Ottoman Empire
In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the all-Merciful, I tell my tale. For there is no God but Allah, and Mohammad is His Prophet.
Know, then, that this is a tale of Istanbul, the Sublime Porte, the Jewel of the Caliphate; and that this was in the time of Abd-ul-Mejid, King of Kings, Prince of the Faithful...
(OOC note : The Austrian war in the previous post never occurred, as our Prussian temp disappeared from the face of the Earth and we reloaded to before he had DOWed Russia. The war in this post is a different affair, to do with an expired alliance with Russia, an optimistic AI, and badboy from annexing Egypt and half of Persia.)
12 Sha`baan, 1267.
(June 12th, 1851)
The holy city of Qom.
Hassan frowned in puzzlement. "I don't understand. Are we at war with the Russians, or not?"
The political officer smirked blandly. "We are most assuredly at war; have they not invaded our loyal vassal-allies? Have we not received their note calling on us to surrender our arms and submit to their sovereignty?"
"So then, why are we not fighting? It would take them a year to drive my troops from these mountains; the rebels would fight alongside us - they have no love for the infidels. Austria is already in the war, and surely Britain will not permit Russian dominance of the Balkans?"
"Well, how are you going to defend if the Russians refuse to attack? They have not crossed our borders."
Hassan stared. "That makes no sense!"
"Ours not to reason why, Çorbacý."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
27 Ramadan, 1268
(July 15th, 1852)
The Topkapi Palace, Istanbul.
The riots had been put down, but the stench of smoke still hung over the city. The grey pallor matched the sullen mood of the crowd perfectly. Abd-ul-Medjid turned from the view of the Sublime Porte as the last of his advisors came in.
"Good evening, Gregoriy. How is the mood of the mob?"
The dapper Russian smiled. "Restive, my Lord, as you wanted them. As a test, I had one of my agents speak against the reforms. He was lucky to escape unlynched."
"Excellent! Two provinces is a small price to pay for the support of the mob in this. Now let the mullahs speak against modernisation!"
"As you say, my lord."
"Now, David. The new factories?"
"Building as we speak, o Sultan. I have brought a sample of their products for you to see."
The Sultan looked dubiously at the rough shirts and trousers laid out for his inspection. "This is the best we can do?"
"This is the most the people can afford! Trust me in this, o Sultan. Your population dresses like this every day; now they can buy their clothes from your factories, not those owned by England."
"I suppose... Very well. Perhaps I should give my hareem some of these clothes, eh? Set an example, as it were."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
27 Safar, 1276
(September 25th, 1859)
Shkoder, near the Austrian border.
Mud.
The trench, a hastily dug scar on the landscape, was losing its definition in the rain. The rich black earth was turning to mud that sucked at men's boots and spirits. It was the third such that Hassan's men had defended in the past two days, and he doubted they could hang on to it much past the next morning. though at least the Austrians had given up attacking for today. And in this cold, the corpses wouldn't start stinking for a while.
Count your blessings, Hassan thought mordantly.
"How can they keep coming like this?"
Hassan looked sourly at the baby-faced Mülazým. Had he been so young in Tunisia? Surely not.
"Discipline, Evhad, discipline and hatred. These are Serbs and Croats, you'll note, not Germans. The Austrians have no doubt promised them a homeland carved from our domains. Besides, there's nothing these hill bandits like better than carving an extra smile in the throat of a Turk."
"They haven't got much carving done today."
"Well, no. But we'll be retreating in the morning. Again."
"In this mud?"
"You prefer rotting in it? Anyway, the Croats don't like it any better than we do."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
2 Raby'al-awal, 1276
(September 29th, 1859)
Shkoder, near the Austrian border.
Bloody mud.
Hassan stared for a moment at the spreading patch of blood coming from what had, seconds earlier, been the head of a promising young officer; but only for a moment. He had seen friends die before, and there was nothing to be done for Evhad now. And the shot had come from the left, which meant - he squinted, wishing the Sultan could afford binoculars for regimental officers - yes, the Austrians had broken through. They would have to retreat again. That made the third time today. At least they were getting practiced; the evolution was smooth and efficient, in spite of the mud adding ten kilos to every soldier's uniform.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
5 Raby'al-awal, 1276
(October 1st, 1859)
The Topkapi Palace, Istanbul.
"But the line is holding at Novi Pazar, you say?"
"Yes, my Lord. And the Montenegrins have surrendered, so there's no further danger of attack from that quarter."
"Hah. No further danger from the Prince-Bishop's army, all one thousand men of it? Truly you reassure me, Avranos!"
"And also no danger of the Austrians outflanking our two defensive lines."
"True... what can they have been thinking? Getting the Prince-Bishop to attack us is one thing, but where was the army to exploit that coup?"
"They did force us to move the Army of the Upper Danube from Shkoder to deal with the possibility. Which brings us back to the main problem. Excellency, we are being driven back."
"You promised me, before the war, that our defenses in Shkoder were strong enough to deal with anything."
"Yes, Excellency. I was wrong. The Austrians attack like madmen; they sacrifice hundreds of soldiers for a single trench and half a kilometer's advance!"
"Hmm. Is their advance too costly to be maintained, then?"
"Yes, Excellency. We estimate that, at the current rate of losses, their reserves will carry them just past Istanbul. By that time, the Army of the Upper Danube and the Army of Bulgaria will each have five men left."
"Well then, what are you going to do about it?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
5 Raby'al-awal, 1276
(December 9th, 1859)
Pristina, Albania.
The guns had been building to a crescendo all morning; now they were joined by the rapid rattle of small-arms fire. For a moment, Hassan thought longingly of the Egyptian War, when his men had stood in bright-uniformed lines to fire volleys on the word of command. Now they hid among trees like skulking bandits; the only colour on their uniforms was the rust-brown of bloodstains.
Still, filth, lice, and all, there were no men in the world he would rather have at his back in a fight. The Austrians were advancing up the tree-covered slope in open order, stopping occasionally to fire. There was nothing for an officer to do; the order to fire had been given, and his men were reloading and shooting as fast as they could under the profane encouragement of their sergeants. The Austrian attack would be stopped, or not, and no order of Hassan's could affect the outcome. That gave him a moment of leisure to inspect the oncoming enemy.
Their white uniforms, he was pleased to see, were just as mud-smeared as his own soldiers' red-and-blue. Better still, they were not advancing with the single-minded intensity of the first days of the war. To be sure, they had learned better than linking arms and going forward in a single mass, singing. But even in open order, they seemed just a little unenthusiastic, a little reluctant to charge into the galling fire of his men. Not broken, by any means, but no longer eager to die with their hands on a Turkish throat.
That was well. Hassan had attended the divisional briefing this morning along with the other brigade officers - promotion was rapid, in this war. The situation looked grim. The Austrians were stretching the Turkish line ever thinner; if they could break into the Macedonian plains, where the defense was less of an advantage, the war might well be lost. Even driving the Army of the Upper Danube north to the Serbian border would be a disaster, cutting the Army of Arabia defending Novi Pazar off from resupply.
The Austrians were coming close; Hassan prepared himself to retreat rapidly. Hand-to-hand combat was really no place for a senior officer, even if he did feel a sentimental tie to his old regiment. Then two field guns opened up from the concealment of some bushes; even Hassan hadn't seen them, and they were a total surprise to the Austrians. He would have to have a word with Mustafa; the regiment wasn't supposed to have any guns. And how on Earth had he scrounged them in the single week he'd been in command? A man to watch, clearly.
However they'd been acquired, the guns were deadly; the Austrian advance was stopped in its tracks over the central third of the regiment's front. The Turks whooped, getting up to advance down the slope, the impetus of their countercharge driving the enemy off in short order. For the moment at least, the line was secure.
And thus, they say, it occurred. But Allah, alone, knows all.
