The Phoenix Smoulders
The men gathered here were a diverse, angry lot, Miguel Primo de Rivera noted, as he looked out from his podium. The bar that he had rented for this purpose, somewhere in the slums of Madrid, seemed unable to fit such a crowd of people. Sailors of the British Isles campaigns or the Battle of Lisbon, returning veterans from Morocco, Occitania, Sinai, the Caribbean or the Indies, workmen who slaved away building the mighty ships of the Spanish navy, even a few women. Miguel noted this with some approval - mobilising the women of Spain to his cause may gain him some assistance in his fight, particularly if he could swing some of the feminist groups to his side. But all were here for one reason - fury at the humiliation Spain had suffered. He got up in front of the dirty, peeling podium that he had stolen from behind a university, and motioned for silence.
"People of Spain!" he boomed, as they quietened. "You are all great warriors! Heroes of the Great War! You who fought for freedom and Spanish glory! How have you been rewarded?" he paused, as the crowed reflected. "You there! What is your name?" he yelled, pointing at one young man, maybe seventeen of age, in the crowd.
"Francisco Franco." the man yelled back.
"And what did you do in the War, young Franco?"
"I served on the Moroccan Front, sir!"
"Ah, a good man! You contributed to a glorious victory! And how were you rewarded?"
"I wasn't, sir. They sent me back here, with a pittance in my pocket and without even so much as a thank you."
"Exactly! Men and women of Spain! Take note of this poor young man! A patriot, our foolish government did not even thank him for his honourable service. His honourable service in one of the greatest victories of the war. Do they believe it was his fault that we lost?" Miguel yelled, gesturing wildly. "Of course it was not his fault! Nor was it yours, people of Spain. On the contrary, we were winning! We were besieging Toulouse, our guns raining death and righteous retribution upon the Occitans. We were driving through Indochina, deep in British territory! We had destroyed the Brazilian fleet, sent it to the bottom! What do were care of the Caribbean or the Philippines? We could have taken it back in minutes. The holy land would have been ours in a few months! But what did our benevolent and wise government do? They surrendered. Like cravens and cowards, they handed rightful Spanish land away to the Anglos and their Brazilian puppets, to the traitors and slavers of America, and to the insidious and cunning Japanese! And they did not stop there, no. The Portuguese, our allies in word and deed, as well as by blood, no, they had to lose their rightful colonial territory as well. The Communion will not stop until all of the Spanish Empire is under Anglo-Brazilian tyranny."
The crowd was murmuring now, angry. "How dare the government surrender? How dare they!" men muttered, remembering their service in Occitania or the brutal jungle warfare of the Indies.
"Who is to blame for the surrender? Oh, the government, of course! But there are far more agents of surrender than simply these. The Basques! Oh, the basques! Let me ask you this, my good Spaniards, when did a Basque serve on the front lines? How many of you served with a man of Euskadi? None! For they are traitors to Spain, agents of surrender, hostile to good Iberians such ourselves. They feel that the fact that they were there first means that all of Iberia should belong to them, and are willing to destroy Spain to get it! They are traitors to Spain, all! And the Proletarist, they, truly, seek Spain's destruction to build their awful and decadent Proletarist paradise! They, too, must be stopped!" Miguel paused again, letting the murmurs spread. Indeed, who had served with a Basque? Few, he knew, as battalions were organised on a village basis and the Basque communities had their own units that served in the war, but these people did not care. They needed somebody to blame, somebody to take their own failings out on. And the Basques were just unlucky enough to be there. Serves them right anyway, Miguel thought grimly. Shifty little b******s.
"Loyalists to Spain, once we had an empire upon which the sun never set. But now, in the flames of the Great War, the Spanish Empire has burned. But fear not! For like the Phoenix, our enlighten guidance will bring Spain back from the ashes! For right now, I declare the birth of the Phoenix Party!" Miguel yelled, spreading his arms wide as banners depicting a phoenix rising from flames rolled down behind him. They had cost a pretty penny, and Miguel hoped they would have the desired effect. These men needed to be impressed, and feel like they were part of a larger whole. "Join us! We need brave Spanish men and women, who will fight for a greater, better Spain! To take back our land from the Anglos, to rise once more! Join the Phoenix Party today, and rise from the ashes of our national humiliation!"
Miguel smiled, finally. Let the other parties take the dreamers, the hopeful, the idealists. He would take those men who were let down, who were humiliated, and above all, angry. With the power of anger he would build the greatest empire the world had ever seen. And the Phoenix would rise, angrier than ever.
