"What Madness Is This?" Volume I: The Union Forever
- Thread starter Napoleon53
- Start date
Awesome!!!Enjoy guys! I really like how this chapter showed the still very Victorian mindset of this world. Yes, they will totally fight over which sibling gets a throne, and yes they will totally destroy the entire country if it means their guy is on it.
Also, I plan on creating non-numbered "special chapters" on the "Faces of the World War." Among them will be Winston Churchill, Midas Goldstein, and others.
All that's needed is for the Turks to spark the Great War!
I just imagined a mosaic made up of those colorized close-ups I'm making of different famous people who fought in the Great War. How badass would that be?
Unless the Greek officer corps is made up entirely of mind bogglingly incompetent idiots determined to reenact the Napoleonic Wars, there’s no way they wouldn’t innovate after months of trench warfare. Not having the resources to enact reforms is much more likely than intentionally and knowingly utilizing the same ineffective tactics in a war in which manpower will be extremely precious. I wholeheartedly suggest that the Greeks try to innovate only to fail miserably due to a mixture of poor planning and lack of resources.
By trenchwarfare indefinitely until the outbreak of the Great War, I'm more picturing Skyrim-style civil war. "This is our trench, and that's yours, and we mostly just sit here because everyone is sick of this shit. We're gonna talk about this war and live with it, while we go spy and assassinate your guys. Ooh-rah." Also, most of the Greek officer corps is dead. Flatout, they are dead guys now. lol
Alsoooo I don't wanna spoil how the Great War begins, which may or may not involve Greece and so the ending of the Greek chapter may or may not change.
Many moving parts right now!Teaser for the subject of the next chapter!
Brace yourselves! I have a full-on plot ready and I'm feeling the inspiration take me away. lol
Brace yourselves! I have a full-on plot ready and I'm feeling the inspiration take me away. lol
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 50:
LAUGHING AT THE DEVIL
Scottish Foreign Legion troops charge Afrīdī positions during the Battle of Dargai Heights
LAUGHING AT THE DEVIL
Scottish Foreign Legion troops charge Afrīdī positions during the Battle of Dargai Heights
August 12, 1894:
The bagpipes roared. St. Andrew's Cross fluttered in the breeze. The men of the 13th Scottish Infantry, Foreign Legion, Europan Imperial Army, stood strong and silent as the sweat dripped below their pith helmets. Each and every single soldier there, some six hundred in all, were part of the Republic of Scotland's deal with the United Empire of Europa. In exchange for better trade deals for the Scottish East India Company and in return for the Imperial troops stationed at Fort Scotia, every year Scotland would supply thousands of troops for the Europan Foreign Legion. They fought alongside Indians, Afghans, Sikhs, Dutch, Germans, even English and American expatriates or volunteers. Indeed, many of the Foreign Legion's veteran officers had fought in the Great American War, on the losing Southron side. Now, thanks to an insurrection by the local Afrīdī people in the Khyber Pass, the vital mountain pass that separated Afghanistan from India, the 13th Scottish Infantry were answering the call to arms. The Persians had supplied the hill tribesmen with modern weaponry and the rebellion had been far more successful than the newspapers in Bombay or Paris would let on. It was up to the 13th Scots to teach these doltons a lesson. Unfortunately for them, they were surrounded.
Among the men standing in the crude trench, made with kit shovels the night before after the ambush, was a young man, age 28, named Ramsay MacDonald. He was a stern looking man with his massive walrus-like mustache twitching on his square-jawed face, burnt by the hot desert sun. To his right stood his best chum, Arnold Alastair Munroe, age 26, his red stubble peppering his equally-sunburned face. Munroe read too many funny books for MacDonald's taste, especially some crock written by a man named Engels, but the two still were the best of friends. To his left stood his own brother, Clyde MacDonald, age 19. Ramsay had hated it when the letter came from Edinburgh informing him of his drafting into the Foreign Legion, but Clyde so adored his big brother that he insisted upon volunteering as well, on the condition they be allowed to serve in the same unit.
The pipers blared forth as the men prepared for what was to come. Colonel Charlie MacKenzie, their loathsome commander, paraded in front of them, his basket-hilt broadsword hefted onto his shoulder, his kilt swishing with every step. Most of the 13th wore khaki or plaid trousers. At least MacKenzie could feel the breeze. His peaked cap was cocked ever so slightly to the right and his beard was immaculate, even after two days of skirmishes in a literal wasteland. MacKenzie had fought all over India for Caesar, and was well known for his arrogance. But sometimes he proved why his arrogance was not altogether unfounded. Today appeared to conclusively not be one of those days, as they all awaited seemingly certain death at the hands of the rebels. The rebels were numerically larger and were masters at hiding behind every rock and stump they could find. The 13th had lost 150 men the day before. Now their mission was to "engage the enemy and keep him sorted until Europan reinforcements can arrive." Unfortunately for the Scots, MacKenzie had been on a wee bit of a bender and had given chase to a group of skirmishers. Now they were lost, somewhere in the Khyber, with Europan troops nowhere to be seen.
Joy, thought Ramsay.
Colonel MacKenzie continued his parade pass before his men as the pipes and drums blared. "Men o' the 13th Scots! Take ye heart, for it is days like this when howfin' hoores like yerselves prove who has the bigger baws. I can assure you, gentlemen o' the 13th Scots, I am packin' a mighty pair under this kilt!" The men cheered heartily as the colonel continued his inspection of the line. "Now, I'm not gunna lie to ye, lads. This looks rather knob-ended from our view o' things. But rest assured, we're on God's side and we ain't gonna letta bunch of desert darkies send us packin'!" Another cheer.
Typical Scottish bravado, thought Ramsay. Right in the face of almost certain death. To his right, Munroe was cheering wildly, like he was watching a game of rounders in the park. To his left, Clyde was joining in as well, passionately giving his best "Hoorah!" Ramsay hated it. They weren't on God's side. They were on Caesar's side. And all who were about to die were saluting him and talking about how large their testicles were moments before they'd get shot off. It was the Scottish flag which flew over the men, filled with holes though it was. Not the Europan flag. But they were not fighting for Scotland, sword in hand, drenched in the blood of French and Englishmen liked the storied days of wars long gone. No, they were here as subservient little boys following the commands of fops in Paris and Bombay. Men who had never even been to Scotland. Men who could comfortably go home to their families every night. Not men like the 13th Scots. Out here, the distant kerfuffles and shoot-outs of India were far more real and visceral. Far more consequential. Yesterday, 150 brave young Scots had lost their lives in service to Caesar. 150 Scots would never see the highlands of home again. Those lads would likely never even rest in the peace of their own soil unless, by some miracle, the 13th survived and could take back their bodies. But that was incredibly unlikely. More likely was the thought of 600 more Scots never having their bones taste Scottish soil either.
Out in the rocky wasteland before them they could see the Afrīdī taking up their own positions. The fact they had not attacked yet was shocking to Ramsay. Maybe they were too busy laughing at the bombastic fervor with which Scots flung themselves at certain death, seemingly laughing at the devil himself. Or maybe, in their own way, they were showing respect. Maybe they knew these Europeans weren't the same ones trying to take their land. Maybe they knew these men didn't want to be here. Didn't want to die. Maybe. But it would make little difference soon, as the men of the 13th began taking up firing positions. Some stood, others knelt, while others went almost completely prone.
It began. The first shots were fired from the tribesmen and the first Scottish bodies hit the sandy earth. A man just three spots over from Ramsay was alive one second and the next his head was sporting a brand new hole. Colonel MacKenzie raised his broadsword, "Men of the 13th! Return fire! Return fire! Keep in line! Keep that standard up, damn it! Drums an' pipes, keep playing! We'll play these Ahfreedee a hymn to Hell!"
The bolt action rifles of the Scots sang as the 13th opened up. Their bullets ripped into the Afrīdī as the shots began to muffle even the cacophony of the band. Ramsay raised rifle, already the fourth time, and squeezed the trigger. An Afrīdī fell dead some 300 yards away. To his right, Munroe jeered insults and curses at the rebels and was blasting away, less aiming than simply loading his gun and pulling the trigger as fast as possible.
"That's right, lads! Keep it up!" shouted MacKenzie, raising his broadsword over his head as he fired an 1885 Chevalier revolver with his other hand. Seconds later, a rifle round came smacking into his throat. Charlie McKenzie was dead, a thirty-year military career over in an instant. The strong Highlander didn't fall over instantly. Instead he seemed to be aware of the shot for just a moment. About two second later, the broadsword and revolver hit the ground. His body followed suit, slumping over in the dirt trench. Immediately his remaining second-in-command, Roger MacCrumb, took up the sword to take command in his stead. Instead, however, a second bullet, likely from the same sniper, came ripping through his skull, sending his body flipping backwards. All over the line, morale began to deplete as the now leaderless 13th attempted to hold together. Ramsay was a lowly corporal, but now he saw that if he did not act the unit would falter and collapse. He gave a pat on the back to Clyde and crouched down behind the trench. He began moving up and down the line, telling the men he was now acting commander. He also grabbed a sack full of cartridges for their bolt action rifles and began passing them out. Finally, he grabbed the broadsword from MacCrumb's lifeless hand, barely dodging sniper-fire as he did so.
For the next two hours, the battle raged on. Ramsay, still waving the broadsword, called out the orders to the 13th. Over 100 more men had died already. He knew they couldn't last forever. But the Afrīdī seemed to keep coming. Some were getting braver, attempting to charge the Scots on horseback. This was now the case on their left flank. Ramsay was shocked to see his little brother Clyde take the dead gunner's spot on the unit's single grinder. Blasting away at the oncoming cavalry, he was quickly dealing out death to the attackers. Like a scythe, he began raking the gun over the men and horses, even as they already laid on the ground lifeless, riddling them with bullets. Pure rage had taken over. And there was Munroe feeding him belts. They had saved the left flank and likely the entire 13th. Suddenly, however, a stray bullet came out of nowhere, striking Clyde in the chest. He slumped forward on the gun, causing it to spray wildly. Munroe reached over and pulled him off.
Ramsay immediately rushed over to help his wounded brother. When he arrived, he was almost too late to say goodbye. Clyde was propped up against the broken-down wagon that carried the grinder, gurgling up blood and desperately taking swigs from Munroe's whiskey flask. In a tearful goodbye, Ramsay held his little brother's hand as he passed. The only words Clyde could muster was, "I guess I proved I had sum baws, eh, brother?" Tears streaming down his face and into his mustache, Ramsay stood up, right out in the open, directly in the line of fire. He drew the dinged-up bugle from his pack and blew the charge order.
"Men of the 13th will advance! We will send them to Satan! Onward, 13th Scots! For Old Scotland!" Ramsay bellowed.
Shocked by both MacDonald brothers' selflessness and heroism, the men all stood up and cheered. All along the line, the Scottish troops were charging out of the trench and toward the Afrīdīs. And at the front of this charge was MacDonald, MacKenzie's claymore in hand, lofted above his head. The tribesmen were shocked by this seemingly nonsensical advance and began to give way. Before they knew it, the Scots were upon them, stabbing at them with bayonets and shooting them in the back with their rifles as they fled. Ramsay made quick work of several Afrīdī, literally cleaving them in half with his sword. Even the pipers and drummers were joined in with the assault, and Scotland the Brave blared over the screams of the melee. The battle had completely reversed, and the far larger but undisciplined force of Afrīdī were now routing before the Scots.
As the massacre continued, something could be heard over a nearby ridge. It was the Europan reinforcements. Crisp blue trousers, white spats, and maroon jackets, lances at the ready, the Europan cavalry descended upon the right flank of the Afrīdī. It was the Poles. The nationless exiles were a common sight in Europan colonies, and they were famed for their cavalry. But even though they did cut down a few rebels, they were far too late to the party, and far too late to save Clyde MacDonald.
After the battle Ramsay MacDonald was award the Scottish Medal of Valor, the Abercromby Medal of Gallantry, and the Legion of Honor. He was then allowed to leave the service, as he was now his mother's only remaining son, and he returned to his native town of Lossiemouth for a time to bury his brother. Despite the Legion of Honor pinned to his chest, he now bore a very massive hatred for Europa, and blamed its pointless wars of expansion for his brother's death and his own emotional scarring. For a while he busied himself supporting the Labour Party, becoming a secretary for their leader, James Davidson. But while he agreed with the Labour Party's favor of the working class, he disliked their very pro-Europan viewpoints. Indeed, Europa was a fairly liberal place and treated its workers with at least some modicum of respect, but that was not their problem. Instead, to Ramsay, their problem was their imperialistic expansionism and, as with many Scots, their Popery.
Indeed, all across Scotland there was a growing silent rage about the heavy casualties recently sustained by the Scottish Foreign Legion units. There was also an outcry for Fort Scotia to finally surrender itself back to the Republic and for Imperial troops to leave Scottish soil. It had been most of a century since the Bonapartes had installed their men inside Scotland and begun calling for tribute, and to many Scotsmen that was one lifetime too long.
In the spring of 1896, after much soul-searching, MacDonald resigned from his position in the Labour Party and publicly decried Davidson as a "limp-wristed servant of the Bonapartes who will send our precious boys off to die in some hellhole in their stead." This, as can be imagined, caused quite the ruckus in Labour and some looked to the war hero to tell them whether or not to join the Tories, the other leading party that was, in most ways, almost boringly moderate but still almost violently opposed to the Labour Party for some reason. Instead of joining them, however, MacDonald condemned both parties as do-nothing parties of rich men with deep ties to Paris, the profits of the Scottish East India Company lining their pockets.
MacDonald was never one to play by the rules and liked to take charge, to be the master of his own destiny. He did just that when, in the winter of 1896, he founded the Scottish Nationalist Party. He shot to the top of the political landscape thanks to his record for heroism and his charm and good-looks. In 1901, he announced he was running for President of Scotland, in time for the 1902 elections. It was much to his shock when the Labour Party announced their own candidate: Arnold Munroe, his old marching buddy from the Khyber Pass Campaign. Munroe was now a devout "socialist," as they were calling him, calling for the dismantling of the Scottish East India Company, the redistribution of wealth, and a cultural revolution. This was too much for MacDonald, who saw this as "Beutelism by any other name." Once close chums and comrades, the two men became bitter enemies. While Munroe ran on a promise to "reform and join Europa in a future economic union," MacDonald became increasingly more conservative and radically anti-Labour and anti-Europa.
Ramsay MacDonald, circa 1901
The election of 1902 was a nasty one, the nastiest one in Scottish history. The now bitter rivals and polar opposites threw out every punch they could, sometimes literally, as their followers began to view the election and the ensuing six-year term as President as the fate of the Republic. Whether it would stand strong and free or move toward a future where it would join Europa in securing a lasting peace and economic prosperity and fairness on the Continent. That May, when the vote tallies came in, the Scottish Nationalist Party swept to power, securing a majority of the seats in the Parliament and the Presidency and Prime Minister position (Prime Minister was largely ceremonial and went to George MacCrumb). President MacDonald celebrated inside SNP headquarters and sipped champagne with his followers. As the party raged on there, across Edinburgh at the Labour HQ the mood was sombre. Munroe and his party members announced a respectful conclusion of the race and congratulated Ramsay on his victory but vowed to "never give up the fight for the common working man and the poor."
As President MacDonald partied his way through the night, a stout young Englishman was introducing himself to the new Scottish President. He spoke of founding an English Nationalist Party and working hand-in-hand to smite Bonapartist control over the British Isles forever. The two toasted to a race well won and exchanged addresses to write each other further. The young man's name was Winston Churchill....
The Storming of the Dargai Heights
Colonel Charlie MacKenzie in his earlier years
Shout out, because a large bit of this is based on Time Enough's great EU posts about Scotland, which gave me some awesome ideas!
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Holy shit, this is crazier than ever could have imagined and I feel strangely honoured by it. Ramsay MacDonald as a radical nationalist allied with Winston Churchill is just great, hilarious and I can't wait to see what happens next. C'mon SNP vs Labour battle to the death.
Anyway I hope Ramsay become's eviler than I would have ever imagined him to be and thanks for using some of my ideas, it makes me rather proud.
Anyway I hope Ramsay become's eviler than I would have ever imagined him to be and thanks for using some of my ideas, it makes me rather proud.
I guess Ramsay Mac starts out on the Left and then shamelessly betrays them and deserts to the Right in every timeline.
Well in OTL he didn't do that, the party deserted him when he wanted to form a National Government with the conservatives which made sense when you consider it was the middle of the Great Depression and Labour was a minority government. Ramsay Mac is an interesting figure in British politics to say the least and it's a shame that more timelines aren't made about him.
Socialism hasn't really formed a uniform concept yet in this universe. Much like OTL early 20th Century there's probably a dozen different versions of Socialism and it's various spin offs.
Now if my ideas of Social Capitalism are canon then Munroe is probably partially influenced by them as well so closer economic ties with the Bonapartes make sense. Also Ramsay calling Munroe a Buetalist is probably because he doesn't understand socialism properly.
Just going to say knowing how things go in Madnessverse I get the feeling that despite being allies at the start the Churchill MacDonald partnership is going to end with them most likely killing each other since they are very different (MacDonald the Working Class lad whose fought with Europans, Churchill the upper class toff whose probably very racist).
Preferably they do it on top of a Government building in the snow, Ramsay would win by throwing Churchill of the building whilst Churchill would win by stabbing Ramsay with a sword cane.
Preferably they do it on top of a Government building in the snow, Ramsay would win by throwing Churchill of the building whilst Churchill would win by stabbing Ramsay with a sword cane.
