You look out your window and sigh, for the scars of the Rising still mar New York City. Two of the houses you can see played host to reactionary militias, and so those houses were fought over, bullets and bombs ripping their way through wood and plaster before the Red Guards managed to take them, before being driven out as fresh militias used fire to drive them out.
The people of the city paid a bloody price, and there will be more costs before everything is settled. Major newspapers have long since stopped reporting the tit-for-tat murders and street battles that dominate the country, but you know they are still happening. Dozens are dying every day.
And that's ignoring the larger, deadlier clashes. Those might be rare, but everyone hears of them when they happen. Bombings of Longist marches. Attacks on Red Guards headquarters. Ambushes on deploying National Guards. Firefights that rip holes through entire communities.
Everyone is being affected, not just those who fight. People are terrified. Even Hannah, for all that you try to shelter her, knows that there's fighting. It's been giving her nightmares.
Silently, you vow that those dreams will be the closest she ever comes to war.
But for that to happen, changes need to be made. Changes to the Red Guards, and changes to the reactionary bastards. You'll see one set through. And the men you trust to battle for the syndicalist cause...they'll handle the other.
A Democratic Chain of Command?!: 2 semi-Temporary Influence, 94+63+10=167
The Red Guards are not a centralized organization, and they are unlikely to become one without either something massive and unpredictable like a sudden civil war or sustained pressure from the top. That is the first obstacle any attempt at reforming them will face. But according to Butler and some of the more...esoteric military theoreticians he knows, that might also be a strength.
Regardless, if a better, more democratic chain of command is to be created, the first thing that needs to be discussed is what the expected pattern of the army is. Are they a professional volunteer source? A levee en masse in the French style? A citizen's self-defense militia? All of the above? Whatever choice you make will have severe and unpredictable repercussions...
[] Red Guards units are to be highly-professionalized forces, in the general style of the U. S. Military with alterations for increased democracy and functionality going from there.
[] Red Guards units are to be local militias, drawn from individual unions and organizations, consisting of civilian structures transferred to the battlefield, with alterations for increased functionality going from there.
[] Red Guards units are to be large, levied forces of conscripts and volunteers buoyed by revolutionary fervor, with alterations for increased functionality and democracy going from there.
[] Red Guards units are to choose which form they desire.
[] Red Guards units are to choose which form they desire in conjunction with a central body to evaluate their capabilities and the needs of the Revolution.
The vast distances of the country would make maintaining central control over the Red Guards difficult enough, to say nothing of their independent nature and the frequent difficulties of communication. This has resulted in many units taking instructions from the rest of the SPA as polite requests, left some ideologically adrift, and led to many counterproductive actions by various militias who overestimated their support or simply sought to aggrandize themselves.
So once more you find yourself sitting around a table with leaders of the SPA. Butler is at your side of course, but so is Lawson, and Lippmann and Gitlow have both taken interest in this debate. The argument rages back and forth, separate but connected to other debates about the Red Guards. Proposals are made and discarded, and in the end a few possibilities are the only ones being discussed. Whatever choice you make will have severe and unpredictable repercussions...
(Choose as many as you like, vote using plan format)
[] Send some written advice and encouragement to the Red Guards in the hopes that they will listen.
[] Expand the Commissar program to give more guidance and advice to Red Guards units.
[] Use the promise of support and better weaponry to encourage compliance.
[] Create elected regional officers to oversee the various units
[] Appoint advisors to regions distant from the SPA centers of power to help rein them in.
[] Write-in subject to veto
With the changes you are making, you are confident the Red Guards will only become more effective. But sometimes, you think, the Fosterites are right. The best army in the world means nothing if it isn't used. From California to New York, from Maine to Florida, the innocent and oppressed have been slain and slaughtered, sometimes without even being given the chance to fight back. Sometimes after they had surrendered.
That will not be allowed to happen any longer. The Red Guards will not be waiting for the reactionaries to attack them, not anymore.
Retaliatory Measures: 1 Influence, 63+10=73
Throughout the country, instructions and requests were passed down. By radio, by telegraph, by phone call, by letter, by messenger, word went out. Be ready. Battle was coming. If you can handle it, do it. If you can't, ask for help.
And one fine April morning, nearly twenty states were wracked by violence. Homes were burned, businesses were bombed, militias were mobbed. In some places, the scattered attacks were beaten off. In others, they found success, catching their targets off-guard and cutting a bloody swathe through them. And in still others, the outmatched Red Guards found assistance coming...
The Blair Brigade marched into Anaconda, Montana, and the people of the city threw flowers at them. They marched in a ragged half-formation, wearing no uniform but for green jackets with red armbands. But though the men might look dirty and angry, the weapons had been polished and cared for with attention that spoke of great familiarity and determination to make them function as well as possible.
Samson marched with them, uneasy. This wasn't going to be his first time going after strikebreakers, but it was his first time doing so with the Blair Brigade. And it was going to be a hell of a fight, if the scuttlebutt he had heard was anything remotely accurate.
He nervously glanced to his left and right. Within the cheering crowds, he could see people who didn't look so happy to see him, although by and large they faded away before he got a good look at them. As they turned a corner he leaned over and whispered to Sergeant Jones, "Comrade, I think they are going to know we are here."
Jones nodded. "Keep your eyes forward, and trust the commander. You voted for him, same as I did."
Samson scowled but turned his head back. When they had the chance, he was going to run for sergeant himself. The way Jones acted just didn't sit right.
They were guided down street after street and then were led into a large hotel. They packed in, four to a room, and watches were drawn up. With their duties for the day done, the men of the Blair Brigade sprawled throughout the hotel. Some made their way down to the restaurant, others to the bar. Still others flirted with the housekeepers.
Samson found his way to the roof and sat there. He slid out his father's knife and sharpened it, the rasp of the metal soothing his nerves.
At least until he heard footsteps. Instantly he spun around, flipping the knife over in his hand and readying himself to rush the...young black man wearing a red armband who was approaching. "Woah, comrade...I didn't mean to startle you," the man said, taking two steps back and lifting his hands up.
Cheeks turning pink, Samson slid the knife back into his sheathe. "It's not your fault," he replied, a little more brusque than he had intended.
"I'm Samson. How about you?"
"Ted. We were all real excited when we heard you lot were coming to help us. The Exterminators are tough bastards. They give you one chance to surrender, and if you don't take it...I've seen the bodies a time or two."
Ted fished around in his pockets, pulling out a cigarette. "So I hope you and us, I hope we make them understand they don't get to have it all their own way."
He dropped down next to Samson, who found himself swallowing his own fear. He had heard the same things about the Exterminators, and he was just as scared. But in front of this young man he refused to show that.
"They'll learn. Trust me, the Brigade have taught that lesson to meaner gangs."
Ted lit his cigarette, and Samson took out his own, igniting it from his new comrade's.
The two of them smoked in companionable silence until there was nothing left, and then departed.
Samson woke early. The sergeant was up before him of course, having come from a meeting with their captain. He checked each man's weapons, told them the plan, and led them in prayer. Sam folded his hands and hung his head, saying nothing.
He was a syndicalist, and as far as he was concerned that meant he was an atheist. Not that he was going to ruffle any feathers by making a fuss.
And then without another word they rose and left the room. They knew what they were doing, they knew why they were there. They knew that they'd win in the end, even if not all of them made it out alive.
The sun was a pale sliver over the horizon as they filed down, joining the rest of the Brigade and their local guides.
They moved like a fog, some rolling forth over the road, others slipping through the bushes and trees along the side.
Ted was the one leading Samson's unit. The two of them exchanged glances, then Ted collapsed. The crack of gunfire echoed through his ears an instant later, and he threw himself down as bullets stitched through the air.
"Contact, Lenin Kronstadt Squadron!" Samson shouted, bringing his own rifle up.
He heard more gunfire, more cries of "Contact" but ignored it all. He squeezed off one shot, then another, firing wildly as he tried to make his enemies duck down. Branches quivered and shook as bullets whizzed back and forth. Behind him, his comrades slid around to his left and right and pushed forward.
There was a sharp exchange of fire and then four bodies fell to the ground.
And without a glance back Samson and the rest of his squad rushed forward.
The bark of gunfire and the boom of grenades kept moving forwards, keeping pace with them as they rushed through the woods, bent double and then moved onto the road.
There were Exterminators there too, falling back slowly as they tried to avoid being surrounded. A pair of strange vehicles with machine guns anchored them as soldiers took turns firing and fleeing behind while the machine guns sent forth a deadly hail that kept the Blair Brigade from closing. Men fell with every step, but more closed behind as the syndicalist soldiers doggedly pursued their foes.
And then Samson threw a grenade.
One machine gun came to a stop as its operators went down thrashing. The other began to turn towards him when the gunner's head exploded.
The Blair Brigade rushed forward in a wild melee as bullets and bayonets cut down man after man until none were left.
And then they kept pushing.
There were two more firefights before they reached their goal, brief things that saw only a few men killed or wounded. They were tired and filthy, gnawing on premade food bars and swigging warm, gritty water, and their units were a disorganized mess - he hadn't seen tJones since that first ambush - but they knew the plan and they weren't going to quit.
And at noon the target came into view. An "abandoned" National Guard base that had been taken over by the Exterminators, it's men stoody at the ready. A tall fence of barbed wire blocked their path. Sandbags gave cover to their foes. Rifles, machine guns, even artillery made it a lethal target to attack, and it was filled with determined enemies.
The Blair Brigade slowed and came to a stop at the sight of that fearsome fortress...and then mortar shells began to rain down on the men inside it. Shrapnel scythed through them, killing and wounding and spreading panic. The Exterminators fired back with cool determination, but they couldn't reach the mortars and suppressive fire from the Brigade forced them down. The artillery were decrewed, holes were blown in their fences, and from every direction but one death came.
With a position growing less defensible by the second, some began to withdraw, then retreat, then rout. They dashed across the bloodied grounds and fled south, opposite of where their attackers had come from.
And then they ran into the rest of the Brigade, dug into the forest and wreaking havoc among their fleeing foe.
Some remained within the base, hiding in shelters or dugouts or within the sturdy walls of the masonry buildings.
So the fire slackened and stopped, and calls to surrender went out. Even with his blood up, Samson shouted as loud as the rest. He had fought in buildings, digging out determined enemies before. He had no desire to do so again.
That night, Kronstadt Squadron celebrated grimly in the hotel bar. They had won in the end, but they had bled for it. Ted had died, Sergeant Jones had taken a piece of shrapnel to his gut and no one knew if he would survive it, and all of them were wearied. They had won in the end. Samson wondered if it was worth it, then he raised his glass.
"To our absent comrades. And to the cause we fight for," he said softly.
They echoed his toast, and all downed their glasses as one.
And three days later they left Anaconda for Butte, to destroy another nest of Exterminators.
And throughout the country, militias were hunted. Pinkertons were dragged out of their beds, put on trial, and shot. Police in a dozen cities were shot down in the street, the perpetrators sometimes not even bothering to flee. And with every attack, a message was delivered.
If you attacked the workers, they would attack back. And the consequences of that to you and yours would be for you to bear.
Report from Smedley Butler: 1 Influence on Establish Training Camps, 41+20=61+15 = 76, 1 Influence on Purchase Arms, 41+11=52
The camps form a network throughout the country. Experienced soldiers and persuasive ideologues staff them, putting volunteers from the Red Guards through a merciless regime. They are taught to shoot, to move, to fight. They are given experience with every weapon you can reliably access, from rifles to machine guns to mortars. They are encouraged to develop skills in leadership and tactics and a dozen other fields Butler deemed worthy of including, from military history to public speaking to driving.
And day and night they are taught to think, exposed to the works of Marx and other great socialist thinkers, made to develop their own ideas and synthesize them with others. The force you are building is a political thing, and it's future leaders must be skilled in politics.
And Butler might not like it, but you insist. The camps are not segregated at all. Black men and white men train and fight side by side, and are given no favoritism (Butler approves of this, albeit gruffly, and he questions the feasibility of avoiding that favoritism without damaging discipline). More controversially, men and women share the same camps, the same mess halls, the same barracks.
There are conflicts and failures, and many people wash out. But more stay in, and soon you will have the beginnings of something better than ragged paramilitaries...
And they will be better equipped too. Armories are beginning to form in major cities as they produce rifles and bullets, with Butler pushing (fairly successfully, given the chaotic situation) for the adoption of a standard set of firearms. Red Guards units find themselves with rifles and pistols for everyone, and older weapons are gradually retired.
Some of the seized arms factories even manage to produce more than a few machine guns, while the improvised workshops that supplied your forces with heavier weapons are expanded and refined, producing more reliable grenades and safer mortars.
It's not enough, it's nowhere near enough. You will need to be able to match the full might of the US Army, you will need to equip untold millions with rifles and bullets and uniforms and a thousand other things.
But it's a start.
As the month ends, you think over the thirty long days...
It's been a difficult and stressful time in some ways, full of frustrations even amongst your successes. But the party is growing, your forces are getting stronger. And the reactionaries have just been dealt a series of sharp blows.
You turn from the window and tiptoe to your daughter's room, the guard stepping aside to let you pass. She sleeps soundly, undisturbed by bad dreams for once. You kneel down by her bed and smile.
Perhaps she will grow up and never know war.
You will do all you can to make it so.
