America by P. G.
A REMARKABLE TALE OF THE GERMAN-JAPANESE INVASION OF 1916
Editor's Note — It may be thought that in this story Mr. Wodehouse
has painted in too lurid colors the horrors of a foreign invasion of
the United States. Realism, it may be argued, can be carried too far.
We prefer to think that our readers will acquit the author of a desire
to rouse America to a sense of peril, and only by setting down without
flinching the results of an invasion can this be done. If McClure's
and all the other magazines can do it, why shouldn't Vanity Fair have
a shot at it? Mr. Wodehouse holds an established position as a
military expert, his two most recent articles, "What to do When the
Zeppelin Comes," and "Is It Contrary to International Law for Germany
to Use Culture as a Weapon of Offense," having caused widespread
comment and alarm among military students everywhere.
The invasion of America was complete. The navy, its morale
completely sapped by grape-juice, had offered but slight resistance to
the German Armada; and the army, too proud to fight, had stood around
while the Japanese established their foothold on the soil of God's Own
Once begun, it had proceeded apace. New York had been bombarded —
but fortunately, as it was summer, nobody of any importance was in
town. Philadelphia, though ably defended by military correspondents of
the Saturday Evening Post, had fallen at last. America was beneath the
heel of the invader, whose only casualties consisted of a detachment
of infantry who had been rash enough to travel on the New York, New
Haven and Hartford Railroad — with the usual results.
Far-seeing patriots took a gloomy view of this state of affairs.
For some years the receipts of baseball had been falling off, and it
was argued that this counter-attraction must hit the national sport
hard. The desire to see the invaders as they marched through the
country must inevitably draw away thousands who would otherwise have
paid their half-dollars to sit in the bleachers.
By the end of August, a powerful army of Germans under Prince Otto
of Saxe-Pfennig had established itself at Kew Gardens, while an
equally powerful horde of Japanese under General Owoki was in
possession of Yonkers and all points west.
This was a very serious state of things.
It has been well said that the crisis always produces the man, or
necessity is the mother of man or something like that: and never has
this admirable truth (of which I cannot remember the exact wording)
been better exemplified than in this hour of America's sorest straits.
At a moment when everything seemed blackest, along came Clarence
To-day the name of Clarence Chugwater is familiar to all. Everyone
has seen the Chugwater Column in Central Park, the equestrian statue
in Chugwater Avenue (formerly Broadway), and the Chugwater picture-
postcards in the shop-windows. But at the time of the great invasion
Clarence was practically unknown except in the newspaper office where
he was employed as an office-boy. And even there he was not known by
name. The staff habitually addressed him as Young Bone-Head.
To-day, it is hard to understand how even a City editor
(notoriously one of the least intelligent of human beings) could have
failed to detect in the lad's face the promise of future greatness.
That bulging forehead, distended with useful information (for Clarence
attended night-school); those eyes, gleaming behind their
tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles; that massive chin; that tout
ensemble; that je ne sais quoi.
Why, if the City editor had had a grain of sense, he would have
flooded New York with electric signs, bearing the legend:
DO YOU KNOW THAT CLARENCE CHUGWATER IS WITH THE SENTINEL?
Instead of which, he called him Bone-head, and often with shocking
adjectives prefixed. What a world!
Clarence Chugwater, that many-sided boy, was not only a prop of the
Daily Sentinel, he was the Pride of the Boy Scouts. When off duty, he
might be seen walking abroad, dressed neatly but not gaudily, in a
flat-brimmed hat, a flannel shirt, a bunch of ribbons, a knapsack,
knickerbockers, brown shoes, a whistle, and a long stick. He could do
everything that the Boy Scout must learn to do. He could low like a
bull. He could gurgle like a wood-pigeon. He could imitate the cry of
the turnip in order to deceive rabbits. He could spoor, fell trees
(unless their owner saw him at it), tell the character by the sole of
the shoe, and fling the squaler. He did all these things well, but
what he was best at was flinging the squaler.
America's defenders at this time were practically limited to the
Boy Scouts and to a large civilian population, prepared at any moment
to turn out for their country's sake and wave flags. A certain section
of these, too, could sing patriotic songs. It would have been well,
then, had the Invaders, before making too sure that America lay
beneath their heel, stopped to reckon with Clarence Chugwater.
But did they? Not by a jug-full. They had never even heard of
What was to be the result of this over-confidence?
It was inevitable that at a time like August, when there is never
anything very much going on, such a topic as the simultaneous invasion
of America by Germany and Japan, should be seized upon by the press.
Few of the papers failed to give the matter several columns of space,
and the public found the fascination of staring at the invading troops
a pleasant change from the garish attractions of South Beach and Coney
Island. When you consider that a crowd of five hundred New Yorkers
will assemble in the space of two minutes, abandoning entirely all its
other business, to watch a man putting a new tire on his automobile,
it is not surprising that the interest taken in the invaders was
A piquancy was added to the situation by the fact that the Germans
and Japanese were not acting in any way as allies. What had happened
was a curious outcome of the modern custom of striking a deadly blow
before actually declaring war. By a mere chance it had occurred
independently to both the Kaiser and the Mikado that it would not be
half a bad idea to invade America — and they had done it. The
position of the Prince of Saxe-Pfennig and General Owoki was
consequently delicate in the extreme.
All Prince Otto's early training and education had implanted in him
the fixed idea that, if he ever invaded America, he would do it either
alone or with the sympathetic cooperation of allies. He had never
faced the problem of what he should do if there were rivals in the
field. He could not very well ask the Japanese to withdraw, and, if he
withdrew himself, that meant a mauvais quart d'heure with the
Kaiser when he got back to Germany.
"It all comes of this 'Swoop of the Vulture' business," he grumbled
to General von Poppenheim, his chief of staff, "this silly business of
invading a country before you declare war on it. I suppose there's
nothing for it," said the Prince, "but to have a talk with Owoki. Get
him on the 'phone, Pop, and ask him to lunch with us at the Ritz
to-morrow, to talk things over."
The momentous conversation took place, accordingly on the following
day. It was conducted in the language of diplomacy, which, as anyone
who has seen this year's crop of war plays is aware, stands in a class
by itself. It is a language specifically designed to deceive the
Thus, when the Prince, turning to Owoki, as the latter consumed his
portion of buckwheat cakes and maple syrup, said "I hear the crops are
coming on nicely down Tokio way," none of the waiters perceived
anything remarkable in the words. But Owoki, nursed from the cradle in
an atmosphere of diplomatic subtlety, understood at once that what the
Prince meant was "Now, about this business of America. What do you
propose to do about it?"
Owoki hesitated for a moment, then replied blandly: "The food here
is good, but I am not sure that I do not prefer the Honble Childs."
The Prince frowned at this typical piece of shifty Oriental
"How are you getting along with your fox trotting?" he inquired
The Japanese general smiled a subtle smile.
"Poorly," he said, "poorly. The last time I tried it, I thought
somebody had thrown honble building at me."
Prince Otto flushed. He was a plain, blunt man, and he hated this
beating about the bush.
But what could he do? His Imperial Master would not wish him, save
in the direst extremity, to fight the Japanese. Perhaps he had better
yield the point. It was with a conciliatory smile, then, that, having
ordered a second cup of coffee, he observed: "Speaking of Mrs. Vernon
Castle, I hear that she's in again."
And then the two shook hands.
And so it was settled, the Japanese general having, as we have
seen, waived his claim to bombard New York in his turn, and the Prince
having withdrawn his demand for a season pass to the Polo Grounds.
There was now no obstacle in the way of an alliance.
Prince Otto went to bed that night conscious of good work well
done. He now saw his way clear before him.
But he had made one miscalculation, He had omitted to reckon with
Clarence Breamworthy Chugwater, the Boy Scout.
Night in Gramercy Park!
In the center of that vast tract of unreclaimed park there shone
feebly, seeming almost to emphasize the darkness and desolation of the
scene, a single light.
It was the camp-fire of the Boy Scouts.
The night was raw and windy. A fine rain had been falling for some
hours. The date was October the First. In the camp of the Boy Scouts a
vast activity prevailed.
Few of Manhattan's teeming millions realize how tremendous and
far-reaching an organization the Boy Scouts are. With the possible
exception of the Black Hand and the war-correspondents of the Saturday
Evening Post, the Scouts are perhaps the most carefully organized
secret society in the world.
The power of the Scouts is enormous. Let us suppose that you are a
business-man, and, arriving at the office one morning in a bad temper,
you cure yourself by taking it out of the office-boy. He says nothing;
he apparently does nothing. But that evening, as you enter your train
for Forest Hills, a burly artisan treads on your gouty toe. Reaching
home, you find that the chickens have been at your early peas, the cat
has stolen the fish, and the cook has jumped her job. You do not
connect these things, but they are all alike the results of your
unjust behavior to Little Scoutmaster Cyril in the morning.
Or, meeting a ragged newsboy, you pat his head, give him a dime,
and ask him if he means to be President when he grows up. Next day an
anonymous present of champagne arrives at your address.
Terrible in their wrath, the Boy Scouts never forget a kindness.
A whistle sounded softly in the darkness. The sentry, pacing to and
fro before the camp fire, halted and peered into the night.
"Who goes there?"
"Advance, friend: give the countersign."
"Death to Germany and Japan."
"Pass, friend! All's well."
An indistinct figure walked into the firelight. The sentry started,
then stood at attention, The newcomer was Clarence Chugwater.
"Your name?" said Clarence, eyeing the sturdy young warrior.
"Private William Buggins."
"You watch well, Private Buggins. America has need of such as you."
Clarence pinched the young Scout's ear tolerantly. The boy flushed
"My orders have been carried out? The patrols are here?"
Standing in an attitude of deep thought, with his feet apart, his
hands clasped behind him, and his chin sunk upon his breast, Clarence
made a strangely impressive picture. The Scouts hearing of his arrival
were charging desperately in all directions, at last they assembled,
and were soon standing, alert and attentive. Clarence returned their
salute moodily. He raised his hand.
"Men," he said, in his clear, penetrating alto, "you are all aware
by this time that our country has been invaded. It is for us to crush
the invader. (Cheers, and a voice 'You said it!') I would call on you
here and now to seize your sticks and rush upon the alien intruders,
but at present their forces are too strong. We must wait. And
something tells me that we shall not have to wait long. (Applause.)
Soon jealousy must inevitably spring up between the Germans and the
Japanese. It will be our task to aggravate that feeling. Sooner or
later this smouldering jealousy will burst into flames, and then will
come our time, See that it finds you ready. I have finished."
"Chugwater, Chugwater, Rah! Rah! Rah!" shouted the now thoroughly
It was the voice of Young America — of Young America alert,
desperate, and at its post!
Synopsis of what has already happened: Germany and Japan have
simultaneously invaded the United States. Japan has reached Yonkers
and Germany has established her army at Kew Gardens. Germany is
commanded by Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig. Japan is commanded by
General Owoki. Our country lies helpless beneath the feet of the cruel
invaders. Her sole hope is in Clarence Chugwater, the fearless leader
of the boy scouts. What will Clarence do? Ah, we cannot tell you that.
You must read this story and see!
Historians, when they come to deal with the opening years of the
Twentieth Century, will probably call this the Vaudeville Age. At this
time the vaudeville-halls dominate America. At the time of our story,
the public appetite for sight-seeing had to be satisfied somehow, and
the vaudeville-house provided the best solution. If, for example, an
impulsive gentleman slew his wife and children with the ice-pick, only
a small portion of the public could gaze upon his pleasing features
during the trial. But when he had been acquitted under the Unwritten
Law, it was necessary, to enable the great public to enjoy this
intellectual treat, to engage him, at enormous expense, to appear in
It was not till the middle of October, 1916, that anyone conceived
what one would have thought the obvious idea of offering vaudeville
engagements to the invading generals, Prince Otto, and General Owoki.
The first man to think of it was Solly Quhayne, the rising young
vaudeville agent. Solly was the son of Abraham Cohen, an eminent agent
of the later nineteenth century. His brothers, Abe Kern, Benjamin
Colquhoun, Jack Coyne, and Barney Cowan, had gravitated to the curb
market, but Solly had carried on his father's vaudeville business, and
was making a big name for himself.
The idea of securing Prince Otto and General Owoki for his theatres
came to him in a flash!
Solly was a man of action. Within a minute he was talking to the
managing director of the Keith circuit, on the telephone. In five
minutes the managing director had agreed to pay Prince Otto of
Saxe-Pfennig twenty-five hundred dollars a week. In ten minutes the
Japanese general had been engaged by the Orpheum Circuit at a weekly
salary of two thousand dollars. And in a quarter of an hour Solly
Quhayne, having pushed his way through the crowd in his ante-room, was
bowling off in a taxi to the Japanese lines, at Yonkers.
General Owoki received his visitor civilly, but at first without
enthusiasm. it seemed that he was shy about becoming an artist. Would
he have to wear a property bald head and sing rag-time? He didn't
think he could. He had only sung once in his life, and that was twenty
years ago, at a class reunion at Tokio.
"Why, general," said Solly, "it won't be anything of that sort. You
ain't going to be head-lined as a comic. You're a refined
lecturer and Society Monolog Artist. 'How I Invaded America,' with
lights down and the cinematograph going. Is it a deal?"
Two thousand dollars would come in uncommonly useful.
"Where do I sign?" the general said, extending his hand for the
Five minutes later, Solly Quhayne was exceeding the speed limit in
the direction of the German encampment.
* * *
Clarence Chugwater read the news of the two vaudeville engagements
on the tape at the office of the Sentinel, a newspaper where he
worked as an office boy. He chuckled grimly. To sow jealousy between
two rival vaudeville headliners should be easy.
Among the general public the announcement created a profound
sensation. At first the popular impression was that the generals were
going to do a comedy-duo act of the
Who-Was-It-I-Seen-You-Coming-Down-The- Street-With? type, and there
was disappointment when it was found that the engagements were for
different houses. Rumors sprang up. It was said that General Owoki had
for years been an enthusiastic amateur buck-and-wing dancer, and had,
indeed, come to America mainly for the purpose of securing bookings:
that Prince Otto had a secure reputation in Berlin as a singer of the
Al Jolson type: that both were expert trick-cyclists.
Then the truth came out. Neither had any specialties: they would
simply appear and deliver monologs.
* * *
It was Clarence Chugwater's custom to leave the office of his
newspaper at one o'clock each day and lunch at a neighboring
Codington's. As he sipped his milk, he read the newspaper reports of
the appearances in vaudeville of the two generals. According to the
paper each was drawing a salary of five thousand dollars a week.
Clarence had just finished reading the reports when he looked up
and saw, standing before him, a boy of about fifteen years.
After a moment or two the boy saluted.
"Private Biggs of the Eighteenth, sir," he said. "I have
"Say on, Private Biggs," said Clarence.
"I am employed, sir, as a sort of office-boy and junior clerk by
Solly Quhayne, the vaudeville agent, the man who secured the
engagements of the invading generals. This morning, happening to pass
Mr. Quhayne's room, I overheard him talking to his brother, Mr.
Colquhoun. They were talking about the generals. 'Yes, I know they are
press-agented at five thousand a week,' Mr. Quhayne was saying, 'but
between you and me that isn't what they are getting. The German's
pulling down twenty-five hundred, and the Jap gets two thousand. Can't
say why he gets less. I should have thought he was a better draw. He's
a good comic, in his way.'"
Clarence's eyes gleamed.
"Magnificent, Private — no,
Sergeant Biggs. You have given
me valuable information."
He raised his glass.
"To America!" echoed his subordinate.
Deep in thought, Clarence hurried to the offices of the
the vaudeville weekly.
The days following Clarence's visit to the offices of the
were marked by a growing feeling of unrest. The first novelty of the
foreign occupation of the country was beginning to wear off, and the
sturdy independence of the American character was reasserting itself.
Deep down in his heart the genuine American has a rugged distaste for
seeing his country invaded by a foreign army. People were asking
themselves by what right these aliens had overrun American soil. An
ever-growing feeling of annoyance had begun to lay hold of the nation.
New York had become a human powder-magazine, and it was Clarence
Chugwater who with a firm hand applied the match that was to set it in
The Encore is published on Thursdays. It so happened that on
the Thursday following his momentous call at the office, there was
need of someone on the staff of the Sentinel, Clarence's paper,
to go and obtain an interview with the Japanese general. Clarence's
editor was at a loss. Finally he had an inspiration.
"Send young bone-head Chugwater," he said.
(It was thus that America's deliverer was spoken of at the
General Owoki's act at the Palace Theatre started every evening at
ten sharp. Clarence, having been detained by a review of the Boy
Scouts, arrived as the general was going on the stage, and waited in
the dressing room. Presently, a long-drawn chord from the invisible
orchestra announced the conclusion of the act, and the general
returned, obviously in high good humor.
"You went well?" enquired Clarence respectfully.
"I was honble riot," responded the general affably.
"You are so popular," said Clarence, "that it seems extraordinary
to me — and I think I may say that I speak for the whole of the
vaudeville public — that you should be receiving five hundred dollars
a week less than Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig."
Not all the traditions of the Samurai could prevent the general
from starting and uttering an exclamation.
"It is in this paper," said Clarence, producing the
"Let me read it to you. It is headed 'What the Encore Would
Like to Know,' and it runs as follows: 'Whether Prince Otto of
Saxe-Pfennig go particularly big at the Colonial last week? And
whether it is not a fact that, though they are press-agented at the
same figure, his Nibs of the Fatherland is not drawing down five
hundred cold iron men more than the Jap? And whether, seeing the way
he does, the Prince isn't worth twice that much more than the Japanese
A hoarse cry interrupted him.
"It says that?"
"I have read it verbatim. It strikes me as most unjust. Prince Otto
is not worth more than you, general."
"I believe that honble German boob wrote distinguished paragraph
"Very possibly. Professional jealousy is a sad thing. Though," went
on Clarence, "I believe the Prince is going very big. They
tell me that last night he took eleven calls."
General Owoki pulled himself together with a supreme effort.
"To-morrow night," he said between his teeth, "he will take more
than that. But they will be honble cat-calls!"
* * *
Accounts vary so much as to what exactly did take place at the
Colonial Theatre on the following night that it is hard to get at the
exact truth. All eye-witnesses, however, are agreed that, just as
Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig strode upon the stage and said 'Ladeez 'n
gemmen, with your kind indulgence —', there arose from every part of
the house such a storm of disapproval that he was unable to continue.
From floor to roof the building was packed with Japanese soldiers, and
shouts of 'Get off honble stage!' 'Procure distinguished hook!' and
the like rendered it impossible for the Prince to proceed. Finally the
stage-manager dropped the curtain, to the accompaniment of the
Japanese National Anthem, thunderously delivered.
It had been the custom of the two generals, since joining the
vaudeville profession, to proceed after their act to a neighboring
saloon, where they would stand talking about themselves and blocking
up the gangway, as etiquette demands that a successful artist shall.
The Prince, leaving the Colonial, after his disastrous fiasco, had no
doubt that he would find the man responsible for his downfall there.
He was right. The Japanese general was at the bar, chatting affably
to the bar-keeper. He nodded at the Prince with well-assumed
"Knock 'em to-night?" he enquired casually.
Prince Otto clenched his fists.
"Look here," he said, "did you or did you not send your soldiers to
give me the bird tonight? You did! I know you did! Well, I'll give you
and your precious soldiers one chance, — twenty-four hours from
midnight to leave this country. If you are still here then —"
General Owoki slowly drained his high-ball.
"Have you seen my professional advertisement in the
Mirror, Prince? It says 'Permanent Address, General Delivery,
Yonkers.' You get my distinguished meaning, Stephen?"
"You mean —"
"I mean that I see no occasion to alter that advertisement in any
way. I beg to wish you honble goodnight."
The great battle was over. I have not considered it necessary to
describe it, from the first shot to the final capitulation of the
practically annihilated Japanese, for that has been done more ably
than I can do it by Senator Beveridge, Richard Harding Davis, Corra
Harris, Mary Roberts Rinehart, Ernest Poole, Perceval Gibbon, Robert
Dunn, John Reed, Irvin Cobb, and every other able-bodied American
citizen with the price of a typewriter.
The German victory had not been gained bloodlessly. It was but a
shattered wreck of an army that remained after the final charge up the
wooden steeps of Yonkers.
* * *
Prince Otto of Saxe-Pfennig lay sleeping in his tent. He was worn
out. In addition to the strain of the battle, which had taken place in
perfectly beastly weather, there had been the heavy work of seeing the
interviewers, signing autograph-books for school-girls, sitting to
photographers, signing contracts for the moving-pictures, writing
testimonials for patent medicines and Tuxedo tobacco, and the thousand
and one tasks, burdensome but unavoidable, of the man who is in the
public eye. Also he had caught a bad cold during the battle. A bottle
of quinine was on the table beside him.
As he lay there, the flap of the tent was pulled softly aside. Two
figures entered. Each was dressed in the regulation costume of the Boy
Scout. One, however, wore tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles and a quiet
superiority which showed that he was the leader.
"Corporal Wagstaff," he said, "wake him."
The boy shook the sleeper's shoulder. The Prince sat up, blinking.
"What — what — what is the beadig of this?" he stammered. "I told
the sedtry particularly not to let anybody in. If you're frob sub
paper, call toborrow. I cadt see you."
The spectacled leader drew himself up.
"I am America," he said with a sublime gesture.
"Aberica? How do you bead you're Aberica?"
Clarence — for it was he — continued, with a frown.
"I say I am America. I am the Chief Scout, and the Boy Scouts are
America. Prince Otto, you thought our country lay prone and helpless.
You are wrong. The Boy Scouts were watching and waiting. And now their
time has come. Corporal Wagstaff, do your duty."
The Prince looked up. Two feet away, Corporal Wagstaff was
standing, with a toy sling in hand, ready to shoot.
"Well, what do you want?" he snarled.
"Resistance is useless," said Clarence. "The moment for which I
have plotted has arrived. Your troops, worn with fighting, are mere
shadows of their former selves. They have fallen an easy prey. An hour
ago your camp was silently surrounded by Boy Scouts. One rush and the
battle was over. Your entire army — like yourself — are prisoners.
"The diggids they are!" said the Prince blankly.
"America, my America!" cried Clarence, his face shining with a holy
patriotism. "America, thou art free! Let the nations learn from this
that it is when apparently crushed that America is to more than ever
"That's bad grabbar," said the Prince critically.
Clarence's eyes flashed fire.
"I don't want you getting fresh with me," he said. "Corporal
Wagstaff, remove your prisoner."
"All the sabe," said the Prince, "it is bad grabbar. It's a split
infinitive, and it's spoiled your big speech."
Clarence pointed silently to the door.
"Come on, can't you," said Corporal Wagstaff.
"I ab cubbing, aren't I? I was odly sayig —"
"I'll give you such a whack over the shin in a minute," said
Corporal Wagstaff warningly. "Come on!" The Prince went.
The brilliantly lighted auditorium of the Colonial Theatre.
Everywhere a murmur and a stir.
In the seats fair women and brave men converse in excited whispers.
One catches sentences here and there.
"Quite a boy, I believe!"
"I've heard he's getting $10,000 a week!"
"Why, that's more than either of those horrid generals ever got!"
"It's a lot of money. But then, of course, he did save our
The orchestra stops. The number 7 is displayed. A burst of
applause, swelling into a roar as the curtain rises.
A stout man in crinkled evening-dress walks on the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to present to you to-night
one whose name is, as the saying is, a household word. It was this
hero's genius and I may say — er — genius that, unaided, hit upon
the only way of removing the cruel conqueror from our beloved hearths
and homes. It was this hero who, having first permitted the invaders
to claw themselves into hash, after the well-known precedent of the
Kilkenny cats, thereupon firmly and without flinching stepped in with
his brave Boy Scouts and gave them what was coming to them. I have
only to add that this hero has been engaged exclusively by the
Colonial Palace of Varieties at a figure previously undreamed-of in
the annals of the vaudeville stage. I have little to add. This hero
will first perform a few physical exercises which have made the Boy
Scouts what they are. He will low like a bull. He will gurgle like a
wood-pigeon. He will spoor, tell the character by the sole of the
shoe, and fling the squaler. He will then give imitations of very real
living animals. In this connection I have to assure you that he has
nothing whatsoever in his mouth, as it has sometimes been suggested.
Before uttering the cries, he will gargle in full view of the
audience, thus rendering deception impossible. Ladies and gentlemen,
it only remains for me to introduce to you America's Darling Son, the
Nation's Hero, our champion and proudest possession, — Clarence
A moment's breathless suspense, a crash from the orchestra, and the
audience are standing on their seats, cheering, and shouting.
A small, sturdy, tortoise-shell-spectacled figure is on the stage.
It is Clarence, the Boy of Destiny.