In the mountains of Sicily, German Gebirgsjäger and Italian Alpini stood shoulder to shoulder as they held back the Arican advance.
From enemies during the last war, n who once cut each other’s throats with bayonets in the frozen trenches of the Alpine passes; they had beco an elite brotherhood of mountain soldiers.
Now they shared the burden of lead and blood together in the Monti Sicani.
It was almost laughable how bitter enemies so easily beca brothers when a new foe arrived, forcing old hatreds to be repurposed against a shared nesis.
The chugging roar of MG-34s and MG-42s bounced through the rocky pass as Panzerfausts slamd into the lumbering Arican armored column.
The U.S. tanks slogged through the unstable terrain, engines overheating, treads snapping on jagged stone, their formations collapsing under the brutal efficiency of Central Powers mountain infantry.
From above, the sky buzzed with duels of death. Sleek new German P.1110s dove like hawks, hounding the Allied aces, while the Italian Macchis and Fiats strained to keep pace and provide whatever support they could.
Sicily had beco a butcher’s yard for the Aricans, a crucible of flesh, blood, and bone. n were sacrificed en masse against a smaller but far more elite force, all for the faint hope of securing a foothold from which to invade the European mainland.
The images and newsreel footage flickered across a projection screen in Washington. President Roosevelt sat in his wheelchair, head hanging low, one hand covering his face as if shielding himself from the weight of the truth.
They had lost so many n in North Africa, in Sicily., In Spain where they were driven out before they could even properly seize a beachhead, and most of all in the Philippines.
And it wasn’t just manpower. Entire divisions, armored and infantry, had been wiped out. Fleets now rotted at the bottom of both the Atlantic and Pacific.
No matter how much Arican industry bled oil and molten iron, it could not keep up with the demands placed upon it.
If Germany stood alone, perhaps the U.S. could have overwheld them. But raw materials flooded into the Ruhr, Berlin, Danzig, and Trieste from the depths of the Russian motherland.
With this iron river at their back, Germany matched Arican replacent rates with disturbing ease.
Worse still, the Germans simply had better weapons. For every one of their E-50s, it cost Arica five to ten Liberties. Ten to fifteen of the new dium Tanks. The math alone predicted disaster.
And all of this rested atop an unstable Arican foundation.
The nation followed Roosevelt only because he crushed dissent with brutal force after decades of corruption and incompetence, dating back to the Hughes administration, were exposed to the public.
Fear kept the Union intact, but even the fear of pain and death had limits, and that limit was now in sight.
Reports flooded in of entire units deserting in the Philippines, vanishing into the jungles after the fall of Manila.
Armored brigades in Sicily had begun waving white flags at the first sight of German panzers. Morale was breaking, on the battlefield and, far worse, at ho.
If the labor unions struck again... if they launched a second revolt... Roosevelt’s administration would collapse. And perhaps the United States itself with it.
Few were willing to admit this reality. So Roosevelt sat there, head in his hands, lanting the precipice upon which his nation now stood.
Silence hung over the room, until one of his generals spoke. He had intended it as a joke, a bitter remark laced with gallows humor.
"I sotis wonder if the Germans haven’t struck us directly because they’re waiting for the Arican spirit to break on its own."
The room chuckled, everyone except Roosevelt shared in the laugh at what was supposed to be a mont of brevity.
But for Roosevelt it was instead an epiphany. His head snapped upright, eyes fixed on the man who had spoken.
"What did you just say?"
The General stiffened. The hairs on his neck prickled.
"Nothing, sir. Just a joke... trying to ease the tension."
Roosevelt did not scold him. Did not shout. Did not dismiss the comnt.
Instead, he thought.
He revisited every German action, not just in this war, but in the decades leading up to it. Even before it. Back to the Great War. A pattern erged. A faint outline. And then... clarity.
It struck him like divine revelation, as if Minerva herself had parted the fog clouding his mind. His jaw fell open. The others glanced at one another nervously, unsure whether the President was about to rage or weep.
Instead, he whispered:
"My God... that’s his goal."
Silence deepened.
"He doesn’t want a military victory. Not in the conventional sense. He never intended to invade the United States or strike our holand. His attack on Canada... it was a statent. Proof that he could, at a ti of his choosing."
The generals exchanged worried looks.
Roosevelt continued, voice rising with horrified understanding.
"He wants us to destroy ourselves. The silent acquisition of Arican industry through shell corporations. The weaponization of the dia to influence our elections and foreign policy. The illicit wiretapping of governnt offices after we, foolishly, contracted one of his front companies to install our phone lines. This man has been plotting the destruction of the United States for forty years."
He leaned forward, eyes wild with revelation.
"Even the previous revolt, when I was forced to embrace tyranny to preserve the Union... It was all a part of his design. This entire ti... we’ve been dancing in the palm of his hand. Chess pieces moved by a man who duels fate itself to shape the world."
The room felt colder.
The officers and aides did not share Roosevelt’s revelation. To them, it sounded like madness born from exhaustion, paranoia, and strain.
But none dared say so. Roosevelt was President in na, tyrant in practice. A single displeased look could end their careers, or their lives.
So they remained silent.
And Roosevelt sat there, breathing hard, convinced he had finally glimpsed the truth behind the war that was devouring his nation.
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