...{Clemenceau} also fails to consider that if the Ottomans are forced to cede Libya to the Italians, they more-or-less have to go to war against Russia to maintain some degree of credibility as an independent power. Especially given that at present the Italians are losing....
Ultimately, this should therefore increase the likelihood of the Ottomans joining the war against the Russians. Question is that "window of opportunity" Shevek cites. How fast will the negotiations/the blackmailing over Libya be concluded, how fast can the Ottomans prepare for war against Russia. I would estimate another year until the Ottomans attack, and I guess the Russians fight on that year.
Probably Spring, the next year. Lets look at OTL, and assume the mobilization plan is much the same. And no one loans the Ottomans a navy for amphib assaults in the Black Sea, which is what they wanted to do OTL.
- Winter is a bit early in 1914, but the Ottomans ran into weather. While it ok to assume an a average winter, it is better to have a buffer. We leave decide to go to war date the same month as OTL. Risky, but doable.
- The Ottomans launch the attack without all forces in place. They are still moving up the forces and need more days to get ready IOTL. Really need to more time. So now the Decision moves to July 1 of any given year for a fall offensive from August 1. Yes, the Ottomans are this slow in ability to mobilize due to Railroads, structural issues, command issues, etc. If the French mobilized at the pace the Ottomans did in WW1, the Germans would be sipping wine in Paris while the French were finishing mobilization.
So, they have 26 days to make the decision ITTL for war this year. It will be a spring attack. Now you can safely declare war in winter and use winter to mobilize, but it is logistically harder is some ways.
Also, the Ottomans have no navy at this point. And they had not spent the 1908 to 1914 time frame with German land advisers. And they need the Black Sea supply lanes since no good RR or road network in what is now NE Turkey. I guess we could have the Dutch sell the Russian warships to the Ottomans.Or maybe the Germans could send enough warships. But there are treaty issues here with the UK related to treaty ending the Crimean War.
The French will pay. But I guess the Brits will not be very keen to see the Italians attacking the straits. They might even intervene.
“It's here!” Colonel Repin beamed with relief as he handed the telegram to his commanding officer. They had pressed for permission to attack for many a week, and finally, Moscow had relented. The text was as brief as it was noncommittal:
To: General Brusilov, Army of the Bug
Request to conduct offensive operations approved. Direction towards XVII Corps, Bug Salient. All operations to be conducted with due caution and not endanger cohesion of defensive front. Be advised it may not be possible to support breakthroughs immediately due to superior needs of other fronts. Expenditure of munitions is to be limited to regular quantities alotted.
Toujours l'audace
Sukhomlinov, Chief General Headquarters
The general sighed gently. These were indeed unimpeachable orders, radiating the wisdom that general headquarters dispensed to the army. If only they could limit their unconscionable expenditure of ammunition to the regular allowance when pursuing the offensive with all due caution and irresistible elan, the German defeat would be a matter of weeks. But at least they had the permission from on high to do what they were paid to do. For the past few weeks, the collective leadership seemed to have become so mesmerised by the threat of more German attacks that they would not allow any offensive operations. For all the effort to eschew responsibility for a possible failure, they were willing to let others run that risk now. Brusilov snorted derisively. And all it had taken was losing practically all of Galicia.
“It's going to be a challenge.” Repin said. “Without extra artillery ammunition, we'll be hard pressed to find enough for even one bombardment. But I suppose they need all of it down south.”
“We'll have to do without bombardments, then.” Brusilov replied. “I've been doubting their efficacy for a while anyway. Let the infantry gop in under cover of darkness, and bring along their guns where they can.” They had been trying that kind of thing a few times, with promising results. If you attacked a position from three or four directions simultaneously instead of telegraphing your intention by a concerted shelling days in advance, you had a good chance that one prong would penetrate. That was the one you reinforced. The artillery were, of course, horrified at the thought of dragging their field guns forward theough the mud of trenches and craters, but their colleagues handling the heavy mortars and gigropirs had far less of a problem with that. And if everything worked out as it was supposed to, there would be roads for the horse guns to use on the other side.
“Even so, it's not going to take us far. At least we have enough bullets.” Repin had fought hard to secure their store of rifle ammunition and defend it against the depredations of the Army of the Niemen's supply officers, secure in the knowledge that they were commanded by Prince Mikhail Romanov. Without occasional appeals to Grand Duke Nikolai, he knew, things would have gone differently. Having a protector in the capital mattered. And even so, they would be lucky to issue every man a full bandolier. If you could trust rumour, new units down in Wolhynia were sharing a rifle between two men now. The survivor got to keep it. Colonel Repin was truly grateful for his general's good connections to the high and mighty.
“Victory will do wonders for the men's morale.” General Brusilov pointed out quietly. “Sitting around here so long has been bad for them.”
“I don't think they'll need much encouragement to get tro grips with the Germans.” Repin pointed to a page of the field paper printed by the Patriotic Union for the northern front. “Not with stories like these.”
The general picked up the paper. Plastered across its front page was a photograph, apparently made with one of those portable American cameras that every officer seemed to carry. Its resolution was poor, the image grainy, but what it showed could not be in doubt: a man, naked except for his military jacket, was hanging from of a barn door, his arms spread out, crucified to the wood with heavy iron spikes. The face was almost invisible, obscured by the unruly mop of hair that betrayed him for a Union man – regular army soldiers would not get away with such extravagance. The editor or censor had mercifully cropped the image so as to hint at more than reveal the bloody horror of his groin. If you read the story carefully, you could figure out that this had, in fact, been done by Austrian franc-tireurs in Galicia, but they knew not many would. It was the work of the enemy, that would be enough for most of them. Brusilov himself was undecided whether publicising such events was a good idea. Discipline was often tenuous enough, and even without such prompting, many of his men were quite sufficiently terrified of the Germans. He felt sure that a few miles of advance, seeing enemy trenches taken and prisoners brought in, would do more to stiffen their sinews than any amount of atrocity stories.
“Disgusting.” he remarked. “What kind of people would do such a thing?”
“A for-real diplomatic crisis.” Emperor Wilhelm sighed, cradling his forehead in his right. He had adopted the gesture in lieu of rubbing his temples while the inflammation made this painful, and it had stuck. “And they just had to have it now.”
Ambassador Paul Metternich nodded gravely. He had been called to attend his emperor at his temporary residence in London's Savoy Hotel and brought along capacious files on the negotiations that were devouring his time and effort. “It certainly came at an inopportune time, Your Majesty.” he agreed.
“Well, I suppose it had to happen after we sold out the sultan.” the emperor said bitterly. He raised his hand to head off protest. “No, ambassador, I realise there was no other choice. I authorised the treaty myself. But we all knew there would be a price. It could have fallen due at a better time is all I am saying.” He paused and shifted in his heavy armchair, impatiently brushing at his cuff to remove an imaginary piece of lint. London had freed him from the punishing schedule and comparatively spartan lifestyle of the Berlin court, but Society came with its own demands, even of a ruling monarch. Wilhelm was unused to sartorial extravagance and spent most of his time at home in regimental undress. The exquisite suits he wore now still made him self-conscious.
“How do you read the British stance on the issue?” he finally asked.
“It's hard to say, Your Majesty.” Metternich began. “There is no real interest of theirs immediately at stake. I believe they are mainly using the opportunity to demonstrate their power in the Mediterranean and take the French down a peg. Certainly I cannot detect any great appetite for war here.”
Wilhelm gave a sigh of relief. Thank heavens for small mercies. A Franco-British war would have meant war with France, and if the French army had marched east – well, von der Goltz was confident they would be able to stop them on the Rhine, but it would have required denuding the Russian front of troops and jeopardising the outcome of that war. And of course, British bond buyers would be far less profligate with their own country clamouring for cash. It was a nightmarish scenario that the German government was willing to go to great lengths in preventing.
“So it will be possible to settle the matter?” he asked. “What will it take of us, in your estimation?”
Metternich cleared his throat nervously. “It's not a given, Sire.” he cautioned. “In truth, there is not a lot we can do. We would be countering the Russian embassy, but the impression I get is that they do not know what they want to do at all, really. Half the time the ambassador is sounding conciliatory notes, and then he is going full-throated for battle. Of course objectivewly, a war cannot be in their interest even if it frees them from their immediate worries. A closure of the Straits would strangle them.”
Privately, Wilhelm was less certain on that count. He had read parts of the Principles of Integralism and been filled in by Groener and Rathenau. Even without the French-sold supplies, Russia had been building up an impressive productive capacity and was not running short of cash the way he was. They might not have the artillery tubes or naval might to sustain an assault, but they had ample supplies of riflemen with an infuriating propensity to sell their hides dearly. It would take moire than this to knock out the Russian bear. “I can see that.” he said, forcing a smile. “But looking at the resolution of the immediate question. What kind of agreement do you envision?”
“It's not a question that the Ottomans will lose the Cyrenaica.” Metternich said matter-of-factly. “The main issue is the duration of the conflict. I believe the British are more interested in prolonging it than in preventing an Italian conquest. There is nothing to be gained from a continuing Ottoman presence on their flank, and the Italians are not the worst of neighbours. Certainly preferable to the French. But they will not countenance a French naval presence off the Straits, far less in them. That will be the main bone of contention. I think they will come to some agreement neutralising the waters, and then the Turks will agree to a face-saving treaty selling Libya after a decent interval. It is the only thing they can do. Even the Italian navy can easily enough blockade the Syrte against them.”
With the peace party in the ascendant at the Sublime Porte, there seemed to be little enough reason to expect anything else, at any rate. Wilhelm sipped lemonade from a heavy crystal glass and stared out of the window into the sunlit street for a moment. The noise of urban traffic rose up to the balcony, wagons, cabs, omnibuses, automobiles and tramcars. It was hard to imagine this hive of activity, this enormous metropolis ever dedicating its apparently limitless wealth and power to the defeat of an equal enemy. What would the world look like if Britain went to war? It had taken two decades and untold amounts of blood and treasure to defeat Napoleon. With today's technology, the cost did not bear thinking about.
“Sound and fury, then? All for show?”
“Not necessarily.” the ambassor pointed out. “The French government is certainly provoking the British with its Mediterreanean plans. If they really succeed at prising Italy out of the alliance...”
“At this point, we should take that as a given.” the emperor said resignedly.
“With Italy in the French camp, the British will have to cultivate either Greece or the Ottomans. I am betting on the Ottomans. But they will not risk war over the Syrte. It is too inconsequential.” Metternich adjusted his glasses. “I hope.”
A knock on the door interrupted them. Secretary von Ammersleben entered, accompanied by one of the Viennese ladies-in-waiting, a charming girl dressed now in the latest fashionable riding gown. “Your Majesty, the empress has asked me to convey her request to be joined for a ride before tonight's concert.”
Wilhelm set down the glass harder than he had intended. Damn Elisabeth and hger interminable pleasures. All those people to meet! Still, it was a duty, just like his. Smiling sourly, he nodded. “I will be in the foyer presently. Riding clothes will be needed, I suppose?”
Von Ammersleben nodded calmly. “The valet has prepared everything, Your Majesty.”
“All right then. Please inform General Emmich there will be no briefing. I suppose we might as well do some shopping.”
The secretary smiled with relief. “I will have a carriage ready at your command, Sire.” he said. “Perhaps a visit to the Natural History Museum? It is within easy reach from Hyde Park.”
Wilhelm's face brightened. “Capital idea! Pack my camera.”
The eyes would be with him as long as he lived, Szandor Ferenczi was certain. Medical detachment could insulate you effectively from the sense of disgust and terror that assailed the noninitiated in this world. Blood, pus, shit and gangrene were things that you bore with professional equanimity. Horrible mutilations were simply a fact of life, no different from the pedestrians who fell under streetcars or the workers who had their limbs caught in machinery in peacetime. But peace had nothing comparable to the men that Dr Ferenczi was treating here: men whom war had turned into soulless, witless automata, robbed of control over their own bodies, of their speech, their rationality, or their very identity. Men who compulsively repeated the same pointless exercises, who sat listlessly in their chairs, incapable of even the most basic functions, or were mortally terrified of the most trivial things.
“Any change?”
Dr Hollos sadly shook his head. “Nothing.” he admited tiredly. “No memories. He still argues that he is due back home for leave. No memory of anything that happened.”
Their latest patient, Lieutenant Czermak, had been brought in from the Carpathian front by military police. He had simply stopped acknowledging the existence of the war, insisting that he was due leave and would go home to his parents in Lemberg. Only his rank hads saved him from the firing squad. Isolated in a tiny cell of the hospital, he refgused to wear any kind of shoes, kept his uniform immaculate and politely insisted on being allowed to go home. The only reaction they had ever had out of him was when Hollos had mentioned the battle of Sarnok: He had hotly denied any such thing had occurred before breaking down in tears. That was when his eyes had taken on that look – that stare so many other of their patients had all day. Ferenczi still found it impossible to adequately describe, though he would never forget it. To see it in the innocent, angelically beautiful face of their patient was heartbreaking. He nodded to his colleague. “All right then. You should get to bed, Istvan. I'll leave soon, too.”
With another heavy sigh, he made a note in the patient file and turned back to his desk. A thin manuscript lay ready for despatch to Zurich for publication. With nimble fingers, Ferenczi made a few quick additions before sealing the whiole inside a heavy manila envelope. His eyes scanned the title. “On the Traumatic Aetiology of Neuroses. A Contribution to the Study of Mental Diseases based on Case Studies from the Neurological Wing of Tokay Military Hospital”.
Freud would savage him. But Freud had not seen what he had seen. Freud was wrong.
If we assume that Art. 19, Convention (XIII) concerning the Rights and Duties of Neutral Powers in Naval War, The Hague, 18 October 1907 (now delayed) represents legal thinking OTL/TTL, then I still do not see why the Russians could not resupply at Diego Suarez ?
Things are getting interesting. I really can't see OE "selling" Libya, that would be a tremendous blow to the Sultan's image. He can't be seen selling muslims to the infidels![]()
On the other hand, what is the military capability of OE ITTL? I mean, is it stronger than the OTL? If OE is caught at war with Italy, Greece, Bulgaria, Serbia and Montenegro, what are the chances of it winning the war by not losing? Kind of, white peace.![]()
Heh, I seem to recall that there was a similar incident OTL, though OTL's is closer to legend than fact, IIRC.
But I actually was curious about something; seeing as to how the German 'alliance' is increasingly being made up of 'Germanic' nations (right now, in war are Germany, Austria-Hungary (though they'd be wise to not play that card), and the Netherlands), with Britain friendly, and Sweden non-committal and sympathetic, is there any uptick of 'Germanicism' ITTL? Because I seem to recall that even OTL, as late as the Titanic, there were asses in the British press who were eager to point out how Germanic Britons behaved with more compunction than South Europeans and other non-Germanics, and ITTL, there's been no or little souring of relations with Germany in Britain, or vice versa. And if so, is this having any effect on the distinctly non-Germanic members of the coalition (Poles, the A-H minorities, Finns, etc., none of whom have much reason to look on such developments with any fondness)?
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?
Hungarian names:
Szandor is Sándor - Sandor, with english alphabet.
And Tokay is Tokaj.
just to meddle wwith you![]()