The Military Invasion of America: A Remarkable Tale of The German-Japanese Invasion of 1916

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 Country.

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.

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 Chugwater.

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.