Es Geloybte Aretz - a Germanwank

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carlton_bach

Altona, 5 July


The smell was not as bad as the trenches south of Lake Peipus had been, but that was all that could be said to recommend the experience. Generaloberst August von Mackensen, victor of the Central Front and hero of the fatherland, shuddered at the memories the low doorjamb, dank air and crowded interior evoked. He had chosen to spend a few days following his triumphant return visiting men invalided home from his army group, listening to their stories and helping where he could. As their commander, he felt he owed them this much at least.


“You see, Sir.” Major von Thaden, his guide on this visit, attentively held open the rickety door as the great man stooped to enter. “we often have entire families sharing one room.” Mackensen blinked to accustom his eyes to the sudden gloom. Yellowish light filtered in through the grimy panes of a small window high in the back wall that led to a back yard – no, really more like an airshaft. A narrow bed and a small table almost filled the room to capacity. The summer heat trapped the miasma of too many bodies and too little soap. In winter, with the small cast-iron oven in the corner going, it would probably be dank.


The man seated on the only chair stood to attention as best his wooden prosthesis permitted, saluting smartly. Mackensen smiled as he recalled the face. Iron Cross First, in the Bug campaign, a Gefreiter in the Saxon hussars. The general returned the salute.


“No need to get up, son.” he said with the avuncular smile he liked to use around other ranks. “This is where you live, then?”


“Yes, sir! Me, my wife and two children. Be three, soon, we hope.”


The general chuckled encouragingly. “Good man! And you have a job now?”


“Yes, sir. I drive a milk wagon. Deliveries every morning. My wife earns something, too. She’s kitchen help at a restaurant.”


Mackensen thumped the man’s shoulder in a gesture of comradely fellowship that was almost ruined by the lack of space to move. A small envelope changed hands. “If I can do anything for you, let me know. I don’t forget brave men” He was glad to escape the cramped confines of his host’s quarters.


“I think I can better understand now what the men mean when they speak of housing problems.” The general said when the two men left the courtyard for the waiting cab. “It has to be very unpleasant, having to live like this. I hope Gefreiter Seeven finds a proper home soon.”


Von Thaden stared at the general for a moment. “Sir….”


“Yes?”


“Sir …” he explained hesitantly. “Gefreiter Seeven has found a home. This is what men are waiting months to rent. Those who cannot find one live in far less comfortable accommodation.”


Mackensen’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?” He stroked his moustache. “This hole is worse than the huts they give labourers in East Prussia. At the rents the men pay…”


The major shrugged. “Rents are set by the market, sir. There is a shortage of housing in every city, especially now that so many people come to work there. Some families who have a second bed rent it out to lodgers. Otherwise they’ll not make it. With wartime prices for food and clothes, they don’t have much room to maneuver.”


For a moment, the general said nothing. He took off his hussar’s cap and rubbed his eyebrows. Von Thaden wondered if he had overstepped some kind of invisible boundary, touched on something the great man preferred not to know too much about. Finally, he turned to his guide and spoke, his voice decisive and demanding. “We’ve got to do something about that.”


“Sir?”


“You’re in the demobilisation command aren’t you?”


Von Thaden nodded. Another crippled officer, surplus to the requirements of a peacetime army, he was glad to have found at least a temporary berth. “Yes, Sir. Housing is something I … have made a study of.” He did not mention his own loss of innocence, the shock of coming face to face with the squalor of the Berlin slums.


“Then work with me.” Mackensen demanded. “These men won the war for the country! I’ll be damned if I let them rot in a place like that. They’re heroes, and they deserve a place fit for heroes!”


“What do you have in mind?” von Thaden enquired cautiously.


“I don’t know yet.” Mackensen shrugged. “Maybe a foundation for housing. Addressing this in laws, too. Build proper houses. There must be some rich men in this country who are willing to help. I’ll put my name to it, that has to count for something.”
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carlton_bach

Mrstrategy said:
What were the terms of the treaty?
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Russia got screwed pretty hard. A guarantee of the Chinese borders and sovereignty in Mongolia and Tibet, with limits on militarisation in Russian Turkestan and the Amur. Loss of the Caucasus glacis to the Ottomans including the Baku oil fields. Finland, including all of Kola peninsula, the Baltics, Poland all the way to the eastern edge of the Pripyet, and Wolhynia gain independence as German and Austrian satellites. Romania gets Bessarabia and Odessa. The Russians have to hand over the battleships of the Black Sea fleet and limit their navy strength in both the Black Sea and the Baltic for twenty years. They also owe an unimaginable sum in reparation payments that experts are currently scheduling to be fully paid up by the mid-1970s. Finally, they must hand over all their heavy artillery, aircraft, and warships to the victorious powers and allow their troops to occupa all navy ports, fortresses, railway junctions, major garrisons and state arsenals within 100 kilometres of the front and allow inspüections at any miliztary installation throughout the country until the victorious powers deem that demobilisation is complete and all POWs have been released.
 
Athelstane

Athelstane

carlton_bach said:
Russia got screwed pretty hard. A guarantee of the Chinese borders and sovereignty in Mongolia and Tibet, with limits on militarisation in Russian Turkestan and the Amur. Loss of the Caucasus glacis to the Ottomans including the Baku oil fields. Finland, including all of Kola peninsula, the Baltics, Poland all the way to the eastern edge of the Pripyet, and Wolhynia gain independence as German and Austrian satellites. Romania gets Bessarabia and Odessa. The Russians have to hand over the battleships of the Black Sea fleet and limit their navy strength in both the Black Sea and the Baltic for twenty years. They also owe an unimaginable sum in reparation payments that experts are currently scheduling to be fully paid up by the mid-1970s. Finally, they must hand over all their heavy artillery, aircraft, and warships to the victorious powers and allow their troops to occupa all navy ports, fortresses, railway junctions, major garrisons and state arsenals within 100 kilometres of the front and allow inspüections at any miliztary installation throughout the country until the victorious powers deem that demobilisation is complete and all POWs have been released.
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Say, did the Germans even try to work in any autonomy for the Georgians, Armenians et al in the Caucasus?

If not, I see trouble in Constantinople's future. Well, they've got plenty of trouble in what's left of their Balkan empire anyway.
 

carlton_bach

Athelstane said:
Say, did the Germans even try to work in any autonomy for the Georgians, Armenians et al in the Caucasus?

If not, I see trouble in Constantinople's future. Well, they've got plenty of trouble in what's left of their Balkan empire anyway.
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Oh, yes. They supported nationalist rebels against Russian oppression, paid agents to smuggle guns and explosives, and made all kinds of promises of postwar independence. But with the characteristic foresight and consistency of foreign policy everywhere, they forgot all about that once the Ottoman Empire entered the war. Not doing so would have been inconvenient. Of course it ensured a continuous source of tension for decades to come, but there and then, closing the Straits and drawing Russian troops to another front was more important.
 
Athelstane

Athelstane

carlton_bach said:
Oh, yes. They supported nationalist rebels against Russian oppression, paid agents to smuggle guns and explosives, and made all kinds of promises of postwar independence. But with the characteristic foresight and consistency of foreign policy everywhere, they forgot all about that once the Ottoman Empire entered the war. Not doing so would have been inconvenient. Of course it ensured a continuous source of tension for decades to come, but there and then, closing the Straits and drawing Russian troops to another front was more important.
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Well, winning the war with Russia was the paramount objective. One understands.

Anyway, seems German diplomacy will have to deal with the wet cleanup in aisle three (Caucasian foodstuffs) at some point in the not too distant future. Those people have had over a century to get used to being free of the Sultan's yoke, over a year's worth of guerrilla experience, and a natural disposition to be disputatious in the first place.

It would be very interesting to see how British attitudes toward the Sublime Porte are changed by this. Britain's only real concern with the Ottomans has been securing its lifeline to India, which Russian penetration of the Straits was seen as a threat to (with some unfortunate exaggeration - as Lord Salisbury famously said, much of the trouble in the 1876 Crisis came from British statesmen using maps on too small a scale). Now, the Russian threat has been hammered to the floorboards with coffin nails for at least a generation, and it's now Germany who dominates Eastern Europe and the Black Sea.

This may give new impetus to the Gladstonian impulse of sympathy for oppressed peoples for the Turk, the next time they make their oppression a public matter for grievance. Especially since the Liberals are running Westminster anyway now. Well - food for thought.
 

carlton_bach

Belgorod, 12 July
There was proper tea with sugar again, rose jam, white bread, golden butter, even champagne, if you felt like it. Major Shternmiler could hardly understand why anyone would. There was, after all, little enough to celebrate, and vodka served better to deaden the pain of defeat. It worked faster, too. If you inclined that way, you might as well be efficient about it.


The quarters at Belgorod fortress were spacious and well-appointed, filled with the heavy, opulent furniture of the pre-war era that gave the impression of being built to last several lifetimes. Shternmiler, newly rating a major’s accommodation, complete with a sort of broom closet to house his personal servant, felt out of his depth. More painfully, he felt ashamed. Every time he closed the heavy doors and sank into his bed’s freshly ironed linen, he was painfully aware how much of this the men of his army were lacking. True, they were no longer under canvas, but the cramped quarters in the casemates and warehouses of the old fortress had little to recommend them over tents in the summer heat. To an officer who had gone through the rigours of cadet school, these privileges came as naturally as bravery and stupidity, but the major had made his career by a different route. He remembered his time as an NCO, seconded to the army. .


But the main problem was that the men were aware, and not just that – after all, they had always known – they resented the fact. Soldiers had always had little enough use for officers as a group. It helped to have been one of them to fully grasp this, but the childlike devotion so many of his comrades enthused about was mainly an act the men put on for their benefit. Lately, though, they had made select leaders feel this directly. A colonel had been spat on for forcing soldiers to step off the sidewalk, a lieutenant had come away from trying to stop a drinking bout with a black eye and a broken nose. This was not supposed to happen. Doubly, it was not supposed to go unpunished – but it would have to.


“I am sorry, general.” Shternmiler explained. “The risk of open mutiny is considerable at this point. We will need to take other measures before we can enforce formal discipline again.”


General Diterikhs scratched his chin. “You had said as much before.” He said. “I am still not happy with the idea. When do you see us back in a position to do that?”


Shternmiler shrugged helplessly. He was still not used to people in power actually listening to his opinion and sometimes scared by the trust they placed in it. “I’m not sure, Sir.” He answered. “But events in Tula suggest it would be wise to be cautious.”


The troops there had hanged several unpopular officers and NCOs from lampposts last week. News had been slow to leak out, but the intelligence had, of course, been informed. Nobody had seen anything, so the army had not been able to identify the perpetrators. You could practically taste the fear. Here, things had not yet deteriorated to that point, but they might not be long off, either.


“I can see that.” the general agreed. “But what do we do, in the meantime?”


Shternmiler bit his lip. “Time and desertion work in our favour here, sir.” He explained. “The most malcontent elements are effectively removing themselves. If some of them were allowed to learn that they were slated for punishment, that could serve to encourage them further.”


Diterikhs’s face registered disgust, but the major noted that he did not say no.


“Further, we need to ensure the reliability of the cadre.” he pointed out. “Appoint reliable NCOs to leadership positions and dismiss unreliable ones. Fortunately, demobilisation is now a valid tool, so we can send home whoever we like. And third, we need a force that can be trusted to enforce orders at gunpoint, if need be.”


“Ah, yes. Where do you propose to find one, though?” Diterikhs asked, exasperated.


“The Central Front command in Smolensk has tried using returned POWs for the purpose.” The major pointed out, unenthusiastically. “They say they are very satisfied with the performance, especially of the former Patriotic Union auxiliaries.”


Diterikhs recoiled as though a spider had emerged from his tea cup. “Union volunteers!?” He almost hissed the word.


“That is what the report said, Sir.”


The general sighed and poured himself another glass of tea. “Very well, Shternmiler. Get yourself a group of reliable officers and try it.”
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carlton_bach

Urumqi, 22 July 1908


Jiang Jilie, Major in the Ever Victorious Western Army, graduate of the Wuchang garrison’s training cadre, officer of the Glorious Guangxu Emperor and decorated war hero, had done a number of things in his time he felt in retrospect had been foolhardy, even ridiculously dangerous. He had led infantry to fight mounted rifles, had marched through the Tibetan passes in the onset of winter, engaged in bayonet fighting with a Cossack, ridden a horse without knowing the first thing about the animal, and turned a captured mountain gun on the enemy without ever having practiced how to use artillery before. Yet for all that, he felt sure that he had never done anything as dangerous as this. And it was all for some intruding official busybody. All his problems that did not stem from Russians and Mongols, it seemed, were down to civil servants these days. This one had chosen to pick on a man from Major Jiang’s company for wearing his hair improperly. During the wear, many of the men had tied up their queues to prevent them from snagging or enemies from grabbing them. Some had lost hair in accidents. More had hacked them short after vainly trying to comb out the snarls of month-long accumulations of sweat, dirt and blood. Nobody had had a problem with that in the field, but of course some officious idiot had to make a point. And so, here he stood. The major recalled his conversations with the German advisor Mollenhauer. Hier stehe ich, ich kann nicht anders!


“It is against regulation and law!” the official said, his voice heavy with poisonous anger, “and I must hold you responsible, major. The man is under your command! Now, hand him over, or I will have to arrest you along with him.”


Major Jiang breathed in slowly. This was it. He locked eyes with his accuser and slowly, deliberately, pulled his bayonet from its sheath. Slowly, never taking his eyes off the man, he raised his left hand to his queue. The official’s eyes widened in shock. Jiang Jilie sawed angrily as the blade snagged on strands of hair. That blade should be sharper. After an endless four or five seconds, he brought forward his left, dropping the queue at his feet.


For a moment, there was stunned silence.


“Go on.” Major Jiang said in his best indoor voice. “Arrest me.”


For the briefest of moments, the beadles who had come along made a move to step forward, but the flash of bayonets convinced them otherwise. The major had not ordered his troops to protect him – not in so many words – but they had been through too much together not to. A second later, the first queue landed at the feet of a policeman. More of the men were sawing, slicing, ripping with their bayonets and pocket knives. The local government fled with an unintelligible shriek. Cheers rose behind Major Jiang. Incoherent at first, but soon coalescing into the familiar pattern: “Huangdi wansui! Wansui!” “Zhongguo wansui!”


Cheering a Manchu emperor in this act of defiance against his dynasty’s orders seemed incongruous, but Major Jiang would not allow his loyalty to be questioned. As he led the men back to their quarters, he joined the chant. “Zhongguo wansui!”


Let the general make of it what he would. They could hardly hang them all, could they?
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Tuna-Fish

HanEmpire said:
I'm not sure I understand what's going on in these updates.
Can someone enlighten me?
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The first one is just the Russian army slowly starting to pull itself together.

The second is more interesting. The Manchu Qing Dynasty who dominated the Han Chinese had a whole bunch of laws designed humiliate and subjugate the Han majority, so that they would "know their place". Possibly the most important and most symbolic was the Queue, a specific Manchu hairstyle that every Chinese man had to wear, and anyone who didn't was sentenced to death as a traitor. A man from Major Jiang's company was slated to be executed for failing to maintain a proper hairstyle, and Jiang decided to make a stand and protect him.

This sounds silly, but is not something that the Manchu upper class can tolerate even a little bit. It is a declaration of war and rebellion. If the Western Army doesn't decide to hand over the "traitors", it probably means that the single best army (experienced, well trained and equipped) in China will march to the capital, and the fall of the Qing Dynasty will proceed ahead of schedule.
 
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