Maudoldu00
Banned
Fucking austrian. I hope they hopelessly destroyed like the old timelines. Desperately calling for help even from their former enemies, Ottoman even outlived austria hungary by 6 year in OTL.
With the Crescent Above Us 2.0: An Ottoman Timeline
- Thread starter Nassirisimo
- Start date
If the Ottomans win. Austria plan will Backfire. Russians are just as interested in them and Ottomans who had stopped being a major threat will probably will want revenge. So Italy, Ottomans, and Russia now all have beef with the KuK.
Clearly, the odds isn't really in Ottoman favour. For now. The Empire of Osman would be lucky to keep all of its' territories intact but the Balkans will be always point of contention. Balkans will be Balkans.
The book "A Mad Catastrophe" by Geoffrey Wawro certainly paints a farcical picture of the Austrian Empire if you ever want a look at its last few years. Personally, I think it strays a bit too far in condemning it, but the empire certainly did not make the best strategic decisions toward the end. Hell, if they had just mobilized earlier and attacked the Serbs in the wake of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand, they may well have gotten away with it. They would probably still embarrass themselves against Serbia alone though.
Being trapped between three powers doesn't sound like a good proposition, even if you have the Germans batting for you.
Well, let's see what the definition of victory can be. Perhaps the red-fezzed men of the Sultan will be marching through Sevastopol before this is done. But probably not.
I see the Balkans as somewhat of a poisoned chalice. It was the source of a good amount of the empire's revenues but also a key point of contention and conflict.
Eid Mubarak! I hope you all had a good one filled with lots of food (I still have some hazy memories of eating rendang all the way across Kedah a few years ago. Good times...)
Wartime is never easy (narratives) - 1895
Yıldız Palace
Death and taxes are the only inevitability of life, but for those who rule, paperwork joins them. Sultan Abdülhamid had always insisted on doing his own paperwork, differing from many other emperors and kings who preferred to leave the actual business of ruling to others. No one else could be trusted with the task of ruling the empire after all. To leave too much power in the hands of ministers was not only to invite ruin, but it was also to invite the kind of death that his uncle had suffered.
And yet, since the empire found itself at war once again, the burden of ruling had become near unbearable. War brought uncertainty, and uncertainty brought danger. Were his armies to lose this war, what would become of him? Perhaps he would be exiled or sent to some far-off place to live in some gilded cage. Or worse, he may face death. And he was to share this danger with no one else. This danger was his to face alone.
A knock came at the door of his office. “War Minister Osman Pasha”, the visitor announced himself from behind the door.
“Yes, come in please”, replied Abdülhamid.
In walked Osman Pasha, dressed in the uniform of the field marshal. He had aged considerably since his glory days, his beard nearly entirely white by now, but in other ways, he had changed little. The way in which he carried himself almost made one forget his relatively short stature, and the look in his eyes signalled a fierce intelligence and determination. If anyone was suited to command the Ottoman Army, it was him.
And yet, he brought terrible news. He saluted the Sultan until the latter indicated he could be at ease. Osman spoke “I bring news from the front, my Sultan”
Abdülhamid looked at him from his desk, expressionless. Whether this was intentional or simply a result of fatigue, Osman could not say. Judging from the cup of coffee on the table, he reasoned it was probably the latter. Nevertheless, he continued. “In light of the recent declaration of war by the Austrian Emperor, as well as the increasing Russian strength in the Sanjak of Tulcea, the army has judged that a full retreat from the Vilayet of the Danube is necessary in order to preserve the integrity of our forces”.
Now the Sultan reacted, slumping further into his chair. His worst anxieties were being realized, and the war was now being lost.
Osman knew that he needed to credit himself somewhat, and present something approaching a coherent plan. “Our intention is to concentrate our forces south of the Balkan Mountains, where we are better able to supply our number and integrate reservists still arriving from Asia. Our operational advantages there should allow us to protect the rest of your domains from this Russian onslaught”
Abdülhamid knew that this was a sound strategy to be sure, but this did not make him feel any better. Already he felt lost in some great morass of hopelessness. At the very least, it appeared that he would be the Sultan to lose much of Rumelia.
Osman waited for a response from the Sultan and continued once again after it became apparent that no reply was forthcoming. “Do we have your permission to retreat, my Sultan?”
Abdülhamid was despondent, but he was still the Sultan. And the Sultan had his duty to fulfil. Much as he distrusted anyone, he knew that Osman’s strategy was a sound one. It was better to give his armies a fighting chance combined, rather than to allow them to be defeated one by one as the Russians probably intended. They had certainly learned from 1877, more so than his own generals, it appeared. “You may embark on this course of action, field marshal”.
Osman saluted before turning around and striding out of the room. Delivering the news and receiving the Sultan’s assent was not so painful after all. At least, not for him.
* * * * * *
Diyarbekir Vilayet
When Abdullah awoke, with a splitting headache that he had never experienced before, he tried to piece together what had happened. There had been the sound of gunshots, some shouting, yes. But what else? Someone was coming toward him, but was this friend or foe? His vision still blurred, Abdullah tried to make out the figure approaching him.
His speculation was answered by the figure spitting in his face. The figure spoke in Armenian to someone behind him, but Abdullah could not make out what was being said. His bowls began twisting and turning as he realized that he and his men had been caught in an ambush. By Armenians no less! How could he possibly get out of this situation?
He tried bargaining, speaking Turkish to his captors, promising to give them great wealth if they would just let him go and find it for them. Enough wealth to live like kings, yes! He was only an innocent herder, taking his flocks of sheep away from the dangers of war, and wanted only to live in peace. Abdullah’s vision began to clear, and he saw that the man in front of him was not Armenian at all. He wore the uniform of a Cossack, which may have been even worse. There is no man on the earth who enjoys cruelty as much as a Cossack, after all.
He turned around, and spoke to another person once again, in Armenian. Abdullah glanced at the person, and it was no other than his third wife! Abdullah was ready to weep with happiness and thank God for this great mercy, but he looked into her eyes, and she looked at him. Whereas he saw in her only the pleasure that she had brought him, the son that she had borne him since he had taken her last year, she saw in him the charred ruins of her village and the dead bodies of her family. She had never forgotten, even though Abdullah had forgotten what he inflicted upon her. Abdullah’s temporary relief began to vanish as he looked into her eyes, and saw only a quiet, cold hatred. He spoke to her in Kurdish, begging her. “Have I not always treated you with a great amount of kindness? Have I not provided for you? I could have left you to die in that village, or give you over to my men, but I spared you! Have pity on me, tell them to spare me!”
Abdullah’s voice became hoarse as he shouted and wept. “It seems that God is allowing me to take my revenge” was all she replied to his pleas with.
Abdullah stood with his mouth agape, trying desperately to think of how he could escape this situation now. His wife and the Cossack exchanged a few brief words. The Cossack raised his pistol and put it against Abdullah’s forehead. Abdullah, practically choking on his own tears begged his captor, “Oh please, show me mercy. I have only done as others have done, please show me mercy and you will be rewarded”. The Cossack pulled the trigger, a shot rang out, and Abdullah Bey was no more.
His lifeless body slumped over, and Talar sighed. This was the end of one nightmare but seeing Abdullah’s lifeless body laid out on the dusty ground now filled her mind with other questions. She had been lucky enough that the Cossacks did not have their way with her the way the Kurd had done, but what could she do all alone with a newborn son?
She did all that she could think of. She would walk, walk far away from this place, and walk all the way to Cilicia where there could be some hope of help. Some hope of relief, where there were missionaries and others who were sympathetic to the plight of people such as herself. So, once she had finished thanking the Cossacks for her liberation, Talar walked onward. Her old life was over, but she had to protect the new life she held in her arms. She looked at the baby boy and whispered “Daron”. He would not have a Muslim name as Abdullah had wanted, for this child was hers alone.
* * * * * *
Pera, Constantinople
By July, protests had become more common. Of course, it was the war, the stories of horror coming from both the Balkans and the East which had prompted thousands to call for something to be done. Turks, Greeks and even Armenians marched side by side to demand some form of change. But deep down it was more than just the war. Many of the Armenians and the Greeks wanted the Sultan to keep the promise of the Tanzimât and bring real equality to the empire. Some of the Turks wanted a more robust military response rather than the retreats that were being whispered of despite censorship in the press. Amongst all groups, they wanted an end to the corruption and cronyism that was consuming the empire from the inside out.
Ali supposed that he was part of the latter group. Oh, he had certainly done well for himself despite not having the connections that seemed to be essential to get anywhere within the Ottoman bureaucracy. Because of this he may have cut a few corners in the past and taken some gifts that he perhaps should not have done. But he was not part of the problem, as in the end, are we not all products of our environment? They needed a constitution, to have the power out of the hands of the inept Sultan and in the hands of the people, and then the corruption would stop.
As the people protested, Ali noted the Gendarme looking grimly at the assembly. He worried for a moment, at whether some secret policemen had spotted him, noted who he was. But perhaps the Sultan had more pressing matters than what some low-ranking civil servant was doing on his day off. So on he chanted “hürriyet” along with the crowd. A dangerous word to be spoken aloud before, but one that seemed to be ever more spoken as the Sultan’s grip was loosening.
Apologies im confused why would a Armenian head back into the ottoman empire cilicia? Surely russian Armenia is better?
Armenian Cilicia probably; there are probably still Armenians there
Unless Ottomans are able to pull a Tsushima in kara sea I don't see that happening but even if it does, it will be short lived.
And Abdullah, you should have known the seduction is an art and not some brutish chart. Anyway, you probably deserved it.
And also Ottomans will be facing both Russians and Austrians in Balkans? This can only end well in the light of miscommunication Between the allies.
Maudoldu00
Banned
Rendang is good if you eat sparingly or else you will have diarrhea for a day (im typing in the toilet btw). Trust me it is worth it eating it.
Abdül Hamid blood pressure and stress is probably enough to destroy a whole plumbing system of a town, but it will probably turn into relieving after the war ended in ottoman victory or he will probably meet his Creator earlier if it the other way.
Hope they will be parliament and democratic system for the ottoman after the war.
Abdül Hamid blood pressure and stress is probably enough to destroy a whole plumbing system of a town, but it will probably turn into relieving after the war ended in ottoman victory or he will probably meet his Creator earlier if it the other way.
Hope they will be parliament and democratic system for the ottoman after the war.
#ThingsWeDidNotNeedToKnow With the Crescent Above Us 2.0 Edition
Btw; what happened to Hussein Avni Pasha? Last I checked he survived and proposed the war plan; but otherwise he just kind of disappeared from the story. By the present chapter, he’s probably retired hasn’t he?
I have to agree with you here.
There are indeed lots of Armenians in Cilicia. Keep in mind that although the Hamidian Massacres of both OTL and TTL were bloody, there were still well over a million Armenians left in the empire. The Armenians of Cilicia fared better than most, due in part because of its distance from the front as well as the larger international community in the area. There was at least some restraint when it came to massacres in front of foreign observers. Talar and Daron may well end up somewhere else, and we will be seeing them in the future.
The Ottoman navy could not pull off a Tsushima. The Japanese navy was really, really good. The Ottomans on the other hand... let's just say that this was a long time after Hayreddin Barbarossa. But a land victory may be possible. The fight hasn't been knocked out of the Ottomans yet.
Powerful men often don't bother with seduction. The Epsteins and Weinsteins of recent years remind us of that.
The Austrian plan is only to go as far as Novi Pazar, but I'm sure that strengthening the Russian hand in the Balkans can only be a good thing for the Austrians. Definitely.
I really do enjoy eating rendang though. Unfortunately living in an outlying district of Shenzhen means that foreign food ain't so easy for me to get (Xinjiang cuisine is remarkably similar to Uzbek though), it means I rarely eat it now. Perhaps next time I'm in Guangzhou I'll try the Lombok restaurant I spotted before.
As for the political system, well the war certainly will bring changes. In OTL, the parliamentary system failed to save the Ottoman Empire and Abdulhamid saw this, whereas in TTL it has been his autocracy which has failed, which may make him more amenable to change.
You'll never know where I type all these updates... (at my desk, in my living room)
I haven't touched too much on the politics of the empire so far. As of 1895, he's dead (he was born in 1820), but he will at least be mentioned in the future, particularly in a political update I have planned in the aftermath of the war.
The Heart of Darkness - August 1895
Ibrahim Osman, Zeynep Osman; Adventures in the East, A Memoir of a Naturalised Mohammedan: Palgrave Macmillan
Somewhere in Anatolia, August 1895
Somewhere in Anatolia, August 1895
Trying to march a company of a hundred or so men through territory swarming with hostiles is hard enough. To do so while trying to avoid your superior officer to avoid any awkward questions about why you are still alive is even harder. Luckily, I had a compass and unlike most officers in the Turkish army, I could actually read a map. So, my company tried to stick to the forests and hills as much as possible, resembling more a band of fedayee than an actual army company.
Of course, what set us apart were our uniforms. There was no way we could expect any mercy from Armenians or Russians if they lay their hands upon us. And perhaps there was a good reason why. We had come across a village somewhere in the hills, though we had seen the smoke from some distance away. What we came across was not one I would want to relive, and I only give an account now to underline the brutality of it.
As we approached the village, we saw no signs of life. The smoke came not from fresh fires, but from the smouldering remains of them. The smell hit us after that, that of all a manner of burned things, then the stench of death. This had been an Armenian village, or so we guessed by the tiny chapel. Lifeless bodies were strewn across the ground, some mutilated, some naked. I dread to think of the sufferings that these people endured at the hands of, what I am still ashamed to say, must have been our comrades in arms. I saw the body of a boy, perhaps less than ten years of age. His lifeless eyes stared out at me, and I glanced down at his throat, which had been cut. Seeing the dried blood around the wound, and the flies that swarmed on his body, I could not stop weeping.
But there was nothing that could be done for these people. After a minute or so, Lieutenant Orhan approached me and spoke “we need to keep moving, Captain”
I nodded, choking back my tears and replied “we need to bury these people first”
“Excuse me agha, that could take hours. I don’t think we can risk…”
“That’s an order, soldier”, I interrupted.
Orhan nodded his head. Much as he wanted to keep a level head, I could see that he had also been greatly moved by what he had seen. After an hour and a half, which was a testament to the digging abilities of the Mehmetçik, we had buried the villagers in a mass grave, and I once again order the troops to move forward.
Keep in mind that during this whole ordeal, I had not a clue of what was happening in the wider war. I had broadly known that the army had intended to fortify itself in the town of Erzurum, where the Russian superiority of numbers could be mitigated somewhat, but I also knew that bands of Armenians were taking pot-shots at our soldiers wherever possible. Add that to the Cossacks who must have been roaming the countryside by now, and it became apparent to me that rather than rejoin the main army at Erzurum, we would do best to continue deeper into Anatolia.
Our supplies were beginning to run low, and I sent some of the men out to forage. This was a risky proposition at best, considering how the countryside was full of the aforementioned Armenian fedayee bands, but I judged that death in combat was far more desirable than death by starvation. We were in luck this night, however, as some of the soldiers had managed to snatch a few sheep, which would ensure we would eat well. Meat is a wonderful thing, a rare luxury, especially for the rank and file, and we dinned well that night. Memories of the village were not forgotten perhaps but were buried, and for a few brief hours, it felt not that we were on a desperate scramble to safety, but rather some pleasant jaunt into the wilderness.
What we saw a few days later would put paid to any such notions, however. We had been marching onward for several days and assuming the main army was now besieged Russian, we must have been well clear of them. It was deeply disturbing, therefore, when we seemed to stumble upon another attack on a village. This time we could hear something, first gunshots, then screams. At this moment, I knew not whether these were Turkish soldiers or Russians, or indeed even Armenians. My first instinct was to skirt around the village, and I led the men in this direction, but as we marched, the boy’s lifeless face in the Armenian village echoed in my mind, as clear as a few days ago when I had seen this.
I still cannot completely explain how my thoughts had changed but changed what they had done. Were they Turkish soldiers in the village, we could at least try to persuade them to stop the massacre. Were they Russians, well, we knew how to fight them. So it was that I told my subordinates of my intention to sneak upon the village. We would approach from three different sides, get a good sense of who was attacking the village, and kill them if needs be. I tell you the truth that even after several campaigns from Bulgaria to Aceh, I was as scared as I had ever been. I must have been sweating something fearsome, but nevertheless, I and my men advanced on the village, silently.
We had approached close enough to see our quarry. Cossacks. There was still activity in the village, and I signalled the men to scramble closer to the village, and not to make a sound if possible. I wanted us to overcome our foes with the element of surprise, in the hope that we could take on isolated bands of these marauders. And this, we did. I’m not sure how, but somehow, we managed to slay the twenty Cossacks out in the open without so much as a shot being fired. We crept behind them, bayoneting them, cutting their throats, all the while trying to muffle their screams of pain. The sight of dead villagers drove all pity from our hearts, as we began to search the houses of the village for any other Cossacks. Most houses were empty of living people, inhabited only by the dead.
In one house, I overhead weeping, and the laughter of men. I peered through the door at two Cossacks, their attention evidently focused on what was occurring inside the house to realize what had happened outside. And their feet, a near-naked woman, clothes torn and her face red with tears. She was glancing at a pile of corpses at the other end of the room, what I could only assume had been her family. She turned her gaze to me, and her eyes widened in astonishment. “This is it, I’m had now!”, I thought as the Cossacks noticed and began to turn around.
There was nothing else for it. With my sabre in my hand, I lunged at one of the men, slicing his torso. His comrade began fumbling for his pistol in shock and dodged another swing of my sword, managing to fire. God must have guided the bullet away from me, as it is the only way to explain how I was unharmed. I struck for the Cossack, and my blade found its target as I drove my way deep into his belly. I pulled it out, as I hacked at his neck.
I stood, covered in his blood and panting. My head seemed to be swimming as I collapsed onto the floor. Less than a minute had passed until I turned toward the woman, who was near catatonic. I found a coat which I wrapped around her before asking her “Can you speak Turkish?”
She looked at the floor in front of the bodies of her family, expressionless. I had not received my answer, but I continued nonetheless, “I am Captain Ibrahim Osman, Xth Corps of the Army of Silistra. You’re safe now”
She did not react to this either. I did not want to touch her, but nor could I leave her here. “I will be back”, I said to her as I left the house.
My men had gathered in the centre of the village. Some were covered in blood, a few limping. “Are we all clear?” I asked Orhan. He nodded and glanced at my bloody sabre. “You found some Cossacks, sir?”, he asked me. “Two, about to violate a woman or having just done so”
Orhan shook his head, “those savages. How is she?”
“She seems okay, physically. But as to her mind, I doubt she will ever be okay again. She is the last of her family”
“Well, we found a few other survivors. A few children who managed to hide, a few other women. All the men are dead. We found the Mukthar’s body stripped naked and mutilated”
Until this day, from all the ugliness one sees as a soldier, I will never forget what I experienced in this nameless hamlet. When soldiers march to war, they convince themselves of the justness of their cause. They are marching out to liberate, stop the atrocities of others, and defend their country or their religion. The justifications are usually irrelevant, and the effects are usually the same. Whenever they come across those who cannot fight back, should it prove expedient they shall do whatever they please to these innocents. This truth is always one that my experience has always attested to, no matter how civilized these soldiers believe themselves to be, or how they act once they are back home in their familiar beds and with their wives. Deep down, we are all the worst kind of barbarians.
As for the surviving villagers, who knew what to do with them? Their world had been destroyed, and these Cossacks would not be the last Russians they saw. After discussion, we decided to bring them along with us. Not a wise move when you are fighting to keep ahead of the enemy, but we decided that we could not live with ourselves otherwise.
We were beginning our march out of the village when once again I entered the house in which I had found the woman. She had barely moved since I saw her, but when I came in, she looked toward me again. “Ibrahim”, is all she said. I answered affirmatively. I moved over to her and reached out my hand. A Muslim woman is loath to touch any man to whom she is not married or who is not Mahram, but in desperate circumstances, these notions are swiftly forgotten. [1] At that point, I was simply the one who had saved her from a nightmare, and this was enough. She took my hand and lifted herself up. She introduced herself, “I am Amel”.
[1] - A Mahram is someone closely related to you by blood, sisters, mothers, and aunts among others. Basically, someone who you are forbidden to marry.
* * * * * *
Author's note - I promise that at least for some time, this is the last of the super-depressing updates. We are moving toward the climax of the war and this is very much an ugly war, with civilians targetted just as often as soldiers. Whoever wins the conflict this is going to change a lot of things, and it is unlikely that the Tanzimat era hope of a multiconfessional Ottoman society can be easily repaired.
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