World War I, Part IV
23rd November, 1914
11.38 AM
Just a day had passed since his capture by African Union forces, and now it was the calm before the storm; with casualties suffered numbering in the hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, the Entente and African Union entered an uneasy, unofficial truce, the bloodshed temporarily ceased for the duration of the month.
In Europe, the war continued to rage on, with no end in sight – a stark contrast to predictions that the war would end by Christmas. The Central Powers and Entente had entered a stalemate, however, with no noticeable progress gained by either side, and analysts remained unsure when the war would actually end.
In Africa, Entente troops remained outright leery of their African enemies, who had, time after time, delivered crushing defeats to their European colonial masters – despite avenging a number of such defeats, their ideals of White superiority and Black inferiority still adamantly entrenched in their minds. The Africans were just as mistrustful of the Europeans, staring daggers at them where possible from the safety of their muddy trenches.
Malcolm had the luxury of staying in the relative safety of the fortified and hygienic of the hospital in the city of Niamey – the site of an earlier pitched battle between the AU and Entente, half rebuilt by the efforts of its inhabitants and the garrison stationed here. He idly scratched the bandage on his temple, thinking heavily on his recent fortunes.
He was technically a prisoner, yes, but the surprisingly clean conditions and hospitality he enjoyed – compared to the hell he called a British barracks – made him think twice about the living conditions the Africans had. Granted, it did not extend to every
single corner, but clearly, Ethiopia and Ashanteria were not the backwater nations that he, admittedly, thought them to be – just like his British counterparts.
The fact the Africans gave such humane treatment to his fellow POWs - British from the different provinces of Britain, was a testament to just how far they progressed as a society; most believed they subjected their prisoners to inhumane and unsanitary conditions that would prove their death.
An African nurse tending to British and French POWs in a hospital, one of many being built in the newly-liberated African territories.
A lack of accurate and unbiased material – or at least, as unbiased as possible – on the virtues of the two African monarchies contributed to his ignorance regarding their peoples’ ways of life.
Guess I was right to not underestimate them, Thought Malcolm,
Wonder what about the Battleaxe Division? Did they escape? I daresay they did; Captain and Lieutenant’s got good heads on their shoulders. Don’t think they’d die so easily.
With a heavy sigh, he took a sip of the local tea – a blended drink of spices, not a true tea – and indulged in the heaty sensation it imparted on his tongue and throat. Most people in Europe would prefer drinking something cold in such hot weather, so to hear that they drank spiced tea came as quite a surprise to him.
“Enjoying your stay?” He heard a familiar voice ask.
Malcolm turned to face Sofia, the stern-faced nurse holding a tray of food as she walked into the ward he stayed at, other nurses following behind her with the same contents on their trays, some bearing additional medical prescriptions for some patients.
“It was far better than the British barracks I stayed at,” Said Malcolm, “There, the friendly British treated me like shit, an outcast. Here, at least my stay’s more comfy and homely, even though it’s like my de facto gilded cage.”
“I see,” Said Sofia, setting down the tray at the small table he sat at, “Your lunch; Injera Be Wot.”
Looking at his tray, he found a pile of assorted lentils, shredded meat and other saucy dishes, all piled on a layer of plain-looking greyish flatbread, no silverware served with it. A rather simplistic looking, perhaps plebeian dish, but he could not deny that his stomach was rumbling. Unsure of what to do, he cautiously looked around and saw the African patients eating with their hands, or more specifically their right hand.
None he saw ate with their left hand, and he wondered why. Was it a cultural taboo to eat with the left hand here?
Looking at Sofia, he reached slowly with his left hand, watching her reaction, which quickly proved to be one of displeasure. At this, he withdrew his left hand, reaching with his right hand, only to stop, unsure of the eating customs.
At Malcolm’s confusion, Sofia said, “Peel of a piece of the flatbread and scoop a little bit of a dish with it, then pop it into your mouth.”
The Irishman did as Sofia asked, and when he ate his first bite of Ethiopian food, he was pleasantly surprised at how delicious it tasted.
“Enjoy it?” Asked Sofia, to which Malcolm nodded.
Swallowing, he said, “Far tastier than some of the Irish fare I had at home. Notice you don’t really like eating with the left hand, though.”
“That’s because according to our custom, it’s considered unclean to eat with the left hand,” Said Sofia, “We prefer eating with our right hand.”
“Duly noted,” Said Malcolm, “And damn, never thought African food would taste good.”
At this, Sofia allowed herself a small smile, then took a seat and sat next to him, taking out a clipboard and scribbling down some notes. Idly, she found herself staring at Malcolm more than she thought, and the clipboard proved an inadequate distraction.
Noticing the stares, Malcolm asked, “You never seen a man eat before?”
Stoically, she said, “I have.”
“Well, you seem to be paying me a lot more attention,” Malcolm pointed out.
Sofia said, “Consider it a little… curiosity; I’ve never seen an actual Irishman before, only British.”
“Ah, right. You know Ireland’s been a part of Britain for a long time, now?” Said Malcolm.
Sofia nodded, saying, “Only that it’s been under British control for centuries now.”
Malcolm grunted in disgust, saying, “Damn British have treated my own people as slaves and my home as its property. They don’t give us the rights we deserve, and they’ve been trying for years to erase our native culture and language, our historical identity, since they first conquered the isle.”
“So you chafe under British rule, like many Africans,” Said Sofia, “We’re not so different, in that regard.”
“Aye, though the difference was that they held their African territories for far shorter than they held Ireland,” Malcolm said, “Heard they never did so much as to ‘civilise’ the ‘savage barbarians’, despite their claims.”
“They never did impart their knowledge and crafts,” Sofia said, “Didn’t think it was worth their time and effort.”
“What about the tribes conquered by Ethiopia or Ashanteria, though?” Asked Malcolm, “What did they do with them?”
“Assimilated them and directly imposed our culture and language,” Said Sofia, “Though they went the extra mile to educate them and teach them our crafts and technology.”
“Erasing their original culture and language,” Muttered Malcolm, “Well, I suppose in comparison, the indigenous natives didn’t have a real culture in comparison to the Europeans, or even the Asians, I think. That doesn't mean I'm supportive of imposing culture, though.”
“Most were cannibalistic, hunter-gatherer societies with no knowledge on agriculture, architectures, basically the basic tenets of a civilised society,” Said Sofia, “Initially, they did resist all efforts at civilization, but the younger generation eventually did began adopting our customs and knowledge. Older generation stubbornly refuses though, along with some other tribes.”
“So not exactly a smooth assimilation process,” Malcolm surmised.
Sofia shook her head, saying, “We only held our new territories for a century at most, some for shorter periods. It’s not something you can do overnight.”
“But you’re making sure you don’t treat them as slaves, right?” Asked Malcolm.
“I don’t know the specifics, Malcolm; I’m just a nurse, not a government official,” Said Sofia, “Though our government has implemented friendly policies aimed at giving them better treatment and full citizenship rights, so long as requirements are fulfilled, of course.”
“Huh. Wonder if any corrupt officials're abusing their position, though,” Muttered Malcolm.
“Like I said, it’s not that clandestine,” Said Sofia, “But I suppose treatment of them is better than what you Irish suffer, if your word’s anything to go by.”
Looking up at a nearby clock, Sofia said, “Oh, look at the time. Sorry, but I have to go. Duty calls.”
And as she hastily went out of the hospital ward, Malcolm wiped his mouth with a napkin graciously provided by the hospital, and sighed heavily.
She’s real pretty for a nurse, and an African, Thought Malcolm,
Wonder how much longer I’ll be here for, though; no telling what the future has in store for me.
IIOII
10.30 PM
“…God damn it, why the hell can’t you see this isn’t going to work!? We lost almost half the expeditionary force sent here, and the war in Europe’s ground to a bloody stalemate! Why don’t we just abandon the damn continent and let the Africans have what they want!?”
“We just can’t leave Africa to these… inferior Blacks! I say we deploy more troops, let these Africans see the might of European steel!”
“And our damn European steel’s proved unable to win us the war in Africa! Captain Bergelson’s right, we should focus on the war in Europe! Let the Africans have the damn continent if they want, if the Central Powers win the war in Europe, we lose the damn war!”
“And you would leave the ignominious defeats we suffered go unanswered!? My fellow Frenchmen died at the hands of these inferior blacks, and I’ll be damned if we let the matter slide!”
“Our fellow Frenchmen died in a
pointless war! I say we pull out!”
The argument between French and British High Command raged well into the night, and they were divided between two sides; one side wanted to pull out of Africa entirely, while the other, for the sake of national pride, wished to stay and fight on.
Captain Bergelson and Lieutenant Andrew were firmly on the former side, whilst many traditional white supremacists and bureaucratic excuses of officers were on the opposing one, eager to preserve their damaged prestige and image and repair it through attaining more glorious victories – a notion that many bloodied recruits and veteran officers vehemently disagreed with.
No headway was made by either side, and it seemed they would remain at an impasse, what with the two factions stubbornly adamant in the fulfilment of their agendas, but neither side could deny that with the war cooling in Africa, there was greater need to defend their home territories rather than distant colonies.
With the German Empire and Austria-Hungary gaining victory after victory and the Ottomans making a surprising resurgence in the recent war, those troops in Africa would better serve defending the home front in Europe instead, and an increasing number of officers, both lower and higher-ranking ones, began clamouring for such a move to be initiated.
“Ah, blast it! This meeting’s adjourned! We’ll discuss this tomorrow!”
And with the doors flinging open, a red-faced Captain Bergelson stormed out of the meeting room, Lieutenant Baker following close behind, equally angered by the fruitless meeting.
Once a safe distance from the ears of High Command, Bergelson punched the nearby wall, uncaring of who could hear him nearby as he cursed all manner of profanities.
“Damn it!” He roared, “Why can’t they see this war’s doomed from the start!? We can’t beat the Africans on their home turf, and the war in Europe is what demands our immediate attention! Why!? Why, damn it!”
“Believe me, Sir, I want to get out of here as well,” Said Lieutenant Baker, “But you saw the state of High Command; they’re terribly undecided, no thanks to the bloody idiotic bureaucrats of officers, and unless someone forces them to make the decision, we’re essentially stuck here.”
“I know that, Lieutenant,” Said Bergelson, having calmed slightly, “I just wish it’d come sooner.”
“You and me both,” Said Baker, “Speaking of which, I don’t see Malcolm with us.”
“The boy’s survived, I last saw him alive before we retreated,” Said Bergelson, “Poor chap’s probably been taken prisoner, though.”
Baker sighed heavily, then took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one to his Captain, who accepted it and his help with lighting the cancer stick. Lighting one for himself, Baker then inhaled a long, deep puff of smoke, then slowly exhaled, relishing the comforting feel it imparted down his lungs.
Looking up at the sky, Baker saw the full moon overhead and the blanket of countless stars twinkling in the night sky, and he gazed wistfully at the sky itself, a sense of longing in his heart.
“You know… like most other people, I once thought there’d be a quick end to the war,” Baker said, “That I’d be home for Christmas, greeting my lovely wife, my caring parents, raising our twin children as we tended to the family farm.”
Baker gave a mirthless chuckle as Bergelson listened on.
“Like most others, we never expected the war to be so bloody and gruelling, so time-consuming. We never expected to lose so many fellow brothers to bullets, steel or worse, and never the hell we faced when fighting these Africans.”
“Almost none of us did, even with past records saying so,” Said Bergelson, “You miss your wife?”
Baker’s mirthless smile fell, and in that moment he never looked more solemn and regretful than he ever did.
“I want to go back, Captain,” Said Baker, “I want to return home and hold my baby children in my arms, kiss my wife, celebrate the good and bad with them and get away from all this. I… I know our duty as soldiers doesn’t end so soon, and not so simply, but…”
“I know, Baker,” Said Bergelson, “Believe me, I want to go back and help my daughter raise my grandkids, give them a good upbringing.”
“Then we’ll just have to survive the war, don’t we?” Said Baker.
At this, a smile of hope crossed the Captain’s lips, and he said, “Let’s hope to that.”
IIOII
24th November, 1914
2.14 PM
Dolmabahçe Palace, seat of power of the Ottoman Sultan and house of the Osman Dynasty’s scions since the reign of Abdülmecid I. Bearing the contemporary style, luxury, and comfort, equal to that of modern European palaces, it was a residence fit for Kings and Emperors, the marble architecture a testament to the talent of the Ottoman Court Architects, the façade an adequate representation of the Sultan’s power.
Yet hard times had fallen on the Ottoman Empire, and degradingly called the Sick Man of Europe, it had failed to pull itself out of its sickness despite its latest attempts to modernise, and for many, this represented many things; to the Ottomans, the impending doom of their empire. To their enemies, a chance to defeat a centuries-old foe, and divide its assets for their taking.
The current Sultan, Mehmed V, was a man genuinely motivated to modernise the ailing Empire, not just for the sake of revanchism, but to ensure it was not easy pickings for the Western powers, who no doubt eyed their oil reserve hungrily like hyenas; they would want the Middle East divided between warring states, easy pickings for their military might as they coerced Middle Eastern governments into trade terms more favourable for them than the Middle East, and the region would be plagued by open warfare for decades to come. To ensure that never happened, a regional power must dominate the Middle East, and it shall be the Ottoman Empire; not the Persians, not the Arabs, and most certainly not the Western powers or the Russian Bear.
Such were the thoughts of one Akoren Erkan, a government official of the Imperial Court, one of the pro-reformists clamouring for change in the Empire. A young man of humble origins, he earned his degree in law after attending and graduating from a prestigious university, he went to pursue a career in politics, focusing primarily in civil administration, believing the current bureaucracy in dire need of reformation.
As he shifted through the latest pile of paperwork currently on his desk, he heard knocking on his door, and he called out, “Who is it?”
“An old friend and student, Akoren,” Asked a youthful voice, “Might I come in?”
“O-Of course! Please, come in, Your Highness.”
The door opened to reveal a young man, nearing his twenties, dressed in military garb with badges of honour pinned on his breast. On his hip was a ceremonial sabre, his hand not resting naturally on it.
A man of striking looks and confidence, Osman Fuad held grand ambitions of honouring the legacy of the dynasty of Osman, serving the Empire in his best possible capacity by leading its military against its enemies, whether it be rebels or foreign invaders.
Osman Fuad Effendi, of the Imperial dynasty of Osman.
And damn, he looked like a real military general in his uniform, despite having not served on the battlefield.
“I do hope I’m not disturbing you,” Said Osman, “I came in to check on you, see how you were doing.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Your Highness,” Said Akoren reassuringly, “I’m used to dealing with this kind of paperwork, and I’ve just gotten through half of today’s workload.”
Osman let out a small chuckle at that, saying, “Always the hardworking man, aren’t you? Unfazed by the demons of paperwork.”
Akoren allowed himself a small smile, saying, “It’s really second nature to me, nowadays. It was a lot harder back then, though. But anyways, is there anything else to discuss?”
At this, Osman’s smile fell, and adopting a more serious tone, he said, “Uncle… I’m planning to serve in Tripolitania, leading the Imperial Armies against the Italians.”
Akoren looked at Osman in shock, and he asked, “Are you sure? You do know you haven’t recovered from your head injury, yes?”
Osman reached to touch a small bandage around his head, absentmindedly gliding his fingers along the white linen.
“I know, Uncle. I know,” Said Osman, “But I still want to do my part for the Empire, and you know I’ve always wanted to serve in the military.”
Akoren let out a heavy sigh, and said, “We don’t know if your injury may act up again, and if you’ll be as lucky as last time, when your submarine was torpedoed; thank Allah you were swiftly operated on and evacuated to safety, but you might not be so lucky again.”
It was Osman’s turn to sigh, knowing that his Uncle-in-all-but-blood worried for his safety like a caring father would. He saw Akoren rest on his chair with a posture reflecting his uneasiness, and with knowing eyes, he heard Akoren ask, “I believe you’ve made your decision?”
Osman nodded, saying, “Yes, Uncle. I have.”
Akoren let out a deep exhale, and standing up, he went towards Osman, slowly inching towards him until he was within arm’s reach. Placing his hands on Osman’s shoulders, he levelled his eyes with Osman’s, and he said, “Come back safe, you hear me?”
The message was short, simple and to-the-point, and Osman replied, “I will, Uncle.”
A/N: In case any of you are wondering, Osman Fuad really did suffer a head injury when departing from Germany to the Ottoman Empire, back when the First World War broke out.
