 'Popular Front' just got a very secure electoral victory!"
This is turning out to be a good day, Horsea thought.
