Re: Blood and Iron

In the years since the end of the Second Weltkrieg, Canada had found itself under increased threat from the civil war waged just south of its borders.

In some regions, things had stabilized. In others, things had become far worse. Either way, Canada had benefitted greatly. With the Northeastern United States officially integrated into Canada, after a brief conflict provoked by what remained of Roosevelt’s rump state, Canada had stabilized the region.

And made use of what Roosevelt had prepared for the sake of keeping the old republic alive. A goal that effectively died with him.

The Canadian Mounted Police no longer wore the bright red uniforms that they had become recognized worldwide for.

Instead, they wore olive fatigues, Brodie helmets, and during dreary days like today, where the rain seemed to last an eternity, matching greatcoats.

Each man carried an SLR-1 self-loading rifle chambered in 8x57mm Mauser. The bayonets were carried in their sheaths as they smoked behind a checkpoint.

Today was like any other day at the border. Processing destitute migrants from the former United States. Making use of whomever was useful, and sending back others who were simply a burden.

Corporal Robert Gordon leaned back against the sandbags, taking a drag on his smoke, while the constables beneath his immediate supervisory capacity processed another would be immigrant.

By his side was a man of a similar demeanor, wearing a very different uniform. A rifle eerily reminiscent of the SVT-40 was slung over his back. Russia’s domestically developed self-loading rifle that served as the primary armament of the Imperial Russian Army during the interwar period, but now was more commonly found among the Reserves and Border Guard.

The man was surrounded by men in uniforms and carrying weapons just like him. Like the Canadians, they didn’t wear parade uniforms or army camouflage pattern fatigues. But instead, the olive brown military uniforms of the Russian Army prior to their modernization.

With such a large surplus of weapons and uniforms lying around, many of them were refurbished after the war and re-issued to border guard, federal police, and military reserve units. Robert approached one of these men and spoke to him.

"Any news on your missing patrol?"

The man with the Russian double-eagle embossed on his Stahlhelm shook his head and flicked his cigarette into a puddle of mud, stomping it beneath his hobnail boots. Sighing heavily as the smoke escaped his lungs.

"Nope... Nothing official has been said about the matter. Or at least to us peons. But rumor has it they got ambushed by smugglers trying to bring people into the country. Just goes to show that never relax while you’re outside the wire, you’ll just end up dead."

The man’s English was perfect, despite the fact that he wore a Russian Border Guard uniform. Which was instantly noticeable by the green shoulder tabs and collar on his greatcoat .

"I’m sorry to hear that..." Robert shook his head and sighed. "But you watch our asses, and we’ll watch yours."

The Russian border guard nodded his head, looking off in the direction of his homeland in the northwest. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he reflected on what was waiting for him back home.

"I should be in Anchorage right now... And I probably would have been had the war gone differently. Anchorage... I’m one of the few damn Americans left in that city. It’s been completely overrun by the Russians these last two years."

He looked over his shoulder back at the soldiers who were the same uniform as him. None of them were locals to Alaska where they now resided. Every one of them had migrated from somewhere in Russia to the new frontier.

Robert grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close and whispered in his ear.

"You can’t think like that.... America is gone, and you’re Russian now. I get where you’re coming from, I lost two brothers in the war. But this is a new world, and we have to adapt to it."

The Alaskan-Russian nodded his head and pulled out another cigarette from his pouch. Lighting it, he took a drag, gazing over at the people crowding the checkpoint. The people who used to be his fellow countrymen.

He had no pity for them, nor any animosity. They, like everyone else, were just doing what they could to survive.

"How many of them do you think will actually be permitted to stay?"

Robert looked over at the processing line that never seemed to end. He paused for a moment and thought about it before giving a grim verdict.

"Ten percent, maybe less. We can’t afford to look after every American. We can only take those who are useful and send the rest back."

The Alaskan nodded his head, not once but twice in agreement with this statement.

"I suppose it could have been worse...."

Robert looked over at him, confused, that is until he spoke again.

"I could have been born on that side of the border... and not in Alaska. All things considered we got off easy. We surrendered before any real damage could be done. And now the industry and wealth of Moscow, the Urals, and Siberia are flowing into Alaska. The only problem is that it’s no longer the territory it used to be. It’s just another Russian oblast."

Robert didn’t know how to respond to this. They were both incredibly lucky. As bad as things were for both of them, having been on the losing side of the war. They both ended up better than the United States and its mainland.

Neither of them spoke again after that. They finished their smoke break and resumed their duties. Russians and Canadians, guarding their shared border.

Only together could the two of them prevent the overwhelming tide that was American opportunistic migrants seeking to flee from the aftermath of their own doing.

All the while across the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. The world continued to function as it always had before.