Chapter 24: The Great War, Part 1
Note: The way I have it presently planned, we're looking at two, possibly three parts for the Great War.
1 March 1901, Vienna
Captain Winston Churchill found his promotion a decidedly mixed bag. Yes, the new rank meant more money and more authority. It also meant more responsibilities, and worst of all (for him), less combat. Churchill practically begged to be assigned to a front line unit, but Marshal Orsatti denied his requests. Staff grade officers were far too rare, and so he was attached to Vienna to continue his recruiting efforts. That job quickly morphed into training the tens of thousands of militiamen arriving in Vienna every day.
His problem had really begun when Czech forces mobilized a day after war was declared.
Marshal Orsatti and the General Staff had hoped to strike quickly at Prague and force a Czech peace. The Czechs had other ideas. That meant that the highly trained core of the legions would not be sufficient to win the war. Instead, for the first time in the Empire's history, the militia had to be called.
In theory, the militia was supposed to fit in smoothly with the legions. The militia would be staffed with regular officers and NCOs. However, with the huge reduction in the number of lieutenants the Orsatti reforms had imposed, there weren't enough legionaries to go around. The militia did get quality NCOs -- Churchill thought briefly of the enthusiastic Italian Mussolini, now a Sergeant -- but their officers tended to be notables from a given location, many of whom had no army experience. None of the militia units even had Generals! Alessandro Zupelli, the overall commander in Vienna, had done his best to attach militia units to experienced legions, but even that required so-called "PT promotions", or
pro tempore promotions. Churchill's promotion was permanent, but he knew of quite a few PT Generals, some of whom had been mere Commanders before the war started. The results of using such poorly trained troops in offensives were naturally poor, as the Battle of Brno demonstrated.
Despite relatively similar numbers, Antonio di Savoia's army took three times as many casualties as their Czech opponents. Yes, they "won", but at a staggering price. The Douglas rifles hadn't been fully distributed yet, so a lot of the militia were using much older Porcupines, which were much less reliable in battle. Admiral Alekseyev ordered more comprehensive training for future militiamen, but even at two weeks of training, they had a quarter the training a legionary got, and that was before specialist schools. The brutal truth was that what the Empire were warm bodies to plug holes, not finely crafted soldiers. Churchill had drafted a memo suggesting that the militiamen be eased into battle, but even the 149 brigades sitting in Vienna now (447,000 men, or almost 50% of the regular army!) were getting pushed as quickly as possible into battle.
The British Captain could only do his duty. One of the few perks of his job was getting to look at overall deployments in Europe.
There were three engagements ongoing, as of the day's latest information. Churchill suspected some of his troops would join the battle in southeastern Czechoslovakia.
He looked at the two foreign advisors, chatting as best they could. Gregory MacDonald was a Scottish Colonel, while Lieutenant Commander Pavlo Andreyevich Tkachuk represented Ukraine. Both countries had signed alliances with the Empire, but neither had shown any indication that they would join the war. For the time being, all they did was sit around in Vienna and try vainly to make themselves known in a city where English and Ukrainian were both relatively rare. At least Colonel MacDonald knew Latin; poor Lieutenant Commander Tkachuk was completely helpless.
Churchill shook his head in disgust, then decided he'd go inspect the new troops.
He wondered how long they'd last.
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25 March 1901, Prague, Czechoslovakia
Sergeant Benito Mussolini was one of the few men in his militia unit that had the new Douglas rifle. It did him almost no good in the streets of Prague, where increased range didn't matter. His corporal was a veteran of the legions, a drunken brawler named Schmidt. His privates were all green and barely less drunk than his corporal. That made life extra challenging. Almost unusually for the "Grand Army of the Empire", as General di Savoia styled his troops, his squad hadn't lost anybody at Brno. The subsequent battles, with both armies on the move, had been even less bloody for the Grand Army, but perversely more bloody for his squad. Three of his squad were kill by a Czech artillery shell when they refused to dig in during the battle around the outskirts of Prague.
The Czech capital didn't look like it was going to fall anytime soon, either. Mussolini and his squad had move house by house, clearing out Czech partisans. While the Roman militia's performance was decidedly uneven, the Czechs used their troops in places they knew well, with lots of lovely little hiding spots no Roman could even begin to conceive of. A few enterprising Czechs had even captured Roman machine guns and mounted them on the backs of wagons.
Mussolini checked his rifle's barrel, deciding it didn't need to be cleaned. That done, he kicked the dozing Schmidt in the ribs. "Wake up, you lout. There's a war going on!"
Corporal Schmidt growled, but not too ferociously. "Yes, Sergeant."
"Gather the men; the Lieutenant wants us on a recon patrol."
The Corporal saluted -- swaying a bit as he did so -- and went off to find the squad. When they all returned, Mussolini sent the Corporal and two men down the left side of the street, while he and his group took the right. This particular street wasn't very well occupied -- it was mostly industrial, with a factory that made women's dresses the largest building. A couple of Czech partisans took shots at Mussolini's squad, but they were poorly aimed. That prompted equally poorly aimed return fire from some of his more excitable privates. Mussolini glared at the Corporal, then quietly barked at his own men to conserve their ammunition.
All of a sudden, a Czech machine gun opened up. It had been concealed behind a pile of rubble to the northwest. In less than a minute, the Corporal and his men were cut down. Sergeant Mussolini took his four men and did the only thing he could do; he kicked down the door of the small haberdashery to his left. It was empty, but gave his men needed cover. One of his men looked askance at a pair of slacks laying on the floor; he obviously needed a new pair. Benito shook his head tersely. "Get used to it, kid. It'll only get worse."
As Sergeant Mussolini tried to think of a way out of the store and back to base, he silently cursed the idiot Lieutenant who ordered him to scout a "completely empty" street.
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19 May 1901, temporary office of the Marshal, Rome
Arturo Orsatti looked in the mirror. He'd aged over the years; not as badly as some of his colleagues, since he'd started so young, but he was no longer the rail thin giant that was stuck with carrying his squad's ammunition. He'd filled out a good bit, his hair was going grey, and he had to wear glasses to read. Aging was part of life, he supposed, but he couldn't help but think that some of his aging was artificial.
Leo IV wasn't the Emperor his father had been. That wasn't a criticism. They were just different people. Trajan had fought in the legions and, for the most part, let the legions do what they needed to do. Leo's education was very different. He'd studied philosophy, logic, history, and the natural sciences. He was undoubtedly brighter than his father, and had a voracious appetite for knowledge. What he didn't have was real world experience. He was captivated by the stories of his ancestor, of personal glory, and of the undeniable progress of the Empire and her people. Now, he was realizing that they were just stories. Nobody, not even St. Maso himself, had dealt with the casualty rates he had. If St. Maso lost a battle, a couple hundred men might not see their families. Now, even when the Roman Empire
won, thousands died.
To be a Lieutenant again, to worry about nine other men. That would be a dream come true!, mused the Marshal of the Empire. He shook his head. He had to worry about a lot more than nine men now. The hell of it was, Rome was winning. They'd never lost a battle to the Czechs. Sure, they'd lost a couple of
regiones to them in Africa, but in Europe, Rome was king, and Europe knew it. Even a failed attempt to bring the Americans in the war didn't depress him. Oh, the Yankees were willing to sign a defensive alliance, but the moment Leo IV had called upon them, they scattered to the wind and dissolved the alliance. That was fine. Japan, Russia, and Norway were good, reliable friends.
The Battle of Nitra was much like recent battles; about even casualties.
The Battle of Budejovice, now, that was an entirely different ball of wax.
One army of over 100,000 men had seemed ludicrous to Arturo Orsatti as a private. Now, both sides had them. Alessandro Zupelli did an admirable job, but the problem was, the offensive was losing a lot of its charm with untrained militia. Arturo had gone to the Emperor to request easier duties for the militia. (Although he'd publicly rejected Captain Churchill's request, Arturo privately endorsed it before doing so, hoping that good sense would prevail. It didn't.) One order that did go well were explicit instructions to keep the artillery farther back. 20% casualties was simply unacceptable, especially when the Douglas rifles, now fully distributed to all Roman soldiers, gave a sizable edge in range and accuracy.
Arturo Orsatti also had a new problem. The carnage at Budejovice had prompted angry articles in the
Roman Red Star and
Vox Populi. In a moment of misguided weakness, Emperor Leo had authorized VP's publication. It was no longer an underground paper. The circulation was still small -- Gabriele di Farnese estimated it at 5,000 -- but in Britannia, it was already starting to have an impact. War was becoming a matter of public relations, something the Marshal loathed. The public wanted easy victories with no casualties, but modern warfare simply couldn't handle either of those conditions. Every victory was a slog. His reforms were paying some dividends, as Sergeants ably led their squads, giving Lieutenants more time to focus on vision. In fact, a study he'd commissioned suggested that casualties could have easily doubled without skilled NCOs in the militia units. Even the
Vigiles had to fight now.
Thinking of the
Vigiles made Arturo smile for a moment. Hakan Polat was tried and executed before the war began. His execution had a surprising effect; instead of replacing him in the Society of Cincinnatus, the Society actually shot and killed the man "Mehmet" had given up -- "Lazaro." Hector de la Farnese was never more than a figurehead, a puppet the Society had intended to place on the throne to run their "dictatorship of the proletariat." He was only very distantly related to the former King of Castille and Emperor of Rome. He was actually a peasant farmer and nearly illiterate, qualities which the Society had thought made him pliable. He was also expendable for those same reasons.
Femina, "Roger", and "Giancarlo" remained at large, now reconfiguring themselves into the Triumvirate. All talk of the Society of Cincinnatus vanished. None of the triumvirs had written so much as a letter since the Great War began.
After allowing himself that moment of pleasure, he returned to the task at hand, as the Marshal spread out a map of North Africa on his table.
He hadn't named an overall commander in Africa yet. Silvio Dezza was the most senior General, but only commanded cavalry. The remaining Generals, all of roughly equivalent rank and seniority, squabbled over the credit. To make matters worse, the vast distances involved in the fighting would make communication nearly impossible even under the best of circumstances. To delay the question, Arturo had given each unit explicit instructions, objectives, and got out of their way. The entire push into Africa was political anyway, in the hopes that fighting against less sophisticated Zanzibarans would reduce casualties.
Arturo shrugged. Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn't. To the Marshal, the war would have to be won in Europe.
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27 June 1901, Prague, Czechoslovakia
Sergeant Mussolini beamed with pride as he held the flag of the Roman Empire. The Czechs still fought -- fought like the devil, in fact -- but with no capital, they would surely surrender soon.
Nobody knew, at the time, that the relatively minor battle at Bor would help shape the fall of the Czech capital.
The victory at Bor was tactically insignificant. Yes, the Czechs gave ground, but the casualties had been horrendous. The unit's General had been killed -- a PT General named Ludendorff -- in combat, and so had a handful of PT Colonels. Rome won because it had more soldiers; it was as simple as that. So why had it become such a big deal in the Great War?
A completely unexpected Czech prisoner was taken during the battle: the son of the Czech President. The son wasn't even a soldier; he'd been visiting a girlfriend in the area when the war started and he'd never left. Gabriele di Farnese, knowing how much the President would want to save his only son, planted false documents that he intended to bring the son to Constantinople, prompting a Czech offensive in the eastern part of Czechoslovakia, completely ignoring Prague. Even the
Agricolares quieted down when this news was followed by a brilliant victory in Africa.
The propaganda victory won by Leo IV was so great that even the Chilean seizure of Brisbane went unnoticed. The Emperor demanded nothing less than a Czech
regio in exchange for the President's son.
While all of this went on, a certain innocuous factory on the island of St. Helena could continue its deadly work with no attention from reporters. Sergeant Mussolini knew that a weapon was being developed that could win the war in a heartbeat; he knew because he was in charge of hand-picking the guards for the new facility.
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27 July 1901, Office of the Chancellor, Rome
Robert Cecil might have been the only man in the Empire who feared a successful conclusion to the war. He was a Roman patriot of the first order, yet knew that his administration had been blamed for the war's casualties, and in particular, the dreaded "war tax."
Even promulgating this bill on the same day as the Day of Three Victories made no difference; the papers howled at him.
He wished that Lucius Tullius Cicero had never shown him the numbers, but even with the massive currency reserves of the Empire, he could not afford to lose over £11,000 a day. He'd done everything he could to make the tax palatable; stressing the temporary nature, showing that he'd increased the taxes of the rich too. He emphasized that victory wasn't cheap, that the legions needed more than £20,000 a day. It wasn't enough. His own faction had threatened to initiate a vote of no confidence. His own faction! Meanwhile, Cecil Rhodes, who'd started the war, was getting rich, both politically and literally as the owner of several key defense industries. It wasn't war profiteering -- not by a long shot, as Cecil Rhodes was every bit the patriot that Robert Cecil was himself -- but it helped him nonetheless. Cecil Rhodes even sold the equipment at a discount and made huge profits. Some of that undoubtedly went into the National Liberals' coffers.
Robert Cecil briefly considered resigning. That would stick Iosif Stavros with the bag. The problem was that Stavros had opposed the war from the beginning, and threatened to force a peace, even if it meant surrender to Zanzibar. Legally, only the Emperor could make peace with a foreign power, but Stavros had a lot of influence, and Leo IV had shown himself a little vulnerable to public pressure. The leader of the
Agricolares would use it in a heartbeat. That might be good for Cecil and the
Pecuniares, but bad for the Empire.
He shook his head sadly. Unless he won the war, and soon, he'd probably either be kicked out as leader of the
Pecuniares or lose the election of 1903. There wasn't anything else for it. The Chancellor could only pray that history would be a kind judge, and understand why he'd imposed the tax.
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24 August 1901, Imperial Palace, Rome
Leo IV was sweating. It was August in Rome, so that was no huge surprise, but that wasn't his concern. No, he had much bigger problems than the weather.
The Battle of Tindouf was another Pyrrhic victory, but at least it was a victory. VP and the
Red Star had given him grief over it, but the Roman people were reconciled to the sacrifices the war demanded.
The Battles of Toowomba and Shingit, on the other hand, were bloodbaths
and miserable failures. Nobody had expected Chile or Zanzibar to be so aggressive. They were wrong.
The outrage was overwhelming. Iosif Stavros called for a vote of no confidence for Chancellor Cecil minutes after news of Shingit came. He won... by ten votes. Even the
Roman Times, a conservative newspaper, started calling for the resignations of "the two Cecils" -- the Chancellor and Cecil Rhodes. The Orsatti reforms were a popular target, too. Nobody questioned the Marshal's integrity, for that was unassailable. Instead, they fixated on "inadequate advisors" leading him in the wrong direction. The Emperor had to do something to deflect the attention of the press, and so he blamed a scapegoat: Admiral Nikolai Alekseyev. The Admiral was extremely popular, so the Emperor handled it carefully, suggesting that Nikolai's wounded leg "necessitated" the return of the Admiral to a less "stressful" post. Alekseyev was named to the presidency of the De Ruyter Naval College and given the rank of Admiral of the Empire, with command over every ship in the Empire. Admiral of the Empire and Marshal were supposed to be equivalent ranks, and in terms of pay and status, they were. No matter what the law said, however, nobody considered the fleet as important as the legions, and essentially getting fired as Chief of the General Staff would keep him from becoming Marshal. Leo IV named Douglas O'Connor the replacement, knowing how popular he still was for his expedition to the North Pole and his close relationship to Prince Gabriele.
His move, as agonizing as it had been, worked, after a fashion. The
Roman Times was happy with its pound of flesh. Alekseyev was dignified in defeat, accepting responsibility for things which weren't his fault with the grace and aplomb his position demanded. Marshal Orsatti personally wrote a glowing editorial in the
Times, minimizing the impact on the fleet's morale. The Emperor bought himself a few more weeks of domestic tranquility, which he desperately needed.
Would it be enough?
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8 September 1901, Prague
Sergeant Benito Mussolini was daydreaming at his desk. If the Great War had "made" anybody's career thus far, it was the Italian Sergeant's. He cut a handsome figure, was a genuine hero, and had no problems with speaking to the press. It was his article in the
Roman Times that most analysts agreed had gotten Admiral Alekseyev fired. Sergeant Mussolini had the utmost respect for Marshal Orsatti, but if some wimpy sailor got cut off at the knees, that was fine with the Sergeant.
What have they done in this war anyhow? Mussolini's reward was the post of Sergeant of the Guard of Prague, a high honor if there ever was one.
Yet Mussolini couldn't help but think that some people in the legions were angry with him. On a day's leave in Vienna, he'd tried to chat with Captain Churchill, but the man who recruited him simply glared and turned away. That bothered Mussolini; he respected Churchill's opinion. A lot of officers did, which could prove deleterious to his continued advancement in the legions. The official reason he'd been turned down for his application to the Germanicus Academy was sensible enough -- they couldn't afford to take him out of the line of duty until after the war -- but he did wonder.
I'm going to do something about it!, Mussolini resolved, and he went off to speak with Captain Michel Giscard, his superior. The Parisian was connected, both military and politically, to several politicians in Paris and throughout Gaul. His father, Etienne Giscard, was the Senator from Paris, and a
Militares.
He knocked on the Captain's door, awaiting permission to enter, which he received. "Captain Giscard, may I speak with you?"
The Captain returned the Sergeant's salute. "But of course, Sergeant. How can I help you?"
Benito blurted out his frustration. "Sir, I think Captain Churchill and other officers hate me for that article in the paper. All I did was defend the Marshal! Who cares if some silly squid got fired? Heck, they even gave him a promotion!"
Giscard laughed. "You may use stronger language, if you find it appropriate,
mon ami. I have heard the words before, believe me." Mussolini blushed but said nothing. "Have you read the article?"
"Yes, sir."
The Captain nodded. Then he went over to his file cabinet and withdrew the article in question. "Let's have a look, shall we?" As he scanned the article, all of a sudden, his eyes went wide. "
Mon dieu! You can't have been this stupid, could you?"
Mussolini started to flush with anger. "What, sir? What are you all so furious about?" The Captain wordlessly drew a line under one sentence.
The Roman Times said:
Mussolini, a Sergeant, was in charge of security for the new chemical weapons plant at St. Helena.
The blood completely drained from Benito's face as he finally realized what had happened. The Captain laughed again, but entirely without humor. "You begin to see, yes?"
"I never said any of that, sir! On my honor as a Roman!"
"Are you certain?"
Benito thought over his conversation with the reporter, and swore again, much more colorfully. "That sniveling little bastard! Sir, I request permission to hunt him down and strangle him. I told him that in confidence!"
Instead of the Captain shrugging it off, he grew much, much colder. "You intentionally revealed our most secret plans... to a reporter? Are you mad, Sergeant?" Benito saw his glorious career vanish like a puff of smoke at that exact moment. He'd stupidly tried to convince the reporter of how important he was so he'd listen, and now he would pay the price. Things even got worse as the Captain continued. "I have no choice but to see you court-martialed. Your quest for glory has cost our army a secret we cannot afford to share with anybody. You are hereby relieved of your post and rank pending the trial. I am placing you under arrest. May God have mercy on your soul."
Benito Mussolini came rigidly to attention, saluted, and walked off with two sentries from the Captain's own staff. As he walked away, he heard his men cheering. "The Czechs have surrendered! The Czechs have surrendered!"
All Mussolini could do was glare.
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When I looked over the screenshots for this update, I kept thinking, "How could I have been so stupid?" It honestly should have been a lot easier than it was, but I stupidly threw the militia right into battle instead of letting them build up for a bit. You'll notice I also completely failed to encircle any armies, despite having ample manpower. When you're in the heat of action, it's hard to think sometimes.