They Call it Civilization!
- Thread starter Rex Britanniae
- Start date
Gulf of Tonkin
November 24, 1896
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this.” George Dewey complained to a Lieutenant standing nearby. “To think that these savages could use the United States Navy like this; we still have some pride, damn it!” The other man, if he was listening, was obviously much more preoccupied with whatever he was staring at through the windows of the ship’s bridge. “Is it just me?” The questions were all rhetoric. “It can’t just be me, can it? No; this is far too infuriating…” And so on it went, an irate George Dewey going so far as to shout a string of expletives to this inattentive Lieutenant. The Commodore was no fool. He knew when he was and wasn’t being listened to, but it didn’t bother him in the least. He just liked someone through which he could filter his rage.
The Lieutenant made a loud sigh, which brought his superior to the brink of confronting him about the disrespect when, mercifully, an Ensign burst into the room (as they often did). “Commodore Dewey, the target has appeared on the horizon. Should we report to stations?”
“Yes, yes, report to stations and all that. Spread the word.” The Ensign saluted and left as abruptly as he had appeared. Dewey went back to his tirade, when he belatedly realized what had just occurred. I’m in command. It was a burden he wasn’t entirely unused to, but nevertheless shook his nerve ever so slightly. After all, he had never been in supreme command. With Admiral Richard McNair’s continued illness laying him low in Cua Lo (where he was treated more like a prisoner than a guest), the duty to control the Asiatic Squadron fell onto the shoulders of an un-expectant George Dewey.
The full weight of the Ensign’s words hit him like the waves that might impact the hull of his ship, the proud USS Indiana. The Indiana was a durable piece of metal, but currently resembled a hodge-podge of parts more than anything else. Most of the original creation was intact, but the Vietnamese of Cua Lo (damn them) had made a few “repairs” at the behest of their Machiavellian mayor, Binh Truong Thau. As such, the places on the hull that had been penetrated by British fire at the battle off the coast of Hainan were covered up by entirely different metals. The hull resembled a quilt with its patchwork of different materials and designs.
What they had done on-deck was the true tragedy. Gone was one of the 15-inch turrets. Gone were five of the 6-pounders. The conning tower had had some hardware removed (it seemed a lot less safe now). That was just the tip of the iceberg, too. As such, the once-beautiful piece of equipment that was the USS Indiana looked like a half-assed attempt at a modern battleship. It was all they had, though, and the Commodore would have to make due.
I still can’t believe we’re doing this, he thought helplessly. There was no choice in the matter for the US sailors of the Asiatic Squadron. They had practically gone rogue, except for the love of America that still burned in their hearts.
The Indiana cut through the waters like a knife, parting the mighty seas before it as did Moses in the Old Testament. Dewey, conjuring the image in his head, began to feel even more remorse than at first. This is surely some sort of terrible sin. He struggled to think back to what Mr. Binh had said to him before the journey took place. “Whatever you think of this task I am giving you, I can assure you your feelings are misplaced.” What could that have meant? There was no way that what they were about to do was right. It was…it was piracy!
The hulking behemoth belched smoke from its chimneys as it headed north, making a quick run for the group of tiny ships that was to be its unsuspecting targets. It would have been literally impossible for the men aboard these ships to miss the giant as it sailed straight at them across the Gulf of Tonkin, but they likely suspected it was not aiming for them. By the time they did, it was too late.
Dewey peered through the telescope. There were three of the ships, all wooden junks of Chinese origin. The strange directions given to them by their Vietnamese patron detailed that the US ship was to take hostage only two of the three junks. The third was to be allowed to flee. Dewey couldn’t understand the reasoning behind any of this, but knew it wasn’t his place to either. In due time, he was sure, he would learn. He doubted he would like it, either.
Now the Chinese junks caught on to the abnormal pattern of the Indiana’s navigation. It looked as if it was heading right for them! Surely that couldn’t be correct. But that was definitely how it appeared. Dewey could only guess at the thoughts running through the heads of the men in charge of these puny boats, but their reactions were obvious. All three began to turn around, slowly but surely, to head back to China.
The match-up was uneven from the very beginning. Even if the ships had been fast enough to evade and outrun the mighty American model, the very act of turning around would have done them in. It slowed them down by far too great a time. Dewey felt confident, taking an inexplicable joy in his near-triumph. That wasn’t right. He had felt bad about it only a few moments ago. There was only one way to correct the pride. Putting away the telescope, he moved about to get a view of the ensign staff that graced the stern of the ship. Glancing up towards the sky and peering at what blocked out the sun here and there, he saw an embroidered piece of cloth with four colors on it. The main portion of the flag was yellow, the only exception to which were the vertical blue, white, and red stripes in the canton. They were flying the flag of French Indochina—it was just as they had been ordered to do.
The actual chase was over before anyone realized it. The battleship Indiana swooped up behind the retreating junks, surpassing them in speed and size and, thus, catching them in record time. The rear two ships had stopped their flight, acknowledging the American—or “Indochinese”—superiority. The third ship, however, had a fine lead on the other two. It could have been captured without issue, but the situation was to the benefit of the Americans, who simply sat and waited for it to get away. Its captain probably attributed the escape to some sort of miracle.
As was practically customary, bungling and procrastination saw to it that no party was organized to board the two ships for a good twenty minutes after the capture. They both bobbed peacefully up and down, silent in the shadow of the giant. It must have pained the Chinese to watch their comrades escape into the horizon.
Meanwhile, Dewey watched as a crew of men descended from the vessel in an escape boat, a weak wooden affair which would have served no one in the event of a disaster. He leaned over the edge of the ship to watch as they floated their way across the small distance to reach the junks. The entire operation was eerily silent.
It was abnormal, even. Countless minutes passed in that infernal quiet, the only sound being the faint echo of shouting coming from the Chinese junks. At least I don’t hear gunshots, he thought, pseudo-optimistically. The tension rose with the swell of the tides. Clouds began to gather in the sky. A portent of something; he dismissed the thought.
One wooden boat at last returned with only a few men aboard, sitting cross-legged and very much disappointed. The message they bore was unpromising.
“Qù chī dàbiàn! Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài, yáng guǐzi!”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, you dumb, piss-faced chink!”
“Tā māde niǎo! Qù sǐ, sǐ pì yǎn!”
“If you don’t shut the hell up I’m going to shove my foot up your ass!”
And so it went. When Dewey arrived on the hip and heard the langauge (well, languages) that was being used between the two men, he was honestly surprised that one group hadn’t already shot the other. It was just useless jousting though. If it had been more than threats and braggadocio, this boat would be a hell of a lot more bloody.
“What in the world is going on here…gentlemen?” As the superior officer, even as he strode onto the scene, he tried to maintain an air of dignity about himself.
A sweaty, hairy US soldier with a Brooklyn accent turned from the altercation and sought the aid of his superior officer. “Commodore, sir, we were just trying to secure the cooperation of these…darned…Chinamen…when you came in.” He had clearly substituted the adjective and noun in for something more profane. The scene grew much quieter, but the arguments had not entirely died down.
“All I asked is that you men secure the cargo. It looks as if you’ve cleaned the place out. What issue do they have now?”
“I don’t know sir,” he answered honestly.
“Well we’ve done our job, let’s just take what we’ve got and leave. We don’t want him to…” A sharp boot-step broke up the conversation even more completely than Dewey’s entrance had broken up the arguments between the two nationalities. The Commodore didn’t need to turn around. He knew exactly who was here, and why everything had gone silent.
The words that emanated from right behind Dewey’s head, the sound of which made chills hoot up his neck, were choppy and accented: “So quick to dis-miss my o-pin-ion, are we, Mis-ter Dew-ey.”
“For the last time, Mr. Binh, you don’t need to come aboard. We can handle ourselves.”
Taking a painfully slow walk around to the front the Commodore, Binh answered. “If you didn’t need me and my men, then why would I be here?”
I can think of a few reasons, the sailor wanted to say. He restrained himself, content with a much less-harsh statement. “Your brother put you here to supervise us, yes, but that doesn’t mean you can barge in on our busi-”
“I can do whatever I please, Mr.”—there wasn’t even the respect normally shown to a ranking officer—“Dewey. My brother did not limit me.”
“You might be angry that your younger brother, who is smaller and weaker than you, is in charge, but that doesn’t mean you can take your anger out on me.” Binh darted around, rage coloring his face. Indeed, his features separated him from his brother in every way imaginable. Binh Truong Thau, the mayor of Cua Lo and temporary patron of the US Asiatic Squadron—or what remained of it—was a small, thin, unassuming young man. His older brother, Binh Tri Pham, was the exact opposite; large, muscular, and with an intense anger problem amplified by his inexplicable inferiority to the sibling he had likely always assumed he would come out ahead of.
Without hesitation, he punched Dewey as hard as he could square in the stomach. The sailor’s abs retreated into him and pain shot through to his back. He staggered and he stumbled, but he stood his ground with pride. Every US sailor in the bowels of the junk at that moment looked ready to jump on this pretentious Asian brat, but he demonstrated wisdom and held up his hand to restrain them. It was for the best. Vietnamese troops that had been posted to monitor the Americans on their own ship now swarmed in, ordered about by their own commander.
The Chinese, Americans, and Binh Thau stared as they did their work. The junk-owners were probably the most confused of all. Then it happened.
In the corner of the room, tucked away behind a heavy crate, was a loose wooden plank. A Viet grabbed on it and tugged, again and again as if he were obsessed. Just when Dewey was about to risk another punch and say something, the plank came off, revealing a hidden cranny. Out from it came a number of tiny bags, one of which was brought back to Binh and Dewey. Every Chinaman present turned his head towards the floor in shame.
“What is that?” Dewey inquired. Binh looked at him with a face full of pity, and then grabbed the bag. It turned out the pity was just an odd way of expressing laughter, which came in full a moment later.
“What is that?” Binh repeated skeptically. “What is that?” he said again. He shoved the bag in the face of Dewey, who inspected it with even more confusion than before. It was full of an odd, gooey, orange-and-brown substance that looked like mashed fruit. “That is what we came here for, Mr. Dew-ey. That is why we are on this boat. That…” he paused for drama’s sake, “is raw opium.”
Now Dewey gave a true double take, cradling the expensive bag in his hand as entire loads of it were carried off to the junk’s deck by the Vietnamese soldiers. What have I gotten myself into?
November 24, 1896
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this.” George Dewey complained to a Lieutenant standing nearby. “To think that these savages could use the United States Navy like this; we still have some pride, damn it!” The other man, if he was listening, was obviously much more preoccupied with whatever he was staring at through the windows of the ship’s bridge. “Is it just me?” The questions were all rhetoric. “It can’t just be me, can it? No; this is far too infuriating…” And so on it went, an irate George Dewey going so far as to shout a string of expletives to this inattentive Lieutenant. The Commodore was no fool. He knew when he was and wasn’t being listened to, but it didn’t bother him in the least. He just liked someone through which he could filter his rage.
The Lieutenant made a loud sigh, which brought his superior to the brink of confronting him about the disrespect when, mercifully, an Ensign burst into the room (as they often did). “Commodore Dewey, the target has appeared on the horizon. Should we report to stations?”
“Yes, yes, report to stations and all that. Spread the word.” The Ensign saluted and left as abruptly as he had appeared. Dewey went back to his tirade, when he belatedly realized what had just occurred. I’m in command. It was a burden he wasn’t entirely unused to, but nevertheless shook his nerve ever so slightly. After all, he had never been in supreme command. With Admiral Richard McNair’s continued illness laying him low in Cua Lo (where he was treated more like a prisoner than a guest), the duty to control the Asiatic Squadron fell onto the shoulders of an un-expectant George Dewey.
The full weight of the Ensign’s words hit him like the waves that might impact the hull of his ship, the proud USS Indiana. The Indiana was a durable piece of metal, but currently resembled a hodge-podge of parts more than anything else. Most of the original creation was intact, but the Vietnamese of Cua Lo (damn them) had made a few “repairs” at the behest of their Machiavellian mayor, Binh Truong Thau. As such, the places on the hull that had been penetrated by British fire at the battle off the coast of Hainan were covered up by entirely different metals. The hull resembled a quilt with its patchwork of different materials and designs.
What they had done on-deck was the true tragedy. Gone was one of the 15-inch turrets. Gone were five of the 6-pounders. The conning tower had had some hardware removed (it seemed a lot less safe now). That was just the tip of the iceberg, too. As such, the once-beautiful piece of equipment that was the USS Indiana looked like a half-assed attempt at a modern battleship. It was all they had, though, and the Commodore would have to make due.
I still can’t believe we’re doing this, he thought helplessly. There was no choice in the matter for the US sailors of the Asiatic Squadron. They had practically gone rogue, except for the love of America that still burned in their hearts.
The Indiana cut through the waters like a knife, parting the mighty seas before it as did Moses in the Old Testament. Dewey, conjuring the image in his head, began to feel even more remorse than at first. This is surely some sort of terrible sin. He struggled to think back to what Mr. Binh had said to him before the journey took place. “Whatever you think of this task I am giving you, I can assure you your feelings are misplaced.” What could that have meant? There was no way that what they were about to do was right. It was…it was piracy!
The hulking behemoth belched smoke from its chimneys as it headed north, making a quick run for the group of tiny ships that was to be its unsuspecting targets. It would have been literally impossible for the men aboard these ships to miss the giant as it sailed straight at them across the Gulf of Tonkin, but they likely suspected it was not aiming for them. By the time they did, it was too late.
Dewey peered through the telescope. There were three of the ships, all wooden junks of Chinese origin. The strange directions given to them by their Vietnamese patron detailed that the US ship was to take hostage only two of the three junks. The third was to be allowed to flee. Dewey couldn’t understand the reasoning behind any of this, but knew it wasn’t his place to either. In due time, he was sure, he would learn. He doubted he would like it, either.
Now the Chinese junks caught on to the abnormal pattern of the Indiana’s navigation. It looked as if it was heading right for them! Surely that couldn’t be correct. But that was definitely how it appeared. Dewey could only guess at the thoughts running through the heads of the men in charge of these puny boats, but their reactions were obvious. All three began to turn around, slowly but surely, to head back to China.
The match-up was uneven from the very beginning. Even if the ships had been fast enough to evade and outrun the mighty American model, the very act of turning around would have done them in. It slowed them down by far too great a time. Dewey felt confident, taking an inexplicable joy in his near-triumph. That wasn’t right. He had felt bad about it only a few moments ago. There was only one way to correct the pride. Putting away the telescope, he moved about to get a view of the ensign staff that graced the stern of the ship. Glancing up towards the sky and peering at what blocked out the sun here and there, he saw an embroidered piece of cloth with four colors on it. The main portion of the flag was yellow, the only exception to which were the vertical blue, white, and red stripes in the canton. They were flying the flag of French Indochina—it was just as they had been ordered to do.
The actual chase was over before anyone realized it. The battleship Indiana swooped up behind the retreating junks, surpassing them in speed and size and, thus, catching them in record time. The rear two ships had stopped their flight, acknowledging the American—or “Indochinese”—superiority. The third ship, however, had a fine lead on the other two. It could have been captured without issue, but the situation was to the benefit of the Americans, who simply sat and waited for it to get away. Its captain probably attributed the escape to some sort of miracle.
As was practically customary, bungling and procrastination saw to it that no party was organized to board the two ships for a good twenty minutes after the capture. They both bobbed peacefully up and down, silent in the shadow of the giant. It must have pained the Chinese to watch their comrades escape into the horizon.
Meanwhile, Dewey watched as a crew of men descended from the vessel in an escape boat, a weak wooden affair which would have served no one in the event of a disaster. He leaned over the edge of the ship to watch as they floated their way across the small distance to reach the junks. The entire operation was eerily silent.
It was abnormal, even. Countless minutes passed in that infernal quiet, the only sound being the faint echo of shouting coming from the Chinese junks. At least I don’t hear gunshots, he thought, pseudo-optimistically. The tension rose with the swell of the tides. Clouds began to gather in the sky. A portent of something; he dismissed the thought.
One wooden boat at last returned with only a few men aboard, sitting cross-legged and very much disappointed. The message they bore was unpromising.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*
“Qù chī dàbiàn! Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài, yáng guǐzi!”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, you dumb, piss-faced chink!”
“Tā māde niǎo! Qù sǐ, sǐ pì yǎn!”
“If you don’t shut the hell up I’m going to shove my foot up your ass!”
And so it went. When Dewey arrived on the hip and heard the langauge (well, languages) that was being used between the two men, he was honestly surprised that one group hadn’t already shot the other. It was just useless jousting though. If it had been more than threats and braggadocio, this boat would be a hell of a lot more bloody.
“What in the world is going on here…gentlemen?” As the superior officer, even as he strode onto the scene, he tried to maintain an air of dignity about himself.
A sweaty, hairy US soldier with a Brooklyn accent turned from the altercation and sought the aid of his superior officer. “Commodore, sir, we were just trying to secure the cooperation of these…darned…Chinamen…when you came in.” He had clearly substituted the adjective and noun in for something more profane. The scene grew much quieter, but the arguments had not entirely died down.
“All I asked is that you men secure the cargo. It looks as if you’ve cleaned the place out. What issue do they have now?”
“I don’t know sir,” he answered honestly.
“Well we’ve done our job, let’s just take what we’ve got and leave. We don’t want him to…” A sharp boot-step broke up the conversation even more completely than Dewey’s entrance had broken up the arguments between the two nationalities. The Commodore didn’t need to turn around. He knew exactly who was here, and why everything had gone silent.
The words that emanated from right behind Dewey’s head, the sound of which made chills hoot up his neck, were choppy and accented: “So quick to dis-miss my o-pin-ion, are we, Mis-ter Dew-ey.”
“For the last time, Mr. Binh, you don’t need to come aboard. We can handle ourselves.”
Taking a painfully slow walk around to the front the Commodore, Binh answered. “If you didn’t need me and my men, then why would I be here?”
I can think of a few reasons, the sailor wanted to say. He restrained himself, content with a much less-harsh statement. “Your brother put you here to supervise us, yes, but that doesn’t mean you can barge in on our busi-”
“I can do whatever I please, Mr.”—there wasn’t even the respect normally shown to a ranking officer—“Dewey. My brother did not limit me.”
“You might be angry that your younger brother, who is smaller and weaker than you, is in charge, but that doesn’t mean you can take your anger out on me.” Binh darted around, rage coloring his face. Indeed, his features separated him from his brother in every way imaginable. Binh Truong Thau, the mayor of Cua Lo and temporary patron of the US Asiatic Squadron—or what remained of it—was a small, thin, unassuming young man. His older brother, Binh Tri Pham, was the exact opposite; large, muscular, and with an intense anger problem amplified by his inexplicable inferiority to the sibling he had likely always assumed he would come out ahead of.
Without hesitation, he punched Dewey as hard as he could square in the stomach. The sailor’s abs retreated into him and pain shot through to his back. He staggered and he stumbled, but he stood his ground with pride. Every US sailor in the bowels of the junk at that moment looked ready to jump on this pretentious Asian brat, but he demonstrated wisdom and held up his hand to restrain them. It was for the best. Vietnamese troops that had been posted to monitor the Americans on their own ship now swarmed in, ordered about by their own commander.
The Chinese, Americans, and Binh Thau stared as they did their work. The junk-owners were probably the most confused of all. Then it happened.
In the corner of the room, tucked away behind a heavy crate, was a loose wooden plank. A Viet grabbed on it and tugged, again and again as if he were obsessed. Just when Dewey was about to risk another punch and say something, the plank came off, revealing a hidden cranny. Out from it came a number of tiny bags, one of which was brought back to Binh and Dewey. Every Chinaman present turned his head towards the floor in shame.
“What is that?” Dewey inquired. Binh looked at him with a face full of pity, and then grabbed the bag. It turned out the pity was just an odd way of expressing laughter, which came in full a moment later.
“What is that?” Binh repeated skeptically. “What is that?” he said again. He shoved the bag in the face of Dewey, who inspected it with even more confusion than before. It was full of an odd, gooey, orange-and-brown substance that looked like mashed fruit. “That is what we came here for, Mr. Dew-ey. That is why we are on this boat. That…” he paused for drama’s sake, “is raw opium.”
Now Dewey gave a true double take, cradling the expensive bag in his hand as entire loads of it were carried off to the junk’s deck by the Vietnamese soldiers. What have I gotten myself into?
Rex
The fact that they allowed one junk to escape and were flying the French flag makes me think Binh is trying to cause additional tension between France and China. [Although when descriptions of the warship involved leak out someone may guess what's going on]. At the same time getting some involvement in the local drugs business.
Steve
The fact that they allowed one junk to escape and were flying the French flag makes me think Binh is trying to cause additional tension between France and China. [Although when descriptions of the warship involved leak out someone may guess what's going on]. At the same time getting some involvement in the local drugs business.
Steve
If you are already reading my timeline, you may feel free to disregard this...
It may seem like I am bumping this too much, which may be the case. If so, please tell me and I will stop.
However, the reason I do this is merely to get back my old audience. I must admit, I'm a little displeased with the lack of reaction to my resurfacing, which is nobody's fault but my own. Still, I am just trying to revive my own timeline.
It may seem like I am bumping this too much, which may be the case. If so, please tell me and I will stop.
However, the reason I do this is merely to get back my old audience. I must admit, I'm a little displeased with the lack of reaction to my resurfacing, which is nobody's fault but my own. Still, I am just trying to revive my own timeline.
Well I'm glad to see it back.
When do we get the Churchill v Roosevelt duel to the death?
When do we get the Churchill v Roosevelt duel to the death?
My apologies for the delay; mid-terms are next week, and there is little time to do anything else but study. Rest your fears though, for it shall come soon enough.
In the mean time, some votes in the Turtledoves would be a nice gift.
In the mean time, some votes in the Turtledoves would be a nice gift.
They have altered the appearance of the ship (less guns). I would guess that is to throw suspicion off the USN. Opium is more than business at this time. It is warfare by other means. In other words, diplomacy.
Fort Assiniboine, Montana, United States of America
November 28, 1896
“Hehehehe.” The chuckling started low, but slowly grew.
“Sir, are you sure you aren’t finding that stuff just a little too enjoyable?”
“Hahahaha! Mwahahahahaha! Have you…have you read this…these people crack me up?” He flipped another page, vigorously flapping it until it was flat. “This stuff is funnier than Twain!”
“Sir…” a Negro Private chimed in, “are you reading what I think you’re reading?”
Working his way through another laugh, Pershing got out the word “yes”.
“Sir; isn’t that just an article about some Canadian protestors?”
The way in which the subordinate presented his argument seemed to rob John J. Pershing of all of the fun he was having. “Is there something wrong with that, Private?” His question was harsh, devoid of any sort of joking.
“No sir, it’s just that I…uh…I...maybe I just…”
“Go ahead, now.” Pershing, despite the tone of his voice, hadn’t been genuinely bothered by what the young buck had said, but now he was curious. Perhaps it was because he was different from other officers; whatever the reason, he encouraged free speech (only to a degree). There were certain qualities he had always valued. If a man wanted to speak his mind, he should do so. The 1st Lieutenant understood that the situation might be somewhat different for a man of color, but if anything, Pershing had been trying to rid his Black comrades of that awkward feeling ever since they had started working together. I guess I have plenty of work left to do.
“It’s just that…aren’t you reading an article about the Canadian protestors?” He had already answered that, but allowed it to continue uninterrupted. “I just think that it is something you should be taking more seriously than you are…sir?” Pershing’s face remained stoic, which heightened the fear felt by this audacious youth. A few moments was enough. Pershing finally let the unfortunate look drop from his face, replaced by a smile of uncompromising reassurance. Though it was restrained, the commander could tell that the Private just let his halted breathing resume.
“You’re completely correct, Private.” A cute blond strolled by. “’Scuse me, Marge; might I have a Coca-Cola?”
The attractive young waitress responded with her eternal smile, a grin that could light up the darkest of rooms. “Sure, Lieutenant John, anything for you.” Her hair bounced as she turned around to depart, remembering at the last moment her courtesy. “Would your friends”—Pershing was accompanied by three Black enlisted men—“be interested in anything?” He looked at them, and they just gave a blank look back. “No,” he answered truthfully, “I don’t think so.” She was as sweet as apple pie, but he wasn’t so sure how she felt about his working with colored folk. That would have to come up one day.
The Blacks weren’t shy about following her shapely figure with their eyes. That bothered him somewhat. “Hey, I was talking,” he snapped. That got their attention immediately. “As I was saying, these Canadians are no laughing matter…well, a bit of a laughing matter, if you ask me. But you are right about this whole issue between us. I should be taking it more seriously. I am taking it more seriously than you think.” All three of his guests looked positively baffled. The commander had accepted their advice. He was more serious than he let on though.
“You’ve obviously read it, Private. What about you two?” He motioned to the other two dark men sitting around the table in the diner. “Have you read it?”
Both looked uneasy. “Neither of us can read, sir?” He had no prepared response to that, although he had heard it often enough. Many of the Blacks at this base hailed from the southern United States. It wasn’t exactly uncommon. Pershing just sort of nodded—a lame response on my part, he felt.
“Well, no matter. The article is about these Canadians. So here’s what’s happened: as we all know, one of us,”—Michael Galtier to be specific, but he didn’t mention that—“had an accident, and shot that Canadian boy. Yeah, it was a tragedy. Nobody disagrees with that. I understand the Canadians wanting American blood as recompense, but they’ve got it. Now that we’ve captured a few men we think could either be the cause of the problem or could lead us to it, the Canadians are up in arms all across the Northwest Territories. They’re calling for blood too, now. I almost want to go to war, just to shut them up.” Feeling it wasn’t enough, he added on “almost” again. “What these bastards think isn’t going to stop us from punishing those sons of bitches, is it?” There was no response. It was rhetorical, anyway.
“I don’t understand, Lieutenant. Aren’t we supposed to hope for peace? That’s what the President said.”
Pershing looked grave. “Indeed, that is what the President said, and I am a loyal American. I wouldn’t want to go against he Commander-in-Chief.” The diner was not too busy at this time of day. Only a few tables were filled, and silence filled the air. Each word hung heavy. Pershing leaned in, and his subordinates followed. “You mark my words; I ain’t asking for war, I’m predicting it.” He spoke every word as if it were part of some apocalyptic prophecy. “When this shit-storm goes down, I don’t think that ‘Getting it over’ with Grover, our Democrat in charge, is going to work too well.” The dire message complete, Pershing backed off. “It’s just a theory.”
One of the un-named trio of Black Privates offered up something in confidence. “Sir…may I ask you something…something between just us?” Since ‘just us’ didn’t seem to entail the departure of his friends, it probably meant that the question had to do with a White man; Pershing, being respectable of those of the other race in Assiniboine, was used to being looked at as a sort of mediator between the two.
“Yes, Private, you may speak freely? Please do not neglect to apply standard military respect here, though.” The last was a necessary appendage if Pershing intended to maintain his role as respecter of the Blacks yet greater respecter of the military.
“Oh…of course.” The translation of ‘of course’: ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t say that, sir’. Despite the permission, he remained apprehensive. “Sir, the 2nd Lieutenant here, Lt. Vicar-”
“Viken”
“Yes, Viken, him; he keeps telling us that a war with Canada’s coming, but he doesn’t think you are…he doesn’t think you are capable of leading it.” The disloyalty amongst his men did not strike him at first. It washed over him in waves, as bad news has a tendency to do.
“Oh,” was soon replaced by the denial stage: “I wouldn’t worry”, which was replaced by the anger stage: “That insubordinate rat.” It didn’t really matter at the moment, but it served to accentuate the fort commandant’s bad attitude towards Viken. Still, no self-respecting leader—something he intended to establish himself as—would let the enlisted men see how things irked him. A leader of armed forces had to be cool and collected at all times, or such was Pershing’s outlook.
“What do you think is going to happen to us in case of a war?” the Private inquired, probably trying to distract him from the thoughts running through his head.
It worked. “Oh, well I suppose that’s largely up to the President and his men.” He kept a straight face, but the Black men could not.
“You were just telling us-”
“There is a fine line between an independent course and treason. I don’t intend to cross that line, soldier. That being said, I don’t want to let the man control the whole situation. It’s not his place. Nor do I intend to leave the situation to the Brass in Washington. Let them decide strategy. I will work with tactics.” He had clearly confused his subordinates. Good, he thought with a hint of schadenfreude. Let them be confused, all it means is that I know things they don’t; just as it should be.
At that moment, the very same Viken that they had been talking about burst into the diner. Once he saw the situation—the situation, of course, meaning Marjorie—he cooled down. What irked him had departed; the angry, irritable Dale Viken they had known was momentarily replaced by a cool, smooth-talking, charmer. “Well hello little Missy, what is your name?”
The Black enlisted men seemed to take great amusement in the unfolding events. They stared straight at Pershing, as if to ask “well doesn’t that just set your blood boiling?” And it did. Pershing wanted to march up to the recalcitrant Lieutenant and punch him square in the nose, but he refrained. It wasn’t for the sake of teaching the Black men anything about harmony, and it wasn’t because he didn’t care enough about Marge to do anything. A good leader has to know when to strike. In due time, he would…on everything.
November 28, 1896
“Hehehehe.” The chuckling started low, but slowly grew.
“Sir, are you sure you aren’t finding that stuff just a little too enjoyable?”
“Hahahaha! Mwahahahahaha! Have you…have you read this…these people crack me up?” He flipped another page, vigorously flapping it until it was flat. “This stuff is funnier than Twain!”
“Sir…” a Negro Private chimed in, “are you reading what I think you’re reading?”
Working his way through another laugh, Pershing got out the word “yes”.
“Sir; isn’t that just an article about some Canadian protestors?”
The way in which the subordinate presented his argument seemed to rob John J. Pershing of all of the fun he was having. “Is there something wrong with that, Private?” His question was harsh, devoid of any sort of joking.
“No sir, it’s just that I…uh…I...maybe I just…”
“Go ahead, now.” Pershing, despite the tone of his voice, hadn’t been genuinely bothered by what the young buck had said, but now he was curious. Perhaps it was because he was different from other officers; whatever the reason, he encouraged free speech (only to a degree). There were certain qualities he had always valued. If a man wanted to speak his mind, he should do so. The 1st Lieutenant understood that the situation might be somewhat different for a man of color, but if anything, Pershing had been trying to rid his Black comrades of that awkward feeling ever since they had started working together. I guess I have plenty of work left to do.
“It’s just that…aren’t you reading an article about the Canadian protestors?” He had already answered that, but allowed it to continue uninterrupted. “I just think that it is something you should be taking more seriously than you are…sir?” Pershing’s face remained stoic, which heightened the fear felt by this audacious youth. A few moments was enough. Pershing finally let the unfortunate look drop from his face, replaced by a smile of uncompromising reassurance. Though it was restrained, the commander could tell that the Private just let his halted breathing resume.
“You’re completely correct, Private.” A cute blond strolled by. “’Scuse me, Marge; might I have a Coca-Cola?”
The attractive young waitress responded with her eternal smile, a grin that could light up the darkest of rooms. “Sure, Lieutenant John, anything for you.” Her hair bounced as she turned around to depart, remembering at the last moment her courtesy. “Would your friends”—Pershing was accompanied by three Black enlisted men—“be interested in anything?” He looked at them, and they just gave a blank look back. “No,” he answered truthfully, “I don’t think so.” She was as sweet as apple pie, but he wasn’t so sure how she felt about his working with colored folk. That would have to come up one day.
The Blacks weren’t shy about following her shapely figure with their eyes. That bothered him somewhat. “Hey, I was talking,” he snapped. That got their attention immediately. “As I was saying, these Canadians are no laughing matter…well, a bit of a laughing matter, if you ask me. But you are right about this whole issue between us. I should be taking it more seriously. I am taking it more seriously than you think.” All three of his guests looked positively baffled. The commander had accepted their advice. He was more serious than he let on though.
“You’ve obviously read it, Private. What about you two?” He motioned to the other two dark men sitting around the table in the diner. “Have you read it?”
Both looked uneasy. “Neither of us can read, sir?” He had no prepared response to that, although he had heard it often enough. Many of the Blacks at this base hailed from the southern United States. It wasn’t exactly uncommon. Pershing just sort of nodded—a lame response on my part, he felt.
“Well, no matter. The article is about these Canadians. So here’s what’s happened: as we all know, one of us,”—Michael Galtier to be specific, but he didn’t mention that—“had an accident, and shot that Canadian boy. Yeah, it was a tragedy. Nobody disagrees with that. I understand the Canadians wanting American blood as recompense, but they’ve got it. Now that we’ve captured a few men we think could either be the cause of the problem or could lead us to it, the Canadians are up in arms all across the Northwest Territories. They’re calling for blood too, now. I almost want to go to war, just to shut them up.” Feeling it wasn’t enough, he added on “almost” again. “What these bastards think isn’t going to stop us from punishing those sons of bitches, is it?” There was no response. It was rhetorical, anyway.
“I don’t understand, Lieutenant. Aren’t we supposed to hope for peace? That’s what the President said.”
Pershing looked grave. “Indeed, that is what the President said, and I am a loyal American. I wouldn’t want to go against he Commander-in-Chief.” The diner was not too busy at this time of day. Only a few tables were filled, and silence filled the air. Each word hung heavy. Pershing leaned in, and his subordinates followed. “You mark my words; I ain’t asking for war, I’m predicting it.” He spoke every word as if it were part of some apocalyptic prophecy. “When this shit-storm goes down, I don’t think that ‘Getting it over’ with Grover, our Democrat in charge, is going to work too well.” The dire message complete, Pershing backed off. “It’s just a theory.”
One of the un-named trio of Black Privates offered up something in confidence. “Sir…may I ask you something…something between just us?” Since ‘just us’ didn’t seem to entail the departure of his friends, it probably meant that the question had to do with a White man; Pershing, being respectable of those of the other race in Assiniboine, was used to being looked at as a sort of mediator between the two.
“Yes, Private, you may speak freely? Please do not neglect to apply standard military respect here, though.” The last was a necessary appendage if Pershing intended to maintain his role as respecter of the Blacks yet greater respecter of the military.
“Oh…of course.” The translation of ‘of course’: ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t say that, sir’. Despite the permission, he remained apprehensive. “Sir, the 2nd Lieutenant here, Lt. Vicar-”
“Viken”
“Yes, Viken, him; he keeps telling us that a war with Canada’s coming, but he doesn’t think you are…he doesn’t think you are capable of leading it.” The disloyalty amongst his men did not strike him at first. It washed over him in waves, as bad news has a tendency to do.
“Oh,” was soon replaced by the denial stage: “I wouldn’t worry”, which was replaced by the anger stage: “That insubordinate rat.” It didn’t really matter at the moment, but it served to accentuate the fort commandant’s bad attitude towards Viken. Still, no self-respecting leader—something he intended to establish himself as—would let the enlisted men see how things irked him. A leader of armed forces had to be cool and collected at all times, or such was Pershing’s outlook.
“What do you think is going to happen to us in case of a war?” the Private inquired, probably trying to distract him from the thoughts running through his head.
It worked. “Oh, well I suppose that’s largely up to the President and his men.” He kept a straight face, but the Black men could not.
“You were just telling us-”
“There is a fine line between an independent course and treason. I don’t intend to cross that line, soldier. That being said, I don’t want to let the man control the whole situation. It’s not his place. Nor do I intend to leave the situation to the Brass in Washington. Let them decide strategy. I will work with tactics.” He had clearly confused his subordinates. Good, he thought with a hint of schadenfreude. Let them be confused, all it means is that I know things they don’t; just as it should be.
At that moment, the very same Viken that they had been talking about burst into the diner. Once he saw the situation—the situation, of course, meaning Marjorie—he cooled down. What irked him had departed; the angry, irritable Dale Viken they had known was momentarily replaced by a cool, smooth-talking, charmer. “Well hello little Missy, what is your name?”
The Black enlisted men seemed to take great amusement in the unfolding events. They stared straight at Pershing, as if to ask “well doesn’t that just set your blood boiling?” And it did. Pershing wanted to march up to the recalcitrant Lieutenant and punch him square in the nose, but he refrained. It wasn’t for the sake of teaching the Black men anything about harmony, and it wasn’t because he didn’t care enough about Marge to do anything. A good leader has to know when to strike. In due time, he would…on everything.
Thank you both. I understand the main story is moving forward slowly, but the subplots will all culminate at one point.