Es Geloybte Aretz - a Germanwank

[carlton_bach]

24 March 1906, East of Chelmno

Feldwebelleutnant Hans Schimanski looked out over the wreckage of what had been a defensive position just a few hours earlier. Damn, damn, DAMN the Polish nobles and their pride! Their advisers had talked to them about Magersfontein and the virtues of defensible positions across routes of advance, and the Russians would need the railway, everyone could see that. The forward units of the National Army had dug in squarely across the line, on a slight hillcrest, not much, but you didn't get real mountains here. It took a liberal application of boot and stick, but they had produced a proper trench system in the gummy mud. Some artillery had helped – German field guns mostly, but also howitzers and even a mortar they had brought out from Warsaw. And it had worked just fine, too. The Russian commander of the cavalry screen had tried to have at them with a direct charge. Surely, even the Russians would have him court-.martialled, assuming he was not among the green-coated bodies that dotted the plain. Then, infantry had come. They had tried use their 77mm guns to shell the Poles into submission. A first assault had shown them how little impact their fire had had. Then, they had moved out to the north to flank the defenders. Textbook stuff – they had designed their position with a refused flank and made for a quickl line of retreat along the railway. Schimanski figured they would have held out for at least four more days before the Russians brought in either enough troops or the siege artillery they would need to batter them down.

And then there had been Colonel Pavelczyk. A wonderful man, inspiring, dashing, ferociously patriotic, the very image of a szlachcic. He had decided that his fighting men – cavalry, designated lancers, though they didn't actually carry lances, of course – were needed to counter the flanking movement. Major Erhardt, the most senior German adviser, had ended up leaving in a huff. He had gone so far as to tell each and every one of his colleagues that they were free to emulater his example. Schimanski was not sure whether he should not have. At any reate, the battle had gone exactly as you would have imagined. The Polish lancers advanced on the russian troops and began exchanging fire. Soon, both sides were pinned down and Pavvelczyk had called out reinforcements. The Russians retreated, the Poles followed, and then the Cossack cavalry had cut them off and massacred them with their vicious Madsen guns. The entire left wing of their defensive position had evaporated. Troops began streaming back in a state nearing panic. What was left now – after the commanding officer had used particularly trusted men to harshly restore order – would not be enough to do more than delay the inevitable for a day or two. A day would be what the people of Chelmno would need. So, Schimanski and his men were sitting on the rear of a hillside overlooking the railway line and waiting. Their position had been drawn into a circle. While they held it, the Russians could not use the railway to advance on Chelmno. That, Schimanski reflected, was the only advantage of their disposition. The countryside was lousy with franc-tireurs, which made the enemy leery of moving in units smaller than a company. They would have their pitched battle after all.

On the hilltop, the remaining howitzer boomed. A shell burst among the Russian positions below. Some riflemen opened fire, followed by the snarling rat-tat-tat of a Russian machine gun. That was another thing he wished they had. How were you supposed to fight a proper defensive battle without machine guns? He weighed his revolver in his hand thoughtfully. It would not do much good now, though later, in among the trees, it might be useful still. Then he slipped a cartridge out of the loop on his belt and carefully placed it in his breast pocket. He might need that, and it was better to put it aside now. He was a methodical man and did not want to risk expending all his ammunition in the heat of battle tomorrow.

 

[Obfuscated]

22 March 1906, Berlin

(article in Die Zukunft)

"Experiencing technical difficulties in 3,2,1..."

I don't see the Kaiser taking that well.

... It be a pity if the Landsitz of whoever happens to publish (and or his closest allies) Die Zukunft would find itself the center of, sudden, corps scaled exercises involving artillery firing non-stop for a month or two.

That was totally random that the Kaiser choose this Landstrich to conduct these surprise exercises. Honest.

 

[carlton_bach]

29 March 1906, Warsaw

“If you play by the rules, you lose.” Feliks Dzerzhinsky, snappy in the new uniform as head of the Security and Counterespionage Directorate, put down his teacup with quiet finality and focused his eyes on General Pilsudski's face. “You have another month, maybe six weeks. The muddy season is almost over, and once the ground dries out completely, the Russians will push much harder. They have more men, more artillery and much more cavalry than we do. Just how long do you think you can keep them out of Warsaw?”

Pilsudski spread his hands helplessly. “If we hurt them enough, they will have to negotiate. They aren't doing too well in the south at the moment.”

“For a reason, Josef. I told you about Captain Shirsky and his theft of documents. The Russians ran squarely into prepared defenses, but we cannot afford to play this gamble too often. We put troops into the south that we don't have north now. Where will you magic up the forces to repeat the performance on the road from Brest or Bialystok?”

The general sighed. “I know. We can still hope for the Germans.”

“The Germans!” Dzerzhinsky's voice was almost scornful. “It's either God and his angels descending from the heavens or the Germans coming over the border. They aren't coming, Josef! We have to do this on our own, or we won't do it at all.”

Pilsudski's voice wavered. He had not been having a good week with reports of heavy blows struck in the south and large enemy troop concentrations everywhere. The Russians were pushing them back in the south, forcing them to commit the best troops they had, and that wasn't even where they had their largest forces. Not by far. The armies of the Narev, Niemen and Bug were much larger than that of the Wieprz, and they were finding it impossible to stop it. “If they don't negotiate, we may well be lost anyway. So, what do you suggest?”

Feliks' eyes were flinty. His comrades did not call him a man of steel for nothing. “First, get rid of the idea that your little state here is free Poland. Poland exists in its people. The Russians can march all the way to the border and burn every city and village in their path, but as long as the people fights, they will not rule it. You will have to be prepared to go back underground. The party's combat organisation has to be prepared.”

“We are doing that! Feliks, you know that's all going on. I'm already unhappy with how much money and how many weapons we are channeling that way.” Pilsudski replied.

“Not enough! You have thousands of men, reliable, patriotic, angry men who make second-rate infantry, but first-class assassins. Take away their rifles and give them dynamite and revolvers. Let them stay when the Russians sweep through and raise hell in their rear. They haven't begun to feel the anger of the people, and they will scream when they do!”

Pilsudski was unconvinced. “We would be putting the civilians there at risk. The Russians are cruel, there will be reprisals.”

Dzerzhinsky shook his head. “That is the point, Josef! We need the people to be angry with the Russians. We want them to hate every Russian soldier from the bottom of their hearts. You said it yourtaself: they are so much more powerful than we are. We can't beat them playing by their rules. Only the mobilisation of every resource will do it. We've even been buying rations for our army in Germany because we were concerned about requisitioning from the hungry peasants. You don't get anywhere by being nice to people!”

“So, what do you want me to do, burn the villages and loot their grain?”

“Yes.” Dzerzhinsky's face was rigid. If you didn't know him, you would have thought him emotionless. “Yes, that is exactly what you must do. Make the Russians advance into a wasteland. Leave them nothing to fight us with. Force them to alienate everyone they meet! We cannot accept fence-sitters any more. If the people are not for us, they are aiding our enemies with their passivity. The good times are over today, Josef. The gloves come off!”

 

[carlton_bach]

"Experiencing technical difficulties in 3,2,1..."

I don't see the Kaiser taking that well.

... It be a pity if the Landsitz of whoever happens to publish (and or his closest allies) Die Zukunft would find itself the center of, sudden, corps scaled exercises involving artillery firing non-stop for a month or two.

That was totally random that the Kaiser choose this Landstrich to conduct these surprise exercises. Honest.

You'd be surprised what even Wilhelm II found he had to take with a smile. They can't fight everyone, and the conservative opposition is quite formidable. Harden (he's the guy behind Die Zukunft) is going to have a few uncomfortable weeks, but he understands the law very well. Better than Schulenburg, for one thing. They can't touch him except extrajudicially, and the outcry if they did anything substantial would be tremendous.

 

[Kelenas]

Hm... the interesting bit is that from all these troubles with the press, Wilhelm III could draw some very valuable lessons about managing public opinion (and the importance of doing so) from the experience.

- Kelenas

 

[carlton_bach]

Hm... the interesting bit is that from all these troubles with the press, Wilhelm III could draw some very valuable lessons about managing public opinion (and the importance of doing so) from the experience.

- Kelenas

He already is. Look at the way he's trying to sit on the arms smuggling scandsal and the orchestration of the von Bülow trial. Plus, appointing two members of the Waldersee circle to commands in his immediate vicinity. He doesn't like these people, he just knows the public appreciates the gesture. Unfortunately, his learning experience is about to be cruelly cut short. There is still that crazy Frenchman...

 

[Obfuscated]

You'd be surprised what even Wilhelm II found he had to take with a smile. They can't fight everyone, and the conservative opposition is quite formidable. Harden (he's the guy behind Die Zukunft) is going to have a few uncomfortable weeks, but he understands the law very well. Better than Schulenburg, for one thing. They can't touch him except extrajudicially, and the outcry if they did anything substantial would be tremendous.

Even today the Bundeswehr has no problem with conducting exercises in the countryside.

If Harden Landsitz's just happen to sit besides the live firing arty battalion, or his possible agrarian possessions are trampled by maneuvering cavalry... well they have to train somewhere, have they ?

 

[carlton_bach]

07 April 1906, Potsdam

Out in the gardens, birds were singing. Sunlight flooded through the tall windows, spilling over the broad expanse of the baize table littered with papers and maps. The informal imperial council was in session, and the men were sweating in the unaccustomed warmth of the spring day. Wilhelm tossed his peaked cap onto the table impatiently and plopped down in a chair.

“So, what do we make of this?”, he asked.

General von der Goltz sighed. “Your Majesty, all I can say again is that in order to be safe, not only need we prepare for war, we should consider initiating it. It will inevitably come, and the current situation allows us to engage Russia at an advantage. It is the best thing we could do for the nation.”

Rathenau shook his head sadly. “General,” he replied, “with all due respect, that is close to insane. You would start a European war just because the opportunity to grind down Russia beckons? Consider the consequences, the economic devastation, the loss of ccredit and international standing! How long can we hold the French off?”

The general was about to reply when Wilhelm raised his hand. “Please,” he said, “I've had enough of this debate. General, I have said it before, I will not sign off on a preemptive attack on Russia. My question is, what is the danger of a war breaking out over the crisis? I need to know how to prepare.”

Admiral von Koester spoke up, with his characteristically calm, precise voice. “Not this year.”

Von der Goltz grunted dismissively. “Koester, the Russian army is concentrated on our border. Their Siberian corps are being moved west. The reserve is at near full mobilisation. You cannot dismiss this because your sense of security dictates you would not attack under these circumstances.”

“I'm sorry, general. It's more than that. First of all, they need their army to subdue their rebels. Their fleet dispositions also militate against it. They have just recalled a number of ships from the Far East, going the long route around the Cape, and despatched three armoured cruisers and two ships of the line to Archangelsk. If they were preparing for war, they would be concentrating their ships in the Baltic to defend the Gulf of Finland. they haven't retaken Sveaborg yet, though they could have. No, they are not prepared and what is more, they are not preparing.”

He paused. Foreign minister von Bülow took the opportunity to speak up. “Bear in mind the Russian government has agreed to participate in the Poland conference. Naturally, they are bringing rather absolute demands to the table, but that is only to be expected. Surely if the idea of negotiuating were so distasteful to Nicholas II, he would have refused. He could have at no risk – nobody would have gone to war over the Polish question.”

“At least we should be prepared, Your Majesty.”, von der Goltz interjected. “Mobilise the reserves. Be ready for the event of war. What is the harm?”

Rathenau shook his head. “You mean other than destroying Germany's economy for years to come, I suppose? The general mobilisation is designed as a tool for emergencies. In the war of '71, you could at least be reasonably sure you would be taking people away from their farms, mostly, and farming families can feed themselves. Today – we depend for our economic survival on the products we can export. If we withdraw the labour pool from the industrial areas, the consequences will be dire. The imbalance will drive up wages, leaving us uncompetitive for years to come, Contracts unfilled will mean foreign firms will snap up our markets. I doubt even a real Russian attack could match the damage from an unnecessary mobilisation.”

Von Bülow nodded, adding, “Sire, we must alsop consider the knock-oin effect. A German mobilisation would be seen as threatening. Both the French and the Russians would assume we are preparing an attack and react accordingly. By securing ourselves against the mirage of a Russian steamroller, we might well provoke a French attack for no good reason at all. Their government is already extremely nervous of our intentions.”

Wilhelm rubbed his temples. “All right, so how bad would preparing for war be? What kind of cost are we looking at?”

Rathenau looked down at his papers. “I'm afraid the only honest answer is that nobody really knows. But stockpiling the necessary strategic materials alone might easily cost us two to three hundred million marks, not counting the lost profits from using the shipping. An actual full mobilisation would be horrendously expensive.”

The emperor nodded. “I see. Very well, gentlemen. I will expect everyone to keep a close eye on the Russians and the French, but right now, we will go on the assumption that there will be no war. As Bismarck said, Russian troops tend to march through German newspapers more often than through real border provinces. Now, let us get to the matter of civil service reform.”

 

[Obfuscated]

Why do I see Nicholas accepting the conference on the basis that it'd be a good venue to dictate the peace terms of his short, victorious war ?

 

[carlton_bach]

10 April 1906, western bank of the Wieprz

General Kondratovich's voice was hoarse from shouting. This was not going the way he had envisioned. Not at all. His knees were still shaking, though he did his best to keep himself under control. To think that it had only been a matter of minutes... the wreckage of the following train lay smoking in the water among the twisted ruin of the bridge. How had the engineers missed the charges? Easy, Kondratovich thought. They hadn't bothered to look. He had learned the hard way, back in Manchuria, that people only did their job properly if you checked on them.

At least the enemy did not seem to be very competent, either. Blowing up the bridge not before, but actually under the advancing troops had been a neat trick, though he doubted that a properly operating army would have fallen for it. If he had managed something like it, he would have had a battery or two and a regiment of infantry in position to drive the bridgehead back into the river. The Poles seemed to have – well, very little. They mostly harrassed the Russian troops with long-range rifle fire. Now that the worst of the shock had abated and the puffs of smoke from their dated rifles betrayed their small number, the Russians were rallying. the window of opportunity was closing fast. Kondratovich was determined not to give them the chance.

An officer, a major by his insignia – he still had not managed to learn all the names - came up to report. “Sir, we are recovering survivors from the train. I would like to use some of my men for that duty. The perimeter guard is up and the enemy does not seem to be moving on us. Unfortunately, the guns are still on the opposite bank.”

The general attempted a smile. “Good to hear, Major. How many men have we got?”

“I put the first useful men I could find out on the skirmish line, so there are gaps in the ranks, but we should have three companies ready to move in a matter of minutes. Some men of the engineer battallion are also on this bank, and cossacks. From what I gather, there are two squadrons back from reconnaissance. By the time we're finished clearing the mess, we should have all five companies at reasonable strength, plus the train crew and engineers making up a sixth. And whoever we can rescue from the other train.” The water was cold.

“Go ahead, Major.” the general said. “I want to speak to the commander of the cossacks. And then I need a despatch runner to telegraph headquarters, or else they will have trains piling up from here to Berditchev.”

The officer saluted and left. Kondratovich rested, leaning on the solid iron siding of a railway carriage to order his thoughts. The cossacks were a godsend. He would send them to reconnoiter the enemy's flank. If they were really as weak as they looked, they could attack directly and clear them out. If not, they would still draw fire and attention away from the men organising themselves on the bank. Once he knew more, he would have to decide. A retreat would be hard, but with two companies giving covering fire, it was doable. Men in single file could still cross, if they stepped carefully. And if it was possible, an attack, too.

Major Kantor cursed his luck. First the engineers had blown the bridge too early, then his gunners managed to bungle unloading their two guns so badly they tied up his armoured train for a solid hour, and now he had cossacks on his flank. Fucking cossacks! He was supposed to be driving the Russian advance guard back into the river and set up a defensive position to prevent them from having their engineers rebuild the bridge. Brigadier Ferber's plan was good, but right now, it looked like it had depended on too many things going right.

“How many cossacks, dammit!”, he shouted at hapless Lieutenant Mandelbaum reporting.

“We don't know, Sir. I willl take a patrol out to see. They are firing on us.”

Bullets spanged off the armour plate, punctuating their dialogue. “They are? I hadn't noticed, lieutenant. Yes, by all means find out and then send them my best regards and if they could bloody stop that.”

There was no way the cossacks could do anything substantial with their rifles. But as long as they were there, he could not take it forward and risk being attacked from the rear. Seething with frustration, the major stepped into the forward carriage. The sponson gunners stood up and saluted.

“Don't just stand there, dammit. Get the bastards!”

The Maxim gun opened up. At this range, they would not hit anyone, but at least they would make the cossacks keep their heads down. That made two of them. A gurgling scream outside indicated that one bullet had told on a luckless soldier. Cantor shuddered. Unless he could dislodge the cossacks, he would have to withdraw. And some military genius back at Lublin had decided that he didn't need cavalry when operating on the railway line. He might have to use the guns, lose another hour or so manhandling them into position... still, it was the only option he could see. He waved for his runner to come closer and pass the word not to take the guns forward yet.

 

[Predictably.Damaged]

Awesome. I can't wait to see how Germany/Poland manage to get out of their missteps.

 

[carlton_bach]

10 April 1906, western bank of the Wieprz

Corporal Siletski looked out over the treetrunk that sheltered him from view and – he hoped – Russian bullets to look out over the open ground that separated his position from the Russians. Most of them were still invisible, hidden from view behind the train where they could regroup in safety. There were just enough riflemen out there to keep the National Army from sticking their heads up. Still, occasionally you could catch sight of some men who looked to be officers. The corporal recalled what his captain had told him about the battle of Radun: If they look like they are telling anyone what to do, shoot them first. Next, shoot anyone who looks like they know what they are doing. It sounded like a good idea. Certainly, they would have to do something to keep the Russians from driving them out by sheer force of numbers. where on earth was Major Kantor with his troops and guns?

Carefully, he took aim over the sights of his Mexican rifle and squeezed the trigger. The shot failed to register. Damned Mondragon guns – they could fire till their barrels melted, but you couldn't hit a barn door once you got past a hundred meters. Giving them to corporals, he felt, was a punishment. He turned and tapped Private Berkovitz. “Swap rifles? I want to try shoot some officers.”, he shouted. Berkovitz smiled grimly and handed him his Mauser. Right. Now down to brass tacks.

The problem with field guns, Major Kantor was coming to learn, was that they took a long time to do anything. He followed the blasts of exploding shrapnel with his field glasses, but every time the gunners managed to straddle what looked like a firing position, the damned cossacks had moved again. The flash of their Madsen machine gun looked almost like a taunt. Three of his artillerymen had already been shot servicing the antiques the Germans had given them. With no shield to protect them and no earthworks to shelter behind, the only defense they could have had was range, and they didn't. A firefight against mounted riflemen at under a thousand meters was a losing proposition.

Desapite the chilly wind, Kantor sweated. Guns and the men who knew how to fight them were precious, irreplaceable resources. If he allowed them to be shot for nothing – worse, if the cossacks charged and took them – he would be utterly disgraced. He could not risk it. A quick gesture summoned his dispatch runner.

“Corporal,” he ordered, “move down the railway line to Major Cohen. He is to take C company out of the line and bring them back here to give us covering fire. Then, we will drive away these bastards.”

The runner hesitated. Withdraw troops from the ambush?

“That's an order!” Kantor shouted. The young man saluted and began jogging up the line. At least he had the sense to do so on the side of the embankment away from the enemy.

The drums were beating. A few of the men had fifes, too. General Kondratovich was unsure whether this was a good idea, but he had come to appreciate the morale-boosting power of music in the Siberian campaign, and these were green troops, well-trained, but unbled, from the European corps. He was still surprised that the Poles had not come out of the forest. Apparently, they really had as few men as it seemed. In that case, why expose them at all? Well, he was not going to quibble with their willingness to make mistakes.

To barked commands, the surviving soldiers of his companies stood to attention. The ranks were a bit ragged – especially in the formations they had filled up with engineers and railwaymen – but the sight was sufficiently heartening still. With no artillery threatening them, and at the outside of effective rifle range from the enemy, he was not going to forgo the opportunity to get his men into the proper mindset for the fight. No vodka was on hand, otherwise he would have had a ration issued, but he felt sure that some of the men had taken the opportunity to share their personal supply whenn they divided up the ammunition. He had fumed on learning how many of the troops had not bothered to carry live rounds, as though this had been a peacetime transport. in the end, they had been reduced to passing spare bandoliers from troops on the other bank across the wreckage of the bridge. Again, the enemy had left them undisturbed. It was almost ridiculous. With roughly fourty rounds per men, he felt he could run the risk.

Major Andrashko – that, he had learned in the meantime, was his name – had prepared an improvised lectern for him. Flanked by a regimental standard bearer, a bearded giant of a man, he stood to address the men. “Soldiers!” he shouted in his best command voice, “Today, you face the test of battle! The enemy has struck at us cowardly and viciously, but he lacks the strength to defeat us. Over there, in the forest, they are waiting, sniping at us like the curs they are. So we will have to go over there and kick them out!”

A thundering hurrah came in response. The men knew what was expected, but the general thought he could hear real emotion in their voices. A crescendo of drumrolls signalled for quiet. Once more, Kondratovich began to speak.

“It won't be all easy, but I have no doubt of you, men! Give them the bayonet and drive hard! Jews and Poles cannot...” He paled and faltered, his body jerking as though struck by a sudden cramp. Under the eyes of his horrified officers, General Kondratovich crumpled to the ground. A dark red stain slowly spread on the breast of his coat.

“Are you all right, Sir?”, Major Andrashko asked.

“It's nothing.” the general said, forcing himself to smile. “You will be in command now. Go, get them.”

Andrashko drew his saber, signalled to the standard bearer and, striding towards the forest's edge already, shouted at the top of his voice, “Let's get them, men! For the general! Forward!”

 

[Faeelin]

Hehehe. Sucka.

 

[carlton_bach]

10 April 1906, western bank of the Wieprz

Spent cartridges rattled on the floor of the armoured carriage as the machine gun snarled out. Rifle fire crackled outside. Major Kantor knew that he had failed. Yes, he had saved his gunners from cossack sabers – narrowly, but the infantry had been in position to catch the surprise flank attack in time. Yes, the riders had taken terrible casualties. But he now knew he had dithered away the time he would have needed to prepare his advance on the river. A desperate call for reinforcements had reached him – too late. He could spare noone for at least the hour it would take to see the retreating enemy safely out of range and collect the wounded. He would order a retreat, take the men back to the train and back to Lublin, and face the wrath of Ferber. The brigadier would bust him back to private – at least. But there was nothing for it. He would not throw away precious troops to save his honour today.

RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! The Mexican rifle barked again, smashing into Private Berkovitz's aching shoulder. Its barrel seemed to glow. Berkovitz had been employed in a weaving mill in Lodz before the revolution and knew a bit about what metal could stand. This could not be healthy. he suspected that the accuracy was already extremely poor. Of course, if he lived to bring the battered piece back to Lublin, he would be ectstatic to be chewed out by his sergeant. He was far from sure he would.

The Russians had started out from their position in the shelter of the train like an illustration from the history books he remembered from school. They had even had a flag flying, and officers leading them with swords drawn. First at a walk, then at a run, the men in green coats had covered the distance between them and him in terrifyingly short time, their bayonets gleaming in the sunlight. Berkovitz had never felt as alone as he did in this moment. Even as men and officers fell, the attackers had fanned out into open order and began advancing in leaps, dropping down on their stomachs behind cover as they found it and firing off salvoes to force the defenders to stay low as their comrades advanced. How they shouted! Their hurrahs were even more disconcerting than the occasional bullet whipping past. More than once, he had fought down the impulse to run, and he suspected a few of his comrades had not. Where WERE the damned reinforcements?! Kantor had to be sleeping! They had to hear this racket all the way to Lodz.

In the middle of the fight, with the Russians close in to almost a hundred metres, to where he could hear their shouted commands, curses, and the shrieks of their wounded, something strange happened. Berkovitz was terrified out of his mind, but he was sure he could not be the only one to notice the volume of fire was slackening. It was as though the hundred-headed animal that had gone to ground so close before their painfully few, scattered riflemen was pausing to recapture its breath. He had heard and half-understood shouted orders and a sudden, metallic whistle, and hell opened. The Russians rose and fired one single earth-shaking volley, then, without even waiting to chamber new rounds, broke into a run across the narrow field that separated them. Screams of pain and terror told him that at least some of the bullets had found their mark. Then the riflemen of the National Army opened up, and the green ranks began to thin. Furiously, Berkovitz jammed a new magazine into his rifle and fired another burst. For the first time since the beginning of the assault, he dared to hope that he might survive this. Before his position, a Russian soldier crumpled to the ground, felled perhaps by his bullets, or maybe someone else's, he could not be sure. An infantryman swinging his Nagant rifle like a club burst through the bushes to Berkovitz's left. He swivelled around, levelled his rifle and fired wildly. Then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the terror was over. Russian soldiers were running, taking cover behind the bushes and mounds they had used in their advance. Some stood dazed, raising their hands over their heads or simply wandering around aimlessly, trailing rifles and bandoliers. Berkovitz turned to speak to Corporal Siletski, but found he could not get a word out. How had his throat become so raw? He did not remember screaming, though he must have. Siletski laughed like a madman and raised his Mauser rifle to shoot at the retreating enemy. Berkovitz pushed down the barrel.

Lieutenant Shosko appeared, shouting orders in a voice that seemed to filter through thick wads of cottonwool. He waved his arms about, pointing backwards until the men understood. Hastily picking up their wounded, the remnants of Berkovitz's company abandoned their skirmish line to entrain for their journey back to Lublin. The private tried to take a count of survivors and found that the losses had been far less bad than he had feared in the chaos of the battle. That was something he remembered his instructors had hammered home: stay calm and keep shooting. Dazed, he silently mouthed to himself: “It actually works.”

 

[Cecil]

I have to say you have real talent at telling a good story. Keep em coming.

 

[carlton_bach]

13 April 1906, Mahenge

The folding chair creaked protestingly. General Ludendorff's meaty frame was not built for the kind of furniture you transported on the backs of native porters. Of course, General Ludendorff was not built for the tropics, either. Sweat beaded his square forehead and massive neck. His temper seemed to deteriorate with every kilometre that his troops advanced into the Rufiji lowlands.

“How many porters?”, he asked irritably, waving at the estimates that major Johannes had prepared.

“About 1,200, Sir.” the Major was absolutely serious. Ludendorff cursed himself. By now, he really should not have been surprised by anything of this sort any more. He should, in fact, have been able to do the calculations himself. The ability to manage logistics had always been something he prided himself on, but the way that campaigns in Africa were forced to depend on uncountable swarms of native porters for their every step still threw him. It was so insane he had initially thought the locals were pulling his leg: A boy for every Askari, two for every white soldier, porters for the ammunition for every section, porter columns for the food supply, the machine gun, the tents, the field beds, and of course, the damned foul-tasting quinine that everyone was forced to take daily. At least he didn't have to police the men's medication habits. The Schutztruppe knew what depended on it.

“All right.”, he said, sounding more grudging than he had intended. “You know better about this kind of thing.”

Major Johannes saluted and was about to leave when Ludendorff motioned him to sit. “Major,” he asked, straight out, “do you think we are walking into a trap?”

The officer's face betrayed momentary doubt. Johannes was a methodical man and an old Africa hand, not given to hasty conclusions. “No, sir.” he eventually answered. “The rebels are not united. There is no way they can orchestrate something on this scale as a lure to draw us in. Of course there may yet be trouble from supposedly loyal tribes, but that is not the same thing.”

Ludendorff nodded. “Thank you, Major. It goes against the grain of the warfare I have studied to march into enemy country like that. No secured positions, no broad front of advance. It would never do in Europe.”

“Africa is different, Sir.” The major still felt unsure to what degree it was acceptable for him to dispense advice to one of the general staff's demigods. “Coloniasl warfare is mainly fought against a hostile nature. If the enemy is capable of mounting any kind of real resistance, that is a bonus. You've seen how miserably these niggers fight.”

“Ours certainly!” Ludendorff snorted with derision and jutted his chin in the direction where the ruga-ruga auxiliaries were encamped. “It's almost not worth the supplies we have to carry to feed them.”

“Well, Sir,” the major ventured an opinion, “Governor Solf is a gifted diplomat and masterful administrator, but he does have to high an opinion of the black man's military value.”

Ludendorff nodded, thinking. “Not all blacks, though, Major.” he said, with an almost dreamlike quality to his voice. “When I first saw the Askari in action, I thought I was watching European troops maneuvering. You made remarkable soldiers of them.”

Johannes visibly enjoyed the compliment. “They are wonderful men, Sir. If only they didn't cost so much.” Then he added, “This is part of why our own force is so good at the moment. After the Congo Conference, the British decommissioned three battallions of the King's African Rifles. We picked up a fair number of recruits already trained and drilled.”

The general paused, then nodded approvingly. Not every subordinate would have openly admitted as much. This man had a future.

“Are there more about?”, he asked. “It would certainly be worthwhile recruiting them while they are still at their best. Some may be willing to serve for lower wages, too.”

Johanmnes furrowed his brow. “I don't think so, Sir. Askari are different. They would rather starve than enlist as ruga-ruga.”

“How about as leaders? Noncommissioned officers in the militia, so to speak? We desperately need someone to kick this rabble into shape.”

 

[The Sandman]

Hmm. Something I just thought of while reading the bit about East Africa: what's Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck up to at the moment?

Also, interesting to see Ludendorff acknowledging competence in non-whites. It doesn't mesh with the mental image I had of him, given his OTL politics.

 

[Adler]

There were also in OTL full black officers in the Schutztruppe (and with Douala-Bell also in the Royal Württemberg Army). NCOs should be common.

Furthermore, the first Askaris the Germans hired were from Sudan. As they were the enemies of the British, the British government forbade the hiring later. These blacks were later used as police men and officials, after their duty. Here some should still be enlisted as NCOs.

Furthermore Solf and later Schnee bound the most important warrior tribes to Germany. They were used as Askaris and did a very good job.

Adler

 

[Jonathan Edelstein]

There were also in OTL full black officers in the Schutztruppe (and with Douala-Bell also in the Royal Württemberg Army). NCOs should be common.

The elites in German Kamerun could attend the German military academy and graduate as officers (see Martin-Paul Samba). I'd thought the black Schutztruppe officers were only commissioned during WW1, though - would there be any in 1906?

 

[carlton_bach]

Hmm. Something I just thought of while reading the bit about East Africa: what's Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck up to at the moment?

Commanding Seebattalion II. He's having a good career, not quite as good as OTL, but good.

Also, interesting to see Ludendorff acknowledging competence in non-whites. It doesn't mesh with the mental image I had of him, given his OTL politics.

You couldn't go to Africa and not be impressed by the Askari. Also, he is an unreconstructed racist, he's just more Britsh-style than American-style racist. Being a member of the ruling class (not noble, but what they call "staatstragend" bourgeois with a history of military and civil service in the family), he doesn't need to reassure himself that there is someone beneath him yet. Most of the world is, in his eyes. What he sees in the Askari is "martial caste" Africans, and what he hopes to do is create more of them by setting them to serve as an example to the rugaruga.

Come time, he will dazzle the imagination of the world in his role as "mighty Whitey". Of course he assumes he is a member of the master race, but he is also going on the assumption that the Askari (and coastal Arabs) are destined to rule of the lesser races of Ostafrika the same was Europeans are to rule over them. It helps that he doesn't speak Swahili. There is nothing to destroy his own romantic imagination of what Africa is like.