Chapter 473: Chapter 46, Rule-Abiding Feckney
 

The setting sun bled into the horizon, its residual glow casting the earth in shades of demise as the air hung heavy with the stench of blood and gunpowder.

Dark brown hawks periodically swooped down from the sky, snatching morsels of flesh from the ground. The atmosphere was eerily peculiar, as if one had stepped into the depths of hell.

Soldiers tasked with cleaning the battlefield paid little mind to this. Having just endured a grueling battle, they were all physically and mentally exhausted, eager only to gather the remains of their comrades and return them to the embrace of God.

As for the enemy’s remains, there was no need for their concern; those were left for the conscripted Zulu people to deal with, unceremoniously dumped into hastily dug pits.

Incidents were unavoidable on the battlefield: someone might collapse unexpectedly or be left unconscious from an injury. If left to the unreliable Zulu people, they would likely bury all unscrupulously.

It mattered not if it were the enemy – buried was buried – but such treatment of a comrade would be a true tragedy.

Therefore, during the battlefield cleanup, “Boer Republic” soldiers supervised the Zulu laborers, the former in charge of inspection and direction, the latter tasked with the grunt work.

Not far off, a “Boer” officer approached with a few soldiers in tow – a middle-aged man in his forties or fifties, tall and slightly lean, with golden hair coupled with eyes that displayed formidable vitality.

The visitor was none other than Viscount Feckney, surveying the battlefield in full role, with all participants donned in the uniforms of the Boer Republican Army.

These uniforms were hastily made due to the pressing time constraints—many were merely common clothes, dyed to pass as military garb.

Yet, do not underestimate this minor change; on the battlefield, vivid uniforms became easy targets. The unattractive yellow-green of the Boer Republic may not have been aesthetically pleasing, but it triumphed in practicality.

A mere drop to the ground blended one into the surrounding hues, facilitating concealment from afar.

By contrast, the British Army flaunted their flamboyant red uniforms—stylish indeed, but starkly out of place in the environment, rendering them as conspicuous as bulls-eyes.

For Viscount Feckney, who had spent many years in Africa, the appeal of aesthetics was negligible – could it even be consumed?

As a pragmatist, Viscount Feckney had never concerned himself with the attractiveness of military dress.

In fact, except for banquets or certain events that dictated formal attire, he would don military garb, notably the camouflage suitable for African jungles.

Years of living in Africa had taught him that the closer one’s clothing was to the natural environment, the easier it was to survive.

Indeed, at this time, the Austrian army’s uniforms varied: the troops in Libya and the Sinai Peninsula wore sandy yellow, while those in the Congo region sported a mix of camouflage colors.

In the South African region, the yellow-green of the Boer Republic was appropriate. Ugly as it may be, its practicality meant there was no need to stand out.

The British uniforms’ glaring vulnerability was exploited by Viscount Feckney, ambushing them numerous times in the jungle.

After several engagements, the British had learned to avoid the woods, retracting their lines to engage only on the open battlefield.

Viscount Feckney knew this was only a beginning. Before long, he suspected the British might not venture out to fight at all.

This was the nature of warfare: the front lines typically saw ratios of seven-to-one, eight-to-one, while in the jungle, disparities like fifteen-to-one were common.

Continue this, and the British numerical advantage would soon evaporate. Governor Delf had been striving, and the British soldiers fought valiantly.

Unfortunately, the native troops’ combat effectiveness was quite limited; beyond being fodder, they contributed little on the battlefield.

Without the British soldiers present, such exchange ratios would be unattainable – not to question their bravery, as they were often more courageous than many British soldiers.

However, this was no longer the age of cold steel, and bravery did not equate to strength in combat. With discipline lax and orders ignored, the soldiers would often shoot into the air without sighting the enemy.

Even in the 21st century, many African armies fought in this manner: oblivious to the enemy’s position during exchanges of fire, with rifles aimed high, bullets soaring skyward.

Charging without formation, these ranks dissolved into chaos. There were no Gatling guns then, but Austria had no shortage of machine guns, ideal for countering such disorganized assaults.

With little care for their own lives, the British commanders cared even less for these expendable forces. From the war’s onset, they filled their ranks with native fodder.

Compared to European conflicts, this more closely resembled child’s play. Despite the ferocity of the fight, the primary casualties were supplied by these cannon fodders.

Were it not a concern for wasting ammunition and burdening logistics, Viscount Feckney would have also formed a cannon fodder army to wear down the British with attrition.

Feckney had experience with such matters, having previously led native tribes in clearing operations, using native troops to minimize losses.

When it came to killing their own, these men were relentless. Feckney was certain that the Africans who perished at the hands of colonizers were far fewer than those killed by their own kin, not even one-tenth.

After all, labor was currency, and the colonists valued their own wealth, while the native forces showed no such regard. When the combat ceased, these native troops were also largely expended.

Even then, Viscount Feckney had organized a native melee force, thrusting them forward whenever hand-to-hand combat ensued.

Should you witness two black troops clashing in the Anglo-Ebura War while two white armies spectated, do not be surprised – this was routine.

It was an unspoken accord between the sides: the British, too, hoped to equalize casualties through such battles, lest the figures appear unfavorable.

Viscount Feckney did not wish to immediately end the war; merely driving the British out of the Boer Republic was not enough to satisfy his appetite—he now had his sights set on British-South Africa.

These incremental victories were not enough to break the British spirit, leaving them with the hope of victory, and that would keep the war going.

It would be time for the decisive battle only after pushing the front line deep into the heartland of British-South Africa. By then, the new recruits of the Boer Republic would have become veterans, ready to burst forth and seize Cape Town, creating a fait accompli.

At that point, it would be the turn of the two countries’ foreign ministries to quibble. Regardless of the final outcome of negotiations, their military achievements would be secured. On this issue, all the nobility who participated in this war were unprecedentedly unanimous in their stance.

Since the adoption of this new mode of combat, the exchange ratio between the two sides had quickly approached one another. From the super numbers of seven to one, eight to one, it swiftly fell within two to one, and occasionally, it could even be reversed.

After all, it wasn’t their own men who were dying, so neither side felt any pressure.

Whether it was Governor Delf or Viscount Feckney, the casualty reports they sent did not include the native forces, even the very existence of this troop could be glossed over with a single stroke of the pen.

In just a few months, the total number of casualties in the Anglo-Ebura War had exceeded one hundred thousand. If they were all white soldiers, it would be unbearable for anyone.

Now, this was an easy way for everyone to report in; it didn’t matter if a defeat was suffered, just round up a cannon fodder army for a thrashing to gather enough heads to compile a report.

With a stroke of Spring and Autumn historiography, a major defeat could be portrayed as a stalemate. The reason for retreating would be a strategic shift to prevent giving the enemy an opportunity.

Governor Delf’s reports were written in this manner; a continual stream of victories was reported while at the same time, he kept asking for reinforcements from home. There was nothing wrong with that; any excuse would do, such as claiming that the enemy received reinforcements.

This is the African Continent, and it’s impossible for members of parliament to personally visit the front lines. The London Government was manned by their own people; if there were a defeat at the front, the Cabinet would also be questioned by the parliament.

A tall and broad-smiling young officer ran over and reported to Viscount Feckney, “General, the casualties have been tallied. Our forces suffered 76 dead and 84 wounded; we defeated the enemy, killing 156, and capturing 98.”

This figure automatically omitted the casualties from both native forces. Even if they were recorded, it wouldn’t matter; the Vienna Government would not acknowledge them.

The white soldiers who were killed constituted military merit, the annihilation of native forces merely added up; at a rate of one hundred to one, the figure was trivial.

After that data, minus the casualties of our own cannon fodder army, there was essentially nothing left.

It wasn’t that the Vienna Government was being harsh; it was practical necessity. Without this restriction, within a year these nobles could fabricate military achievements for millions, resulting in marshals flying all over the sky and dukes walking all over the ground.

Principles? What are those? They’re non-existent! Even if all the local natives were converted into military merits, the colonists could do it all the same.

With this constraint, it was different. If someone really wanted to boost their military merits using natives, they would have to kill hundreds of thousands before they could be ennobled, which was virtually impossible with a few hundred colonists.

Without the ability to inflate military merits indiscriminately, no matter. Aside from military achievements, captured war spoils and conquered land could all be converted into military honors.

Most nobility received their titles by expanding territory; naturally, war spoils were embezzled, after all, exchanging them for military merits was too costly.

This was legal; within colonial activities, all captures could be handled at one’s discretion, whether exchanged for military merits with the government or split among themselves.

Precisely because of this, the South Africa War had become so sought after; after all, it involved tangible achievements that could not only lead to ennoblement but also to promotions in military rank.

Don’t think military ranks are of no use; in the Germany Region, they symbolize honor, especially those earned through true combat, the most respected of all.

Even a commoner who rose through military achievements would be respected by everyone. Conversely, nobility without military merits would be looked down upon by the established aristocracy.

By now, another group of nobles had reported under Viscount Feckney’s command. Some participated as individuals, others with their family’s private armies, and there were even armed forces from Colonial Companies joining in. If the war continued, their numbers would grow further.

Without the addition of these individuals, it would be unknown how long it would take for the newly formed “Boer Republican Army” to develop its combat effectiveness.

After all, soldiers could be trained in a few months, but officers were not so easily cultivated. The combat power that a troop without qualified officers could wield was extremely limited.

This result had not surprised Viscount Feckney; the British were still as slippery as ever, deploying the cannon fodder army to cover the retreat while making a getaway.

He jubilantly ordered, “Understood. Transmit the command for the units to first tend to the wounded. The main force will rest for a day and then continue advancing.”

The young officer responded, “Yes, General!”

Viscount Feckney slightly furrowed his brow and said calmly, “Do not call me General, I am currently merely a Colonel. Spreading that would make us a laughing stock.”

There was no help for it; although he commanded tens of thousands of troops in battle, his military rank remained that of a Colonel. Even if he were to be promoted, that would have to wait until after the war when he returned to Vienna.

Before then, he could only command the army in the capacity of a Colonel. These were the rules; it would be laughable and considered uncouth and ignorant of protocol to prematurely claim the title of General.

Viscount Feckney too hailed from nobility, albeit lesser nobility. But this family lineage had spanned a hundred years, barely qualifying as an established noble family.

Feckney always took codes of conduct seriously, especially when it touched upon family reputation; carelessness was not an option.

…