1911 and the outbreak of the Third World War

Roman looked around the room with barely-disguised contempt, but his aides assured him that this was the most secure place they could find in Ryazan, and what did his personal comfort matter, except that it was February, and always freezing in Russia?
"Very well" he said and moved across to where someone, Andre probably, had made an effort to light a fire in the grate.
Maxim and Yelena moved from their positions, and closed the door behind him, leaving him alone with his thoughts - such as they were. Some days his thoughts were such a riot that being left alone with them was like dancing in the midst of drink-crazed Cossacks. Other days, his thoughts were so lonely and full of despair, that he would sit in a chair for hours and wait for something to spark within him - at least,. he would if they let him.

Roman Romanov, it had a certain grandeur to his ears, better than Nestor Makhno or Robert Wiren, his chief rivals for control of what remained of the Russian Empire, little enough that that was in one sense. It was still vast, but shorn of much of its most productive territory, it was a shadow of the might it had known previously. The lost provinces read like a role call of Russia's greatness - Finland, Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Ruthenia, Ukraine, Crimea, Georgia, Armenia, Astrakhan, Bukhara, Khiva, Khokand... Bad enough to have lost them, worse to have most of them now ranged against the empire, even while it was still fighting amongst itself.

But he hoped the final stages were at last being reached in that long and bloody affair. Kornilov had over-stretched himself, made common cause with Sweden against the Finns, and been beaten back from his attempt to reclaim Vuborg for his Russia; Wiren's coup had been the changing of the guard, and the last commander of Russia's navy in the Baltic had stepped up to the political office, and done well. But Wiren was a pragmatist, and questing gently stroking fingers of supplication from the Romanov camp had won him round - to talking, if to nothing else.

Wiren still held Saint Petersburg, whilst Makhno and his chaotic coalition held Moscow, but lands South and East were now rallied to Romanov, money pouring in from the Japanese, of all people, but why should he care from whence the money came? Tokyo could have stabbed him in the back despite their change of allegiance in the midst of the war, but they had not, focusing only upon the Chinese, the Germans, the Spanish and the Americans. He had seen his cousin personally thank the Japanese ambassador for that forebearance - before of course both were later killed in a car bombing on the streets of Moscow at the bloody height of this internicine war.

Makhno was a nobody who had raised himself to become a somebody, forcing anarchists and radicals to work together to make common cause in the face of the shattering defeat by Poland that had seen the loss of Minsk, and for a while the prospect of Smolensk being torn asunder from the mother country. Makhno it had been, also, who had made peace with the Ukrainians and with the Khan of Astrakhan, biting the bullet and doing deals with the Devil to secure the South, lest all of them be swept away in hatred.

Neither man would yield, but both had agreed to talk, not here in Ryazan, most Westerly of Roman's possessions, but in the ancient capital of Vladimir, over a hundred miles to the North and as close a point as was possible to where the three domains that now made up Russia came together.

His army commanders had tried to insist he take the train to Nizhny Novgorod, but that city was famed for its chaos in these recent times, and his security detail, the chief of his own private secret service had suggested Ryazan, and the rail spur built in the desperate days of the war when for a while it had seemed that the Germans might reach Moscow itself. It was a few days yet before the meeting that would, he hoped, decide Russia's future, but like figures upon a chessboard the players were positioning themselves, primed for the next set of moves.

Roman finally coaxed some life into the fire, and rose, looking around for where Yelena had left the bottle of vodka; she was a good officer, one who catered to his needs...in many different ways. For the moment the dirnk would do, and he poured it into a cracked old glass that was the first he found on looking. The glass did not matter, only the quality of the vodka itself. Ahhhh, but this was liquid fire! With his veins alive, he plopped himself down in the armchair before the fire, toasting his feet, and undid the buckle on his leather case, pulling out several sheets of parchment, held together by a pin.

He glanced briefly at the original, shrugging at its contents - several people had vouched for the translation, one of them an Anarchist professor he had released on parole for making an independent translation of the words. Quite what the Duke of Sussex had meant by them, though, was a different matter. Roman hoped he had managed to figure out that puzzle by the time that the three-way meeting convened in Vladimir...


Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
"Welcome to the Republic of California", the woman was severe-looking, tanned but muscled, her rifle held professionally, and her pony-tail tight.
"Thank you", Alexander Grahame nodded politely and waited as she inspected his papers.
During the Third World War they would have been on opposite sides, one brought into the increasingly desperate United States Army as an auxiliary, the other an officer in the British Army, fighting its way across Mexico and into San Diego before the Armistice. The fighting had not stopped there, of course, a praesidum of leading citizens and military men at San Francisco having taken California out of the Union, fought off all attempts to drag her back in, and made it clear in no uncertain terms that though San Diego might be lost, they were going to get it back.

And back they had indeed got it; the victors had not sought to punish a new nation, an implacable enemy of the defeated United States, and had evacuated the territory they had occupied in so much hope in the closing stages of the war. So too had French's deal with Iturbide saved Tijuana and Baja for the Mexicans, and those who had fought to conquer them had packed up and left - some to go home, others such as Grahame to return to colonial life, in his instance to Miskitia where his family owned a plantation, and of whose garrison he was officially a part.

It had taken this long, until Spring 1921, almost two years since the cession of hostilities, for his discharge to come through. In peace, his period of service would have been up in 1915; he had no problems staying on for the war, and no real worries as 1919 had dragged on, since it was necessary to secure the peace. But then had come 1920, each month a raiser of hope, then a cruel slaughtering of that beast. 1921 had begun in a similar fashion and it had only been at the end of February that he had finally heard.

Upon receiving his discharge, he had paid a dutiful visit to his family's plantation and then crossed Nicaragua to take the fast ship to here. San Diego, and he was in search of his lost love...

Lauren Spackman nodded and waved him through. What did she care why people, even former enemies, came to the Sunshine Republic? She only cared that they had the correct documentation, were who they said they were, and were not carrying any suspicious substances, least of all a gun, though for the determined it would not be so hard to find one. She appraised the individual who now stood waiting for a taxi; yes, he was ex-military through and through, and he would want a gun. One hour, perhaps forty minutes, that was all it would take him, she gauged. But who was she to prevent a man from taking up the means to defend himself? Just as long as it was not against the Rangers.

She had done her fair share of fighting in the war - and then some. The USA had gone into the conflict starry eyed and confident in its own inherent strength - confident in its cause before God, if she remembered rightly, not that she set much stead upon that. It hadn't lasted, and after Japan's defection things had got even worse, with joint Anglo-Japanese blockades of the West coast, even Japanese bombardments, though those were more common in the North. The war in Europe had ebbed and flowed, even after the Ottoman Empire had switched sides, but the war in the Americas had turned out to be all one-way - a slow, hard slog, that was for sure, but always in one direction.

Only after defeat, and the proclamation of the Californian republic had any hope returned, and then she had fought like a tiger to kick her former comrades out of and away from the Eastern borders, and then paraded as part of the show of force before San Diego that had helped convince the victors to grant California a special place amongst them in terms of nations favoured in the fall-out of the conflict.

The man was gone now, an old Marr automobile having picked him up - Lauren had no doubt, to get a gun. After that, she had no idea, but his entry papers had "Personal Business" written upon them and it would not have surprised her to learn that it was a woman. After the Armistice, and before the evacuation, the victors had owned the city, the locals had warmed to them as they would to anyone who had money and was not sparing with it, and many a romance had blossomed - and been cut short by orders for the men to take ship and go home. Quite possibly, Mr Grahame had been one of those, and he was back to see if his dreamt beloved still pined for him, or had settled for second best in the mean-time.

Lauren wondered if she wished him luck


Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
The 'Traitor States', that was how many in Berlin still viewed Japan and the Ottoman Empire, strong allies who had turned their coat midway through the conflict, and left the German Empire scrabbling all but alone for the victory it knew ought to belong to it. Such a tale was an abbreviated one, a story written to fit the audience, or the mood of the story-teller, ignoring French's great success in China, and the imminence of Japan's defeat, squeezed upon all sides. It ignored also, the descent of British forces upon Egypt and the desperate position of the Khedive, echoing on upwards to the Caliphate itself. Yusef Izzedin was not the man his father had been - luckily for the Ottoman Empire. Seeing devastation lurking in the undergrowth, he had negotiated a treaty that had shocked the world, even despite the Japanese example.

But explanations, excuses, reasoned understanding - these were not things that made any impression in Berlin. For those who did not cleave to the anarchist-radical ideas of the Russian Makhno and his lieutenants, the story was a simple one - betrayal, and revenge wreaked mightily upon them. The lands that France had torn from Germany at the close of the First war, and had had to cede back at the close of the Second, were gone once more - but in addition, so was the Saarland, and so was the Rhineland, erected into a fantasy republic that sang France's praises and tossed its begging bowl to Paris every few months.

Not only were the Southern German states resurrected in their pitiful independence, and Austria along with them, but so was Hannover, a British whim, a British demand, a British item on the treaty which had caused so much death, so much suffering before a delegation had survived to sign it all away. And Bohemia, loosed from German overlordship, and Poland, stealing German provinces that may once have been Polish - so long ago that nobody in Berlin thought relevant.

It was a nightmare, Germany it was still called but an emasculated Prussia-Saxony was more or less all it was. Even Norway, client, colony or vassal (one took one's pick) was gone, the Hessian Prince sovereign in his realm kicked out and replaced by a Dane as King. To balance things, the Danes had been forced to make similar arrangements for Iceland, but Copenhagen could live without Reykjavik, whilst Germany could only look at Schleswig torn asunder, and weep for another loss.

The German fleet was one battleship, moored at Lubeck, a few cruisers at Rostock and a single rusting submarine at Stralsund. It was not even in the peace treaty, it was just how it was - the victors had sunk the majority in the closing months of the war, seized most of what was left, and of the remnant who paid their wages? A defection to Sweden, a few suspicious immolations off the Polish coast, and a hoarde of rusting ancient hulks that nobody wanted. Berlin could only pay for this nucleus, and even then many decried the so-called expense. Denmark and Poland had bigger navies than the German Empire - in terms of tonnage so did even Lithuania, though there was no battleship there, and ex-Russian cruisers made up the bulk, serving more as training ships than as realistic men of war.

But Berlin was a hot-bed, even though the military government clamped down on things they could not keep sight of everything long enough to find it, squash it, and keep it down. Veterans marched, workers rallied, and radical movements fought running battles in the streets, halls and parks. The army would not fire on its own, unless provoked, it would not fire on the workers unless attacked, but it would fire on the radicals if it seemed a good idea. But the army was not all - the Militia, successor to the Landswehr, and the various police forces all answered to different commanders in the military government, and private feuds were as often as not fought out with government forces, as with those opposing them.

There was even confusion as to the correct legal form of the state, a confusion nobody could answer for who was the final arbitor? The Kaiser had abdicated, the Crown Prince had abdicated in both his name and his son's, the rest of the Kaiser's sons had seen losses in action, and the final heir was perhaps Wilhelm Victor, born only in 1918 to Adalbert, the admiral dead in the last months of the war, the regent perhaps the Kaiser's youngest, Prince Joachim, some said a madman, others a disturbed and angry thirty year old, for a while exiled in Switzerland, now fled, though he would say removed, to Hungary. Heirs there were to Wilhelm Victor, but in cousins, his late father's late brothers' sons, all children. Perhaps the Kaiser's brother, Heinrich, still in Germany in retirement in Potsdam, could be Regent, or maybe his eldest son Waldemar, a light in the military veterans service, living in Mecklenburg but still involved in politics.

Or perhaps the Empire was a Republic, nobody knew. Who was to say? The Treaty of The Hague did not care, stating only as conditions the Kaiser's abdication and the signature of the representatives of the Empire. Three generations of Wilhelms now lived in rough and ready exile in Sweden, in Scania, gazing across the Baltic towards their lost German homeland - the Kaiser, the Crown Prince and his only son. Maybe even they would return, but nobody knew. Who was it down to to abolish the old and declare the new? Nobody knew...

Field Marshal Mackensen was a hero, and a hero's hero. He had innumerable victories in the East, he had almost taken Moscow at the height of German power, and he had fought a masterly retreat when it all went to Hell. Latterly, he had pushed the Poles out of Posen, but could not prevent them from over-running East and West Prussia. As Chancellor he had been unwavering in bringing the military in to take control of what remained of the Empire, and he was slowly rebuilding the nation, if only those in opposition would give him time. An army man, he understood the value of the navy on the flank, and he fought hard to keep some part of it alive, a nucleus for a future revival, something to defend the coast if attacked, something to support the army should it ever recover its offensive spirit.

In his darkest moments, Chancellor Mackensen thought that the same could be said for the German army - whilst it kept almost three hundred thousand men under arms, including the Militia, its offensive spirit was dissipated, and the victors constrained all of its efforts to properly rearm. Privately Mackensen and his Minister of War, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha doubted that the empire had even the offensive capability of Bavaria, who had surprised them all by operating deep within Switzerland in the recent carve-up of that confederation. Whilst the empire had armoured battle wagons and aeroplanes stock-piled in warehouses and on open ground, the designs were rapidly heading from the out-of-date to the obselete. In fact, the Horsch Werks had used a stolen Bavarian design to create its new prototype battle wagons, the first modern design that the Heer had been in any position to consider since the Armistice.

As for the Airforce, Lothar von Richtofen had slimmed it down to just a few squadrons, to the financial bureaucrats' relief, but what use out-dated aeroplanes against a French enemy which could blast them out of the sky with impunity? They had sacrificed quantity for quality, and had a force of roughly equal effectiveness, but if it came to the worst a few hundred pilots would die, as opposed to a few thousand. The modern designs were still being built in the factories across Saxony, and high hopes rested with them, but time would be what it took to make a reality of even the defensive possibilities of the modern air force.

Many refused to accept the drastic shrinkage in size of the Empire, but Mackensen understood that you worked with what you had - it was a base for the future, it was the starting point for revival, and it must become strong if the dreams of resurrection were ever to escape the books and pamphlets, and make real their claims upon reality...


Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
pt 16

The Tsar had pressed for a 'Concert of Europe' in the early phase of the war, his idea to resurrect the old idea of nations coming together in congresses to discuss, and be guided by the great powers. By 1919, he was long dead, his heirs embroiled in a bloody civil war, Britain fighting its own such conflict in Ireland and France and Italy happy to carve up their gains as they saw fit without any outside body decrying their rapaciousness.

By Summer 1921 things had begun to change. In Europe, it was a year since the Milan Treaty had put paid to Switzerland, and both France and Italy were satiated and looking for ways to secure their gains. The idea of an international coming-together now seemed appealing in Rome and in Paris, and working together the two nations pressed the others for some movement in this direction.

July 23rd 1921, at The Hague, Kingdom of the Netherlands, six nations inaugurated the so-named World Congress; France, Italy, the Confederate States of America, the Netherlands, Belgium and the Republic of the Rhineland.

More were bound to come, but this small coterie formed the first echelon, joined by September by Great Britain, Hannover, Denmark, Norway and Iceland. By the time of the first official meeting at the start of October 1921, the World Congress had added the Mexican Empire, Sweden, Finland and Brazil to its roll call. It was a start, a beginning of a trans-global organisation, especially when one factored in Britain's, France's and Italy's global empires.

The first meeting inaugurated a dozen committees, some useful, such as that looking at international banking, some useless such as that working to prevent war ever happening in the future. No decisions were reached beyond this, no arguments were hatched. In most of the capital cities of the new members, the leaders thought little of the congress and what they did think they saw as window-dressing, a new forum for conversation, nothing new, just a different way of doing the same old things.


Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
17

Book 2

Introduction

I was born between the wars, 1890 a year that rounded off one decade and bore portentious fruit for the next one. My father was a diplomat in the Indian service, and my earliest memories are of hot days, and rain...lots of rain in the rainy season. He was injured in a tiger-hunt when I was six, and we returned to an England I didn't know to call home. I remember the misery of the cold, and the rain - a different kind of rain, damp, chilling and utterly depressing. I hated London, and didn't settle well at Eton, always being in trouble, always before the masters with my trousers round my ankles. Aged ten, I was sent to Rugby. My parents had become embarassed, fed up with the reports from Eton, so I was parcelled off to a more distant school and told to learn how to fit in, to grow up. And I did.

My father died when I was twelve, his injuries never having properly healed. I think he was proud of me by then, but of course by then I hardly saw him. My mother, I should say, was a grand-daughter of an earl, though the line was now a dukedom, ennobled after service in the Second World War. We were never hard-up for money, even after my father's injury, and certainly not after his death. My mother remarried when I was fifteen, wedding an old lord, his third wife, and his last. They were happy for a dozen years, til he died in his eighties in the midst of the Third World War.

I stayed at Rugby til I was eighteen and took an officer's commission in the Guards, my mother's husband, and her cousin, the Duke of Clarendon, helping greatly in my application. By 1911, I was a lieutenant, serving abroad, and the outbreak of war found me in Belize. I suppose we had advance warning of the outbreak of hostilities, but nobody really thought beyond the fact that we were going to war with Mexico. That this could impact on the other great powers, we were aware, of course. But that our move was to be the first stage in a concerted move against the German Empire, that we had no idea of - which presumably was the idea.

We moved into Mexico, advancing with the pomp and ceremony that we felt befitted our reputation, but were soon bogged down in fierce fighting, a style that would last for the next couple of years as we slogged our way across the Yucatan. It was not glorious, but it was successful - eventually. Once we had reached the other side, our unit was a proven, tough, and veteran one. It was no surprise when we were rotated out, a short period of recuperation in Cuba, then off to Africa, fighting again in the jungle, this time alongside black units from the Nigerian Protectorate. I gained a glowing respect for these ebony warriors, thier steadfast standing beside us as we extinguished the light of the German colonies, and then moved North towards the Ottoman possessions.

We resupplied in the desert, camel trains, French Foreign Legion, and Tuareg warriors adding astonishig colour to the campaign as we moved into the Fezzan. The Italians had been stalled in the South of Tunis for several years, and no real attack had been forthcoming on the Ottoman possessions. It never was - just as we were beginning to make good progress, there came the astonishing news that the Turks had swapped sides! Constantinople was now an ally, the troops we had been killing the previous week were now friends, and we crossed the lines and fraternised in an atmosphere of unreality.

The war in Europe was by now a desperate struggle; despite the Ottoman, and indeed the Egyptian, defection from the German side. The Russian collapse had given the Germans a major boost, and their army was threatening to sweep across the North of France. It was a time of real crisis, a moment in history when things teetered on the edge. I was now a Captain, battlefield promotions confirmed in writ from His Majesty - well, it bore his signature, or a facsimile thereof. My unit routed through Gibraltar out of Tripoli, and I saw London again for the first time since the year before the war broke out.

I was shocked by the ruins, the bombed-out streets that zeppelins had wrought, the swathes of city blocks burnt out and blackened. By this time, the dawn of 1917, the German bombing was much reduced, but the damage done was not repaired, indeed I saw few men who were not in uniform, and many women who wore working clothes. I got the impression of a nation stretched to its limit, nobody to spare to rebuild these ruins, nobody to spare to even need them rebuilt as things stood. It was like being in an operetta, everyone was Colonel this, or Lieutenant that, in one branch or other of our services.

In all I had three days before my unit was aboard a transport, shadowed by elderly battleships, and covered by aeroplanes on its perilous journey across the Channel. We took our place in the line just as it wavered and almost broke. 1917 was a year of Hell in the West, desperate measures to keep the front alive, nights without sleep as the German bombardment threatened to blow us away night after night. I saw many a good man die, and not a few good women too. By June I was a Major, commanding a mixed bag of veterans, raw recruits with faces white with barely-controlled terror, and Empire troops, dark faces in stark contrast to the whiteness of their comrades - though after a few days in the mud everyone was filthy and the colours harmonised.

By year's end, things had changed. The Germans had thrown everything at us, but had failed - just - to break through. The Winter was one of relief, and of hope in our trenches. We began the next year with a steady push, the Germans with a steady retreat, no panic, no rout, just slowly back, fighting hard all of the way. My unit was transferred to the army of the Earl of Cavan, and we took part in the sack of Heidelberg in late Summer. What is there to be said about that? Looking back it seems shameful - at the time it was a celebration. We knew we were on the path to victory, the bonfires of burning books both warmed our bodies in the evening air, and warmed our hearts as we knew that a year hence all this would be over.

It was still a long slog, before the final German capitulation but we won. I finished the war a breveted colonel, though with demobilisation I was soon back down to major again. And what did peace bring? Deployment back to London, and out on the streets fighting women, bayonetting young mothers on Tower Bridge, shooting dead unemployed rioters as the election campaign wore on, and our final glory, standing guard whilst the Duke of Sussex announced that his military government now had control of the nation, and that he, Sir John French, was now our duly un-elected Prime Minister.

It was curious to think what we had fought for. It was a strange new land we stood in the foothills of. Where the future might lie, and what it might bring - that was all but a closed book and I read of the opening of the World Congress in The Hague with a world-weary scepticism. A move to outlaw war? It was all talk. Man could not stop killing his fellow man. Peace eternal would never happen.


*** Major Charles Thomas Henderson ***

Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
"Well, bugger me!", Erasmus Pope looked around the crypt in bemusement, "I never knew this was here"
"Nobody does", Albert Horn was a drawn figure these days, the hunted look in his eyes betraying his position high on the arrest list of Clay's Security Police, "Not even the ancient who serves as vicar above knows that the crypt still exists."
"Many were filled in.", the speaker this time is a young woman, a pair of pince-nez spectacles clutching at her nose, "The German bombing served well to obscure the records."
"Very well", Erasmus picked up a bottle of brandy from the makeshift table in the centre of the pool of light cast by the kerosene lanterns, "Only the best?", he looked at Horn.
"As we had the best to hand" the former legal advisor to the late Randolph Baker shrugged.
"A good answer", Erasmus popped the cork and poured a slug into what looked like the cleanest of the tankards upon the table, "Who are we waiting for?"
"You won't like it", the speaker this time was a non-descript man seated beside the young woman, proprietary in his attitude.
Apart from the four of them there was only a burly fellow in a leather coat, nursing a pistol with them in the crypt. The fact that he kept a keen eye on the door above reassured the newspaper magnate - at least he knew what he was guarding.

"What will I not like?" Erasmus looked from the guard to the man, "Do you presume to know what I like?"
"We know who you don't like" the man said.
Erasmus downed the brandy and poured himself another measure, looking away and towards Albert Horn,
"We are all here at your invitation?" he asked.
Horn nodded rapidly.
"Then I will wait and see who else is on your list"
"You won't like it" the man laughed this time.

It was ten minutes later before the door above opened, the guard at the foot of the steps tensing and pointing his pistol at the floor.
"You're working late tonight!" called down his partner from above.
It was the all-clear signal, and the tough relaxed, standing to let the new arrivals descend. They walked side by side into the gloomy light, and as he saw their profiles slowly emerge from the shadows, Erasmus Pope knew that the man behind him had been right. He did not like it one little bit.

"Pleasant", the voice was one that made the hairs on his back rise up, "A nice place you have here."
Albert Horn swallowed,
"Yes, your grace"
He looked at the other man,
"Your highness?"

The two newcomers had paused at the foot of the steps, now with a nod between them they moved out into the crypt proper.
"Sir Erasmus" that voice again, grinding on his memory.
"Sir Winston"
"Ha!", the Duke of Marlborough nodded, "Just so", and made a bee-line for the brandy.
"Hmmm", the other newcomer had found himself a seat beside the lamp, and was warming his hands in its glow, "An appropriate venue, I think"
"Yes, your highness" Albert Horn sounded unsure of himself.

Prince Louis Francis of Battenberg was the twenty-one year old younger son of the former admiral, the elder Prince Louis who had played a substantial role in the Mediterranean in the early years of the recent war. The younger prince himself had briefly served aboard the battleship Minotaur and had seen action at the Battle of North Cape at the close of 1918. He was an unknown quantity, but his father was well-known as an outspoken critic of French, having served alongside him in 1916, and it was common knowledge that the older Prince Louis viewed the Prime Minister as a self-aggrandising fraud.

"We should begin", the as-yet unnamed man gestured to chairs around the table.
Churchill looked in his direction,
"You will I am sure forgive me if I do not introduce myself, but I do not think the same reasons can operate on your part, sir"
"Very well", the man sighed, "My name is Marcus Hearst, and this is my fiancee, Elizabeth."
"Delighted", Churchill bowed towards the young woman, "I now know your names but not who you are."

"Perhaps we will get to that later"
Churchill continued to stare at him
"...your grace", the man added grudgingly.
Churchill nodded, and turned to Horn,
"Let us begin"
"Thank you"

Horn wiped the perspiration from off his brow, and nodded,
"This country, our country, is spiralling into an abyss. French's government is not the end of this, only the end of the beginning. We have to act before it is too late, before there is nothing left to save."
"Yes" Churchill smiled thinly, "High words, but where are the actions?"
"Precisely!" Hearst all but hit the table, "Only we can do this"
"I would like to hear more about what exactly it is proposed that we do", Sir Erasmus Pope said
"I also" Prince Louis seconded.

Once more all eyes were on Horn. He once again wiped the sweat from his brow, chanelling it away from his face, rather than fully impeding its progress.
"We must take power for ourselves"
"Oh yes..." Erasmus snorted, "Whom should we ask - His Majesty or the Security Police?!"
"The idea is sound", Churchill reached for the brandy again.
"I commend the idea", Prince Louis was the youngest, though not by much over the woman, "but an idea alone cannot bring change"
"That is why we are here, your highness", Albert nodded, "We need a plan"
"Then let us form one"
"I would agree wholeheartedly", Churchill said.


Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
Who is "That gay bloke"?

Sorry, that piece got posted with the notes-to-myself bits still in - ie where I meant to fill in the gaps the next day before posting, but forgot!

I meant the bloke who was cross-dressing at a party and died....I'll find his name!

Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
Can you have some kind of backstory post? Please?

Ask some specific questions and I'll try to weave them into the next part

I've addressed quite a bit of the backstory in various posts, but I guess so far its a question of sticking them all together

Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
Ask some specific questions and I'll try to weave them into the next part

I've addressed quite a bit of the backstory in various posts, but I guess so far its a question of sticking them all together

Best Regards
Grey Wolf
What I meant was some kind of history book type post, if that's not too much trouble. I'm enjoying this TL, but I'm having a little trouble piecing everything together. It would be very much appreciated. :)
 
Sir Erasmus Pope walked amongst the machinery, quiet in his mind amidst the thunder of the presses, creating a front of serenity even as his mind seethed within. There was a heavy layer of irony in all this, he realized; he was certain that nobody here suspected his nocturnal activities, that apart from the usual Security Police scrutiny of his publications, he was outside of their purview. But he knew that if disaster fed any of the others into the maw of Clay’s men, the game would be up for him. His agile mind struggled to find a defensive position, somewhere to fall back to, but knew that there was none. If the cabal was revealed, he was dead – if he was lucky…

No, all he could do was to present the façade of normalcy to the world, and to think hard on how he could help the others to do so themselves. That perhaps lay within his power, and as such he had asked Churchill to give him some quotes that The Britannic Herald could use – quotes that would support Britain’s position abroad, and stay clear of any mention of internal issues. The Security Police would not lay off the former Prime Minister, but it would hopefully lead Clay to view the Duke of Marlborough as a less dangerous figure, at least for the moment. And for the moment was all they needed.

Nothing could be done for Horn of course – he was a fugitive, relying on Socialist and Union contacts to remain free and ahead of the Security Police. In a way Erasmus trusted that most; Horn’s men would literally die for him, give their lives to help him get away, and not reveal anything in the process. Horn himself may be unprepossessing but he had a brilliant mind and had always stood at Randy Baker’s shoulder; now that he was alone, all the loyalty that Baker’s charisma had gathered was transferred to the lesser man. For now Erasmus would trust that with his life.

No, it was the amateurs he worried about, not least young Prince Louis Francis. His father was a known opponent, an outspoken and vitriolic opponent, of the Duke of Sussex, and the Prime Minister would like nothing more than an excuse to arrest him. But the elder Prince Louis was too senior a figure within the royal family to arbitrarily arrest, and in the last resort French’s premiership rested jointly on the power of the army, and the writ of King Edward VIII. If the latter felt the position of the royal family was being undermined by one man’s ambition he would act to stop it. French risked that if he moved too early against Prince Louis, but if evidence could be presented by French showing that it was Prince Louis himself who was scheming against the order that Edward VIII had established, then the king would surely round on his kinsman.

This in itself was very disturbing, Erasmus knew from the sleepless hours he had lain awake before the dawn, but the position of the younger Prince Louis only made things worse. Yet, the cabal needed support from within the royal family if it were to have any chance of success, and who better to trust than those who were known long-term opponents of the Prime Minister? But almost certainly Prince Louis Francis was under some sort of surveillance, and his movements would be noted. Erasmus did not worry about the previous night’s meeting itself; the prince had arrived in the company of Churchill, and the latter was a former spymaster himself, and had no doubt covered both their tracks. But in future, would the prince get careless, and if he did would he lead the Security Police to their door?

Then there were Hearst and the girl, an unlikely pair, and an enigmatic one. Apparently they represented interests that did not want to reveal themselves publically yet – a good front for the government that! But Horn knew Hearst, a university radical with some teaching post within the University of London, and the girl had a first-class brain and had been employed in some wise by the government during the war. Now cast out as part of the general “demobilization” of women, she was as fierce and bitter a critic as they came. Yes, Erasmus thought he could trust them in themselves, but who or what were these interests that they represented? He could guess, but a guess was worth nothing without proof, and he had none of that.

“An excellent edition, Sir Erasmus!”
He pulled up short, swallowed a blasphemous obscenity and stared at the man who had stepped out of the shadows of the press.
“Minister”, Erasmus managed, “I was not informed that you were within the building”
“No”, Clay smiled thinly, “You were not”
“Hmm” Erasmus managed to collect his wildly galloping thoughts, “It is an excellent edition, is it not?”
“I said so” Clay agreed
“Some magnificent artwork, and fine reporting”
“Yes”, Clay smiled again, stranger this time, “You even coaxed some quality quotes out of Churchill”
“I thought them a cogent analysis”
“Yes”, Clay was well known for putting people on edge by constantly agreeing with them, “Where did he speak them to you?”

Erasmus almost replied that it had been over lunch at the club a week before, but Clay would not have asked if he did not know that was not so – someone must have reported what they did talk about, which was nothing much. There had been a half dozen of them at the table, and Erasmus and the Duke of Marlborough had barely exchanged a half dozen sentences. He remembered that he had stood next to the duke in a silent exchange of bodily fluids. There had definitely been nobody else there then!

“In the, ah, lavatory during lunch at…”
“Ah yes…” Clay waved the rest away, a clear sign he already knew of the venue, and the date, “A curious place for such a conversation?”
“We had not managed to exchange many words during the lunch”, Erasmus was hunting his memory down like an Indian prince after a tiger, “The Earl of Lichfield was particularly loud on that occasion”
“As is his wont”, Clay knew all about the drunkard’s antics, “Did you write Churchill’s quotes down verbatim?”
“Hardly!” Erasmus laughed at the mental image of producing a notebook in the lavatory, “They were sufficiently memorable that I could wait until I was safely home to pen them”
“But his grace would remember telling you them?” Clay asked, with another of his enigmatic smiles.
“Of course!”, Erasmus hid his fear under a laugh; Churchill would tell anyone who asked exactly what he had said, but what on Earth he would say about the circumstances Heaven only knew! All that was certain was that he would not say it had been in a corner of a crypt beneath a city church the previous night. But if pressed for a story, what one could he invent?

“Good”, Clay took a pipe out of his pocket and busied himself stuffing tobacco into the bowl, “It pleases me that these are without a doubt his grace’s true words”
“Well of course…” Erasmus began.
Clay frowned hard at him,
“You would not believe the lengths some newspapers are going to to appear to be quoting from a reliable source! Quite scandalous it is…”
“I am not surprised to hear that”, Erasmus spoke fiercely, knowing only too well the depths some of his rivals would sink to.
“I would suppose not”, Clay flicked a match at his pipe, “Good night, Sir Erasmus”
Erasmus swallowed,
“Goodnight, Minister”


Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
The Britannic Herald's special edition on Africa was a roaring success, appropriate as it sported a lion as its special motif for the publication. Churchill's quotes only served to add to the power of the paper, and the maps and articles on every major theatre would find a home on the walls of tens of thousands of British households, an echo of a normalcy that was sadly lacking at home.

All maps of Africa included a proportion of Arabia, and there was no exception here. From Palestine, down through the Hejaz, Asir and the Yemen, the outlines of the Ottoman Empire stood strong. A note in a box indicated Ottoman success against the rebel Ibn Saud in the centre of Arabia, but that area was still shaded to show the uncertainty of Constantinople's rule there.

There was an article analysing Ottoman influence in Africa, but much of it was focused upon Libya, that amalgamation of the Ottoman provinces of Tripolitania, Cyrenaica and the Fezzan, that were now firmly under a governor appointed by Sultan Yusef Izzedin, and whose armed forces had undergone a marked changed during the course of the war. 1916 had of course been the moment that the pivot had been applied, the mixed Turkish and tribal army facing off against impossible odds now that Britain and France were free to attack from the South, had been transformed by the Ottoman change of sides. By 1919 several Ottoman divisions were based in the combined province, British engineers had dredged and opened Tripoli to modern warships, and three modern Turkish cruisers had a permanent base there.

Libya was a bastion of the Ottoman Empire, an outpost but a province in itself. It was strong, and growing in stength, and it was nothing like the motley collection of outposts that had existed there a decade back, at the beginning of the war. As a modern, forward-looking province it symbolised the Ottoman Empire in Africa, and consuls were as likely to come out of Libyan service as they were from the centre itself. Indeed, nobody was coming out of the Levant or Arabia at all anymore, it had been eclipsed as a route for promotion by the combined province.

And between Arabia and Libya lay the Khedivate of Egypt, an Ottoman vassal but in almost all things independent enough to have its own policy, and only be guided by Constantinople when Cairo wished to be. 1916 had seen Egypt's fears lead to Ottoman decisions, but then Egypt had been pivotal, a prospective ally of the Germans, helping them without formally entering hostilities, despite their overlords' declarations. A formal entry would have led to a massed Allied invasion that Cairo could not have dealt with, but the Khedive had been close, very close, by 1916, as German gains elsewhere boosted the confidence of their allies and friends.

Constanintople had let it have its neutrality, an Allied invasion threatening to sunder the country in two, and worse to cut off the vital supply line to Tripoli. Italian armies in Abyssinia were especially worrisome, already nibbling at Egypt's protectorates in the South, and fighting undeclared war in the area. With the British able to focus a fleet in the Red Sea, and the French gathering force in Tchad and Wadai, Egypt could fall in a shockingly short time. No, Constantinople had not wished to see that, and had tolerated the Khedive's vassilation, but when shoves came to pushing...they had both seen the light.

The story told of French's involvement in the diplomacy of the time was correct. Even Churchill spoke enough praise in this edition of The Britannic Herald to quash any doubts. Victor of China, Earl French had passed through with such a force of army veterans and naval strength that he had changed the course of the war. That he now claimed to have won it by doing so was pompous nonsense - 1917 had shown that, with Russia knocked out, and incessant German attacks in the West coming close on many occasions to breaking the line. But French could claim to have affected the long-game, victory as long as the Western Front held firm. And he could claim that the changes wrought had meant more troops for that front, though in this claim statistics did not favour him. In fact, his own subsequent history, the victorious Mexican campaign, and the associated allied thrusts into California, would use up more troops than any continuance, or even enlargement of the war in Africa, and into Arabia, would have done.

It was the same old story of consequences, one could never be sure of what they were, what they would have been otherwise, and the simple sum of numbers from one to the other usually failed to take into account the other realities that could have, or did, materialise. But politicians, patriotic jingoists, and writers watched by a totalitarian regime usually failed to take these things into consideration. Thus, whilst Churchill's praise for French's actions in 1916 were included in the special edition, none of Prince Louis's condemnation from the time made it into print, nor did any of the acres of condemnatory print since that time get repeated. Sir Erasmus Pope and his staff knew precisely the nature of the Beast they toiled under.

Tunis was Italian, Algiers was French, and Morroco was British - so would any map show. But in such a simple statement were a myriad of facts squeezed into. That the Italians had consolidated their grip on Tunis through victory in the war, none could doubt. Pre-war the greatest threat had come from the German Empire, with merchants, adventurers and unwanted diplomatic missions an ever-present. The next greatest threat had come from the French all along the Western border, and it was in no small way due to this duality that Italy had sought alliance with Britain, the German menace to counter, the French menace to contain by a mutual alliance. And in doing so, Rome had chosen well, and had emerged victorious, and successful in its war aims.

France and Britain had had aims beyond consolidation. So too had Italy of course, from Abyssinia into the Egyptian Soudan, or into Ottoman Arabia, but the course of war had negated those, and given its gains elsewhere, Italy was happy to have emerged with a strong hold on Tunis, a continuing hold on Abyssinia, and no great aggrandisement for any of its immediate neighbours. But France and Britain had fought for clearer goals, for the eradication of German influence from neutral states, and the direct annexation of German-controlled territories. In Morocco, Britain had exceeded even this, and changed a neutral under German domination into a colony under London's direct control. But it had been a fight of massive proportions.

Algiers was a strong exterior province of France, integrated into the Empire, controlling French forces in Mauretania and Tchad. After the war the integration, the strength all was stronger. Algiers was more French, more itself, more powerful, more important. It was the elevation of a trend, a natural place to be for a victorious French Empire. But back in 1911 it had been but a remote possibility, with German influence in Morroco, German intrigues in Tunis, and German colonies in West Africa attempting to outflank it.

German colonies were to be the main point of the war in Africa between the start in 1911 and its denouement in 1916, five hard years, but only half of the total of the catastrophic war. From the Gold Coast to ancient Ghana, the German dominion reached up towards the desert; from Kamerun across the Northern Congo the second colony

With the Spanish colonies allied to the German Empire, Portugal initially neutral, and the criticial state of affairs with regards to the independent South African republics, it was difficult for Britain and France to bring sufficient strength to bear against the German colonies. Only after the success of the first phase of British advances against Mexico were sufficient veteran units transferred to the theatre to make a difference. They joined a war of some years duration already, balanced by many balances, with General von Lettow-Vorbeck in the Gold Coast especially proven in colonial defence.

Only after the infusion of fresh blood would the allies gain enough of an advantage to blast through the stalemate and by 1916 to defeat the German colonial forces, and be on the brink of an invasion of the Fezzan, before the Ottoman Empire's switch of sides. Large numbers of second rate troops must needs remain in the now ex-German colonies to maintain Allied rule, and in many regions and towns revolts and uprisings would be a matter of course before eventual ultimate victory several years hence.

Spanish colonies also fell, but German forces in Eastern Africa continued to fight, and these half-native half-professional units of General von Falkenhayn gave trouble right up to the surrender of Germany itself. In territorial terms defeated, the fighting force remained in action and at the general surrender took some days of coaxing out of its fortified positions in Equatoria to accept the ultimate loss of the war.

Neutral states would also gain, by being militantly neutral. People often mention Liberia, allied de facto to the allies in West Africa, but never declaring war on the German Empire, despite gaining greatly by her identification with the foes of Imperial Germany. Less anti-German were the Boer states, inclined by nature to distrust the British, to despise the French and to smile on the German diplomatic corps.

Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
21

Washington City, a ruined Utopia, ruined in every sense, but still the formal capital of the United States of Americas, even if all business of any import happened at Philadelphia, as it had for decades. Not that Philadelphia was in any better condition, of course, aerial warfare had seen to that. Confederate airships, later replaced by heavy bombers with powerful engines, had been the ruination of most of the Eastern cities. German imports of technology had helped the USA develop a potent fighter defence force, but with their industrial base under constant attack, and soon after the outbreak of war under direct threat of invasion, it had been difficult to deploy enough numbers to halt the growing threat from the South.

Of course, it had not all been from the South, that was the ultimate tragedy for the United States. The British, and to a lesser extent French, navuies had bombarded the coast, sunk its merchant shipping and fishing fleets, and British forces had invaded from Canada by the end of the war. Initial US gains had soon turned into stalemate, but British empire forces had not been able to press the attack. Campaigns elsewhere, and during 1917 the constant crises on the Western Front, had meant that Canada had a continuing shortage of manpower. Of course, once the tide of war turned, London had found forces from various sources and sent them to press the offensive against the tottering USA.

The pincer movement had destroyed the always fragile US defences, and the USA had collapsed in upon itself. California had secceded, trusting only itself to manage its defence, whilst British and Confederate forces had seized swathes of territory. The peace treaty had been harsh, the USA having no defence to the claims upon it. Thats its losses had been less than some had feared had been down to events beyond its borders - the Irish Civil War, the always-present crisis in China, events in South America that drew the attention of European powers. But there had been losses, and the USA could not but view itself as diminished.

Now was the first time that the president elected in 1920 had come formally to Washington City. He had come privately a few times, but the prevailing unrest had made it impossible to hold his inauguration here and only now that his Federal Police had the city under control, was it possible to come here openly, and to plan to stand out in the open.

The 1920 election had been a madhouse, a half dozen candidates literally fighting it out on the streets as the federal government struggled to remember what it was, and local militia ruled the towns and cities. As in all such things, it had got better over time, not least because the president had bought out the militias, given them membership of the new Federal Police, and made them official. Slowly order had returned to the nation, but it was a bankrupt, impoverished nation, and one only had to look at the emigration figures to see that underlined. People were flocking to Canada, to the territories annexed by the CSA, to California, and even, most disturbingly, to the Empire of Mexico which was in hardly any better state than the USA itself.

William Durant was a tireless man, a son of the Midwest and a man of full optimism, in himself at least. Looking around the ruins he could see what might be, not simply what was. He had run a conglomerate of motor companies, in the war changing production to armoured vehicles, tractors, the new armoured battle wagons that the British, for some reason, called tanks. He had ventured out into aeroplanes, building increasing variants on designs brought in from Germany, and by the end of the war his factories had been producing models of their own, tight sleek machines which competed with the best that the CSA or Great Britain had been able to deploy.

And he had based his bid for the presidency on the twin pillars of his personal optimism and personal wealth. That his eventual election had come down to his agreements with militia leaders, and deals done in smoky rooms with union and veteran groups did not diminish the power of the man. Nobody could have won without this, and the pair of generals amongst the candidates facing him would have been, he was sure, disasters for the country. That he had stolen a large proportion of a voting base that they had taken for granted was a victory in itself. One of the men had slunk into Mid-western obscurity, the other had stupidly tried a coup in the first weeks of 1921, and been shot for his efforts.

Things were finally calming down, and Durant had come to Washington to prove it - to himself firstly, to his country secondly, and to the myriad of foreign newspapers which had flocked to the USA as vultures to a corpse. He would show them that analogy no longer held true - show them, or die trying.


Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
I really really like this.
Please continue.
AND MORE AIRSHIPS!
Please.

I've given you the ruins of London and of Washington caused largely by airships. The later aeroplane bombing mainly just added to it, and extended the scope of the campaigns to other cities.

Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
Lawrence James looked out of the window of the carriage as the train sped through Lower Austria. As he did so, he could only think, for about the hundredth time, that Eaglethorpe was a very different SIS boss than Clay had been. He wasn't sure that he liked that.

Of course the SIS was different too, but paradoxically that had always been the case. Under the oversight of Churchill’s Joint Intelligence committee, it had been restricted in what it could do, where it could do, and there had been increasingly firm demarcation between the operations of the SIS and those of other intelligence agencies. With the dissolution of this body at the end of the war, the SIS under Clay had spread out once again, poking its fingers into every pie, and elbowing aside rival bodies.

Then had come the appointment of French as Prime Minister, and Clay’s elevation to head of the Ministry of Security and the Interior. Suddenly his Security Police had become the favoured arm of the government, whilst the SIS had found itself hemmed in again by rules. Eaglethorpe had accepted this state of affairs, having no choice in the matter, and had taken the SIS off in a new direction. Increasingly constrained at home, the Secret Intelligence Service had focused more and more overseas.

And so it was that Lawrence had been sent to Austria. For his part, he thought it a ridiculous sideshow, but he had his orders.

So too did Armand Remy, a high-ranking officer in the French Bureau, as it was simply known. Nobody asked which bureau – it was always The Bureau. He was here on the personal orders of its chief, the Duc d’Oran, a hero of the recent war. Those orders had been rather vague, but that was the duc’s nature – if you were not up to interpreting them properly, you did not last long in the Bureau.

Armand sat in the compartment behind where he knew his target was. He would be stunned if the man got off at a provincial town, though he watched the platform carefully each time. And should he decide to move about the train, well he would be seen if he passed by outside in the corridor, and if it was forward he went, it made little difference to his surveillance, as Armand was not watching him on the train, but was tasked with observing whom he met, where he went, and what he was doing, here in Austria.

Austrian arms had undergone something of a resurgance since the end of the war. Broken free from the German Empire, the kingdom had fought a short sharp war with Bohemia, then taken part in the regional conflict which had torn Switzerland apart. Whilst in no wise a threat to France, this resurgent Austria was in need of their keeping a firm eye upon it, and when their agents in London reported that the SIS was sending an operative into the kingdom, the duc had decided that direct observation was the best way of investigating this.

Hence, Armand sat on the plush cushioning of the seat, having the carriage to himself, one leg rested upon the other, a pipe puffing in his mouth.


Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
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Lawrence of Austria? And later there will be a film with Peter O'Toole riding around in a Fiaker, leading an insurgency and eating Sacher cake? :)
 
Lawrence of Austria? And later there will be a film with Peter O'Toole riding around in a Fiaker, leading an insurgency and eating Sacher cake? :)

Sorry, I should have been clearer - I will make the required edit. This Lawrence is Lawrence James, the SIS agent we met around part 6, watching over Baker from a warehouse.

Its a good point about TE Lawrence, tho, I hadn't really considered it. In AFOE I had him as a motorcycle dispatch rider attached to an RNAS squadron in occupied France. Maybe I can find something for him here.

Best Regards
Grey Wolf
 
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