Holy Roman Empire - Chapter 479

Chapter 479: Chapter 52, Packaging is Very Important
 

The war was still ongoing, and Franz had already prepared a plan for the development of Africa after the war. At this stage, the Anglo-Ebura conflict had evolved into a confrontation between the United Kingdom and Austria.

In the midst of the changing international situation, the South African battlefield was just one component. The world had been almost completely divided up, and maintaining restraint had become increasingly difficult.

One could imagine that colonial conflicts would continue in the future. This South African war was merely a warm-up, exploring new ways to resolve international disputes.

Survival of the fittest would be the theme of this world, and the competition among the great powers was becoming fiercer by the day. The strong would take more of the cake, becoming even more powerful; the weak would be squeezed and their living space further compressed.

South Africa, West Victoria.

An endless stream of supply wagons kicked up rolling clouds of dust as if covering up everything. The vehicles creaked as they moved forward, snaking along the temporarily cleared roads for dozens of miles.

Bathed in morning light, the uniforms thrown on the wagons glistened red; rakes, iron shovels, and small wooden barrels were all set upright as if they were sentries…

In the distance, there was a busy crowd clearing obstacles from the road. In this era, South Africa had vast stretches of sparsely populated land with only a few Native Tribes along the way, and almost no roads or traffic to speak of.

The path they were on was initially constructed by the British for their attack on the Boer Republic, and many areas along the way had been destroyed.

Infantry marches could overcome these difficulties, but supply convoys could not—they had to repair the roads first.

The former cannon fodder army had now taken on the role of laborers, toiling away. Occasionally overseers wielding whips hurried them along, eager to accelerate the pace.

Viscount Feckney moved with the main force and glanced at the time, asking, “How much longer until the supply convoy arrives?”

Like most wars, the “Boer Republican Army” was waiting for supplies. It was inevitable in offensive operations deep into enemy territory that the main force would clear the way and the supply convoy would follow closely behind.

Because the advance was so rapid, logistics were beginning to lag behind.

The original plan was to transport supplies via rivers, but unfortunately, it was the season of summer floods. Added to this, the British had destroyed the waterways during their retreat, turning water transport into a fantasy.

In this war, the greatest enemy was time. Viscount Feckney led his troops all the way to Worcester and was not far from Cape Town—within a maximum of two days, they could be right outside the city.

As the war progressed, the British had abandoned their defensive lines along the way and focused on defending Cape Town.

Cape Town was now brimming with soldiers, and British reinforcements kept arriving. If the war could not be concluded within the year, it would mean the failure of the campaign.

Naval superiority was that powerful; John Bull relied on seaborne supplies, so logistics were never a problem.

In contrast, Austria had to rely on horse-drawn and ox-drawn wagons to transport supplies, which severely limited the number of troops they could deploy in this attack and defense battle.

If they couldn’t create a window of opportunity to end the war before the main forces of the British Army rallied, the roles in the offensive and defensive would be reversed.

“The first batch of supplies will arrive by tomorrow evening; the second batch is expected to arrive in a week,” the young officer replied confidently, around twenty years old, his voice ringing with strength that matched his crisp uniform—seemingly tailor-made for him.

After considering for a moment, Viscount Feckney ordered, “Urge the logistics department again; spare no expense to expedite the delivery of supplies.

Order the second engineer battalion to clear the river channels as quickly as possible. Allow them to conscript local Native laborers on the spot, and disregard the losses. What I require is speed!”

Viscount Feckney was no longer the naive young man he once was. The allure of capturing Cape Town was tempting, but this war was not easy to fight.

If it weren’t for the previous battles that had worn down the British morale and fighting spirit, he wouldn’t have launched a summer offensive.

Now, the British had concentrated a force of 85,000 around Cape Town, on this territory of just over a thousand square kilometers. Most of the troops were white units; the cannon fodder army had all but been depleted in previous fights, with no time to replenish.

In this respect, Governor Delf had been competent. He had lost terrain and cities but managed to preserve the core fighting force.

This was not good news for Viscount Feckney. The enemy was slippery and old-hand, refusing to engage his main forces in battle.

In war, it isn’t the early victor that counts as the winner, but the one who prevails in the end. To prevent a British turnaround, Viscount Feckney was also preparing measures for after the battle.

Clearing the river channels was part of this, as long as the logistics were secure. Even if the British won the defense of Cape Town, they would only keep on to the land of the Cape of Good Hope.

They would have to expand the British Army by two or three times if they wanted to counterattack! Otherwise, that pocket-sized army wouldn’t be enough to fill the gap.

“Yes, Commander,” the young officer responded promptly. As the words fell, the young officer rose and walked several dozen meters away to relay the commands via telephone.

Indeed, the telephone had made its appearance in the military. Like many countries, the most advanced technology was often first applied in the military before it became common among civilians.

Because of the war, telephones had also been introduced into the “Boer Republican Army.” However, they had only been introduced for a short time and were used as a tool for short-distance communication, with telegraphy still being employed for longer distances.

Internal communications within the command post had already been replaced by the telephone. Previously, messages that necessitated a messenger were now being conveyed directly over the phone.

After the “beep beep beep beep” sounds, the logistics department’s line was connected. The young officer quickly conveyed the orders, then connected to the engineer command…

After a brief pause, a military staff officer suggested, “Commander, the upcoming battle for Cape Town will be difficult. To minimize losses, I suggest we conscript as many cannon fodder troops as possible.

If the attack is resisted, we use human lives to fill in the gaps. We could take a leaf out of the Russian playbook from their attack on Constantinople.”

It wasn’t the best method, but it was the most effective one. Heavy artillery had been ready by the Vienna Government for some time and was en route.

In conjunction with using heavy artillery for siege, it was natural to use human lives as well. Despite wearing the guise of the “Boer Republican Army,” in reality, they were Austrian troops.

It was unthinkable to use these forces as fodder; moreover, their numbers weren’t sufficient. Even now, there were only slightly more than 40,000 of them.

Fortunately, the British Army on the other side wasn’t doing much better. Although they seemed numerous, their actual regular forces numbered only twenty to thirty thousand.

The rest were either temporarily conscripted young men or colonial troops from various regions, with a serious case of filling the ranks with riffraff.

Furthermore, due to a series of defeats at the early stages of the conflict, continuous losses had completely demoralized the troops, allowing the Austrians to press them hard in battle.

Without any hesitation, Viscount Feckney issued the order, “Command the Third Division to go out and conscript troops, requisition all capable men that come into their sight from any tribes, and kill anyone who resists without discussion. Remember to levy some more grain as well, to reduce the burden on our logistics as much as possible.”

Cold and ruthless, this was a prerequisite for a colonist. Viscount Feckney didn’t care about the consequences his orders might bring; winning the war was all that mattered.

…

In Cape Town, the situation was now one of widespread panic. Governor Delf had given multiple speeches to boost morale, but under the shadow of past defeats, his words held no sway.

The “two hundred thousand” soldiers of the Boer Republican Army were about to encircle the city, how could the citizens of Cape Town not panic? The wealthy had already left by ship.

Those without money were preparing to take their families and head to the Cape of Good Hope to seek refuge. Although there wasn’t a great distance between the two places, the fall of Cape Town might also mean the Cape of Good Hope would not be safe.

However, being further from the enemy was always better, at least ensuring temporary safety.

The Puring family were also among those seeking to escape the calamity, and being too poor to afford a carriage, they could only push a wheelbarrow forward by human force.

On the road to refuge, there were many such families, taking their few possessions and fleeing from Cape Town to the Cape of Good Hope.

“Puring, you have been conscripted, hurry and report to our troop!”

A familiar voice sounded, plunging Puring into the depths of despair. It was this very voice that had sent his three sons to the battlefield, and now their fate was unknown.

Puring hurriedly explained, “Respected Chief of Police Amble, I am already 48 years old and have passed the age for military service; I’m not within the age range for conscription.”

His sons had all joined the army, and now he could not go as well. If the pillar of the household were taken away, what would become of his three young grandsons?

In those times, a woman’s wage was far lower than a man’s, making it very difficult for them to support children.

Chief of Police Amble sighed, suppressing that sliver of conscience in his heart and scolded loudly, “Two hundred thousand enemy soldiers are pressing the border, and Cape Town is in crisis.

For the defense of Cape Town, the governor’s mansion has just promulgated a new decree, extending the age limit for service to 55 years old.

If you don’t want to join the service, then pay 50 British Pounds for exemption. If you have no money, then don’t bother talking, it’s no use talking to me about it.”

This was clearly not an order from Governor Delf; a competent politician like him would never issue such a heartless order.

In this era, people aged quickly, and the elderly were of little use on the battlefield. The governor’s mansion conscription orders were only aimed at men aged 18 to 40; they had no interest in the old and weak.

It was just that the officials below altered the regulations to amass wealth. The wealthy could bypass military service by paying money, and that shortfall had to be filled by someone.

Without the money to pay, Puring had no choice but to be forcibly enlisted. This was also just bad luck on his part, had he fled fast enough, he might have avoided this fate.

In these chaotic times, if not Puring, then some other unfortunate would take his place; as long as the numbers were met, it didn’t matter who actually served.

“Two hundred thousand,” a figure self-proclaimed by Viscount Feckney. How the Boer Republic, with a population of less than two hundred thousand, could muster an army so large, no one knew.

Regardless, Governor Delf solemnly assured that the enemy numbered two hundred thousand. Yes, the Boers had indeed defeated them with overwhelming numbers, this point was indubitable.

And so he said in telegrams to the London Government, and of course, the same message was spread in the Cape Town Colony. If anyone was not to become the scapegoat of this war’s failure, he would need to substantiate this number.

The British public could tolerate failure to some extent; an occasional setback under the circumstances of the enemy’s strength compared to our weakness was forgivable.

This was where propaganda came in, and Governor Delf was clearly adept at self-promotion. He had already managed to shift much of the blame for the war’s failures.

Otherwise, the London Government would have replaced him long ago; no one could tolerate a governor who kept on failing, especially one who was restless and initiated the war.

A middle-aged officer reported, “Your Excellency the Governor, the new round of conscription has been completed, totaling 8,000 men this time.”

Governor Delf nodded and said compassionately, “Very well, you’ve done an excellent job. It’s just hard on the citizens of Cape Town, who now need to make a sacrifice for the Empire.”

At this moment, Governor Delf seemed less like a cunning politician and more like a compassionate saint.

An official immediately echoed, “There’s no other way, with our enemy’s formidable approach and the likely loss of Cape Town, no one could escape.

The people enlisting now are also doing so to protect their families from the suffering of war.

Your Excellency, don’t be too heartbroken; the sacrifices of the people are worthy, and I’m sure everyone will understand your well-meant intentions.”

The governor, as if possessed by an actor, shook his head and said, “The people’s opinion of me is not important; all of this is for the Empire.

If I can keep Cape Town safe, even if it means going to my death right now, I wouldn’t frown.

I’ve made my decision, I swear to share the fate of Cape Town. This is my written will; if I should unfortunately die on the battlefield, please trouble yourselves to deliver it to my family.”

The scene was very touching, and everyone was moved. But that was merely on the surface; everyone knew that should Cape Town fall, the Governor Delf, who had instigated this war, would be finished.

Alive and back in London, he would inevitably have to face a military tribunal, spending the rest of his life in prison, and his entire family would not be able to lift their heads high again.

The best option was to die on the battlefield, and then the situation would change in an instant. Even if just for political propaganda needs, the London Government would turn him into a “tragic hero.”

All of this, Governor Delf was acutely aware of; he even knew that even if he managed to hold Cape Town, there would be no good outcome for him.

To lessen his responsibility, he now had to play this tragic role, to fashion himself as a “hero.”