The war hadn't started yet.
Not officially. Not on paper.
But to anyone with a shred of strategic vision, it might as well have.
In Wellington, a light drizzle clung to the windows of the Prime Minister's residence, streaking the glass like tears on porcelain.
The skies were gray, not stormy, just heavy. Pressing. Watching.
Like the whole world was holding its breath.
Prime Minister Walter Nash poured a second glass of whisky.
The man seated across from him, Joseph Lyons, had accepted the first without protest, though he hadn't touched it yet.
The Australian Prime Minister was not a man easily rattled.
Not by domestic squabbles, nor union unrest, nor the endless friction between Canberra and London.
But today… today he seemed distracted.
Nash finally broke the silence.
"Canada's made their move," he said.
Lyons nodded once. "I read the wire before boarding the flight. Majority vote. No formal commitment to conflict, but they're in bed with Roosevelt now."
