A Gentleman's War : The Middle-East Command (HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)

[Eurasia]

The Cast Of Characters….so far

I figured to put a break in-between the chapters to take a little look at all the special cast we have in this game. First, of course, the English of the Middle East Command Theatre.

At the top is Field Marshall Anthony C.H. Melchett. A man willing to win no matter how many of his own troops die trying. He is in charge of a Corps and a Garrison Division.

The Garrison Division is stationed on Malta.

The Corps, named the Middle East Command, is commanded by Lt. General Gowrie and is stationed in Alexandria (El Iskandariya).

Under Lt. General Gowrie was four infantry divisions and a small one-brigade garrison unit. Maj. General Edmund Blackadder is in charge of the 6th Infantry Division and Maj. General St. Barleigh is in charge of the 23rd ‘Northumbrian’ Division.

Also under the direct control of the Middle East Commander Theatre is the 1st Submarine Squadron in Malta, the 1st Middle Easy Flotilla and the Mediterranean Fleet based in Alexandria.

Also in the airbases of Alexandria is the Middle East Air Command. Which is just a wing tactical bombers.

If course those are not the only special members of the cast. Oh no.

There is Lt. General Kevin Darling in India. And Lord Flasheart (pronounced Flashheart because the second ‘h’ is invisible) who is still on the Reserve list.

Then there is Lt. General ‘Baron’ S. Baldrick who is with the French and why they put him in charge of a Corps I have NO idea. I think they just ran out of officers and he was the last one.

Then there is Eurasia! I put him in the game during the Japanese AAR and, like last time, the USSR put him in charge of a Corps. But this time it isn’t basic infantry divisions. He has ONE Motorized Division.

In Germany the AI is pissing me off. First, in the Japanese AAR, I noticed that one of the most interesting characters from the German side, if not a interesting historical character in 20th Century, Otto Skorzeny, was missing. So I put him in. And they made him a Infantry Commander. Really?!?

My original character, Kael Weber, and the fiction character I pulled out from ‘Hellsing’, Montana Max, are still cooling their heels on the ‘Reserve List’. This is because of a lack of ‘von’ in their name?

And your favorite character in Japan is also cooling his heels waiting for a command.

We will revisit this in 1940 when three new Japanese officers will be activated from retirement. If the game lasts that long.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty : Autumn In The Middle East - 1.10.1936 To 31.10.1936

October In Egypt was a mixture of storms at the start of the month and sunshine by the end of it.

Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett seemed to take the weather, no matter what it was, as a insult to his very person.

“At least in France we have good food, good wine, and could hunt down the peasants for sport whenever we liked!” he would say to anyone who would listen. No matter how many times Captain Malek would politely ask him not too.

Blackadder and St. Barleigh, and most of the other veteran officers, were use to living in harsh conditions and were supreme examples to their men on how to handle living in poor conditions.

To help pass the time St. Barleigh even taught painting, how to properly prepare tea, and upper class slang to his men. Blackadder spent his free time teaching sewing classes, how to keep vermin out of one’s bedroll, and explaining to his troops NOT to use upper class slang because it made you sound like a ‘git’. (1)

The common British soldier, called the ‘Tommy’, was a survivor. He learned to boil all his water, sleep anytime and anywhere, and sometimes would even pick up some of the local languages. The men were lucky as the Middle East Theatre was very well supplied. In fact Malta seemed to have more than it needed - which was not a bad idea if it became the center of attention when the war started.

This was all likely the result of being right on the shipping lanes for the Far East. It was so easy for ships to drop by the ports, unload food and fuel and military equipment, then move on.

In the end the British soldier was happy with a sheltered spot to sleep, a good cuppa, dry cigarettes, and a clean brothel.

On the 3rd it was noticed that the Italian militia were back on the border. Likely they would run out of food and supplies, go back to the port to stock up, and then return to the border. At least that was the theory.

On the 13th, during breakfast, the Captain suggested an idea to the Field Marshall.

“Sir,” said the Captain as he refilled the Field Marshall's orange juice, “Once we get the fighters we should assign them to the airbases in Malta. So they can beat back Italian aircraft who may try to bomb the islands.”

“Fine idea,” said the man as he chewed on a very tough grilled tomato. “The pilots will enjoy the sun, the sea, the tanned girls.”

The cooks had stopped using real tomatoes weeks ago and were now using dehydrated chicken gizzards as tomatoes for the Field Marshall's breakfast. All they had to do was soak the hearts in beet juice, flatten them, and burn lines into them. They figured if dehydrated chicken gizzards were good enough for the K9 units it was good enough for the Field Marshall. The man barely noticed the difference.

Funny enough when asked it turned out the cooks had plenty of tomatoes available. They had just come to hate the Field Marshall.

“Eh…yes sir,” replied the Captain. “I was also thinking of radar stations for both Malta and Alexandria. To act as eyes for our pilots. So they can better plan their defenses.”

“Sounds sensible,” said the Field Marshall. “Anything for our good fly boys, ehs?” So he signed off the orders to build radar stations in both regions.

“Oh,” continued the Captain. “As your in such a good mood sir, I was wondering if I could have next Sunday off. Its my birthday.”

“Your superior would have to be mad NOT to give you your birthday off.”

“Well,” said the Captain, “eh…you ARE my superior.”

“Well?” encourage the Field Marshall with a cheerful voice and a smile on his face.

“So I can have my birthday off, sir?”

“No,” replied the man with the smile still on his cheerful face.

“Thank you sir.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author’s Notes:

1. When sleeping in the desert it is very important to totally seal up your sleeping bag or bedroll. Otherwise the next morning you may find you face being chewed on by a camel spider. I knew some vets and that was one of their stories.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty-One : Military Intelligence - 1.11.1936 To 30.11.1936

It was in the middle of November, during lunch, and Maj. General George Colthursy St. Barleigh was visiting Maj. General Edmund Blackadder.

George had learned to enjoy his time with Blackadder. And lunch time was a special time. Where they could just chat about anything while enjoying some of the best food either one of them ever had,

Not that the cooks back at his estate were bad, of course. But sometimes one wanted good English food. Food not influenced by French fads from across the British Channel or some whisper of an idea from New York City or New Orleans. There was only so much blackened catfish or blue cheese one could eat before wishing for basic English dishes.

“Blackadder,” said George as they started on their crab salad. “I was wondering. Out of all the officers you seem to get along the best with Lt. General Ludlow-Heweitt. I mean, besides how well you get along with me, of course. But I was wondering…well..why him? I thought you hated pilots.”

“Yes,” said Blackadder. “Normally I hate pilots with a passion. But Ludlow-Heweitt isn’t one of those fighter pilots who goes off with your wife behind your back. He is in charge of our tactical bombers. Those chaps will be supporting us on the ground. Killing Italians tanks.”

“But my dear Blackadder,” said George with a chuckle. “The Italians are all militia units. They don’t have any tanks.”

“How do you know that?” asked Blackadder as he enjoyed his crab salad.

“Well…because we haven’t seen any,” replied George.

“Really?”

“Well,” continued George. “Our ships have not detected anything besides militia. And maybe a few ships in their ports. Everything we have seen is militia. Maybe a infantry division once.”

“George,” said Blackadder, calmly, “pretend you're the Italians on our border right now. You sitting there in your foxholes, boiling your pasta, drinking your coffee, and looking across the sand dunes to the British side. How many troops do the British have?”

“Well, a lot!” exclaimed George with a proud expression on his face.

“But how many do you see as you look over the sand dunes?”

“Well….we don’t have any positioned on the border,” admitted George looking a tad sheepish. “So….they would think we have... none?”

“Only if they’re stupid,” responded Blackadder as he finished his salad.

He waited in silence for staff to take the empty plate and replace it with his next course, a wonderful fish dish, with smoked bacon, artichokes, and girolles cooked en papillote.

“Remember they have likely noticed the movement of all those transport going back and forth,” added Blackadder as he waited for George to be served. “So they know this is not just a empty wasteland. So they assume we exist and I assume they have more than just militia.”

“I say….very smart,” said George as he enjoyed the sight of the delightful dish before him.

After a few minutes of both of them enjoying their main course George peeked up from his plate with a puzzled look on his face.

“May I ask something else?”

“Go ahead,” said Blackadder as he tested the wine the cooks had picked to go with the fish.

“How can your cooks do such a wonderful job with army rations?”

“Like most of the officers in Alexandria I have made friends with the local shop keepers, farmers, and fishing fleets,” explained Blackadder. “So I receive much of my ‘rations’ from the locals. Fresh and, somewhat, cheaper than importing it all the way from England. And, unlike a certain Field Marshall, I don’t treat my cooks like shite.”

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty-Two : A Crazy Christmas - 1.12.1936 To 31.12.1936

Italian Infantry In Africa​

December started out with a Italian infantry division being noticed in the Province of Ridotta Capuzzo.

And the French reported another Italian infantry unit on their side of Africa in the Province of Rass Ajdir.

“Gee wiz,” said George with a amazed look on his face when he saw the reports during one of their morning briefings. “Blackadder, why are you not in military intelligence?”

“I hate typing,” replied Blackadder.

“Really?”

“No George,” added Blackadder. “The fact is the folks in intelligence have years of special training and spend hours, if not days, bent over photos and maps. Trying their best to detect and filter out the smallest of details from all the trash to find that gem of information that can help fight the enemy.”

Blackadder held out his hands and mimicked letting sand fall through his fingers, “Its like pouring sand into your hands for weeks on end to find that one rare shell to add to your collection. And as much as I would prefer not to be killed on the front line it sounded like too much work to me.”

“Ha! Always joking…oh wait, you’re serious?”

“Also the fact that one screw up and the result might be the death of thousands of your fellow comrades,” Blackadder added. “And I had enough of that during the last war.”

“Oh blimey,” replied George. “I see what you mean.”

On top of that the Italians were even more offensive. As on the 4th of December some of their spies had the nerve to steal the technology of the UK’s most advanced Battle Cruiser Armour.

On the evening of the 24th, Blackadder and George were exchanging gifts at a officers’ Christmas Eve Party that was being held at the El Iskandriya’s Officer Mess. Of course they both gave each other wool socks.

They then went to enjoy the flaming Christmas Pudding, roast duck, and mince pies which went wonderful with a somewhat strong punch the bar was serving.

“Blackadder, I received some news from India,” said George as he picked up a serving of pudding and stabbed it with a fork. “Seems Lt. General Darling WAS stationed in Calcutta. But after a few days he was sent to Chittagong.”

“Before you continue your story, George, you might wish to put out the flames of that pudding before you shove that piece of it into your mouth. You didn’t wait for the cooks to extinguish it.”

“Oh righto!” George put out the flames before eating a fork full of pudding. “Hmmmm…the taste of home.”

“Yes,” Blackadder said. “Brandy and flour. Now, you were talking about Darling?”

“Oh yes, eh, seems he described Chittagong as mostly jungle with a small port, a bunch of workshops they called a factory complex, and roads made out of dirt. He said the elephants were smaller than the bugs but he DID seem to like the food. Also he had a whole house to himself with maids, a cook, and even a proper Butler. Well, a native Butler, so not so proper.”

“Well, George,” Blackadder said with a smile, “at least he is in the Jewel in the Crown. India has been under British control for decades. I sure he will find it more civilized there than our Field Marshall finds Al Qahira.”

“Oh…yes…did you hear what he tried to do today?” asked a flustered George.

Blackadder sighed, downed his punch, and said, “No. But I fear you will tell me.”

“He dressed up like Santa and decided to visit the local homes,” started George after sipping his own punch. “But he noticed nobody had any chimneys. So he broke in via the windows.”

“Oh,” remarked Blackadder. “I wish I could say I was surprised. So…how did the people react to that?”

“No very well,” pointed out George. “And when he started passing out cigarettes, smoking pipes, and lighters to the little ones the parents were outraged.”

Blackadder was silent for a moment. “I know I will regret asking but why was he passing out cigarettes, smoking pipes, and lighters to the little ones?”

“Seems he got the idea for dressing up like Santa from a smoking advertisement,” said George with a embarrassed smile. “From one of those magazines he likes to read. ‘Boy’s Life’ I think.”

Blackadder waved down one of the Mess staff. “Bring me anything stronger than punch. Continue George, what happened next?”

“Well, mostly nothing till one angry homeowner, thinking he was a thief, fired a shotgun on him,” said George looking even more embarrassed.

“He was shot?”

“Well, no, the sofa cushion saved him,” responded George.

“Sofa cushion?”

“Yes,” continued George, “well, you see, he didn’t think he was fat enough to be Old St. Nick. So he shoved a sofa cushion down his front. Too bad it was so flammable.”

“Wait,” said Blackadder holding up his hands, palms facing George, with a look of pain on his face. “Wait till I get my requested drink.”

The two waited till the staff member brought Blacadder some whiskey the man had found in the bar.

“Right,” after taking a sip of the whiskey, “continue George.”

“Well, the cushion was set on fire by the pellets and the Field Marshall had to undress to quickly toss the burning cushion, and Santa suit, away from him,” said George. “So he survived. I mean, he was in the middle of the street in his undergarments with a sack of tobacco products. Oh, and he saved the hat and fake beard. But he was safe.”

“Oh..how…good for him.”

“Too bad about all the houses burning down,” added George with a sad sigh. “The police had to be called in to calm the rioters.”

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” said Blackadder. “When he tossed the burning cushion, and Santa costume, away he failed to stomp the flaming mess out. And the house caught on fire. And spread to the other houses?”

“Yes…that’s about it.”

“You know George,” stated Blackadder, “what we need to do is trick the Italians into stealing him.”

Later that month, on the afternoon of 26th of December, it was noticed another infantry division had joined the first on the Italian-British border. This unit was stationed in the Province of Bardia.

“Oh my,” said George when he read the report. “Blackadder was right. Those naughty Italians are cheating. Somebody should write them a stiff letter about that.”

So December, and the year 1936, came to an end with Italian infantry appearing in North Africa and Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett being forced by a court in Cairo to pay thousands of pounds in damages to over two dozen local families who had been made homeless by his Santa stunt.

There was also related charges dealing with breaking and entering, arson, and distributing tobacco products to minors.

His defense, that at the time he was Santa Claus and, therefore, was immune to being sued, was not accepted by the judge.

Luckily he was able to avoid jail time because his lawyer successfully pleaded ‘insanity’. After gagging him.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty-Three : The Field Marshall Tries To Think - 1.1.1937 To 31.1.1937

It was just before tea time on the 2nd of January, and the Captain was preparing the Field Marshall’s tray, when he was brought news by a excited clerk.

“Sir,” said the young man, “this just came over the wireless.” He handed the Captain a piece of paper in which the ink was still fresh. The handwriting was also a tad on the rough side. It was if the radio operator, in his surprise on hearing what was being spoken through his earphones, was having a hard time keeping up with what he was being told.

He glanced at it, his eyebrows lifted up in shock, and he said, “Yes, thank you. I’ll give it to the Field Marshall with his tea.”

When the clocks struck 4 PM the Captain brought in the tray with the tea, a glass of water, and a platter of cucumber sandwiches. With the paper folded neatly on top.

The Field Marshall glanced at the paper and picked it up. He opened it and looked confused.

“A officer purge?” he said aloud. “What is THIS about?”

The Captain poured the tea into the cup, added milk and three lumps, and handed it to the Field Marshall before speaking.

“Seems the Soviet Union is cleaning house, sir,” said the Captain as he also placed the water on the desk. “Political and military leaders who may, or may not, be dangerous to Stalin’s control of the state are being put on trial and…well…disappearing.”

“Disappearing, eh?” said the Field Marshall as he sipped the tea.

Captain Malek didn’t like the look on Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett’s face. The man was thinking. Well, trying to think.

Whatever was happening between those ears of his was unlikely defined, by most people, as thinking. But data was being processed and deductions were being made.

“Sir,” remarked the Captain. “Do I have to call the lawyers again?”

“What?” said the Field Marshall as he snapped out of whatever he was doing with the cells in his head. “No, no. Had enough of the lawyers. I don’t want to talk to lawyers or the doctors in a white coats ever again. Asking me about my mother. Making me put those silly shaped blocks into different shaped holes. Making me look at ink blots.”

“I thought you did very well with the ink blots sir,” said the Captain before leaving the office. Making sure to take the report with him. At least he had derailed any thoughts the Field Marshall had about purges and his own officers.

On the 9th of January there was some striking news from London. The newest Foreign Minister was Ernest Bevin. A statesman of the Labor Party. Which didn’t help the Prime Minister that much as Stanley Baldwin was a member of the Conservative Party.

The government was starting to be split between the two parties. Which COULD cause future problems for the government if the parties didn’t work together.

On the 20th of January George received a letter from his friend Wooster and decided to show it to Blackadder.

“I thought his nickname was Bernie?” commented Blackadder after reading the letter.

“Well, you know how it is,” replied George with a smile. “Sometimes I call him Bertie and sometimes Bernie.”

“You forgot his nickname,” said Blackadder.

“No…well…maybe,” responded George. “Have you ever been to the ‘Drones’ Blackadder?”

“No,” said Blackadder as he gave the letter back. “Can’t say I have.”

“They all had weird names,” George pointed out. “Bingo. Tuppy. Sippy. Gussie. Those are their REAL names. And they’re strange. I mean, I went to university and these chaps are stranger. They toss dinner rolls at each other during meals. They toss cards into hats on pool tables instead of playing pool and they call it playing cards. They kidnap cats. And once I came into the club and found the whole lot of them dancing ‘The Newt’.”

“And…?”

“I’m surprised I remember their real names much less their nicknames,” pointed out George.

“Point taken,” said Blackadder. After a few seconds he said out loud, with a confused look on his face, “Bingo?”

And so the new year started out with some interesting events and changes to the world.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty-Four : Tensions Increase - 1.2.1937 To 28.2.1937

February was like January and in some ways also like December. In that not a lot happened but the Italians kept moving about.

For example a Italian Corps HQ was noticed to be in the port of Tobruch.

“Smashing!” said George on hearing the news during the morning briefing.

“Isn’t that the province we are invading during Operation Boomarang?” he then asked Blackadder.

“Yes, George,” said Blackadder as he glanced at the same briefing notes. “And if it is still there when our boys hit the beaches it won’t be that good for the Italian chain-of-command.”

There was more good news on the 10th. The Malta Garrison and the Alexandria Garrison both started getting new light artillery pieces.

This would make them all the tougher in combat. Slightly.

Joachim von Ribbentrop​

On the 11th Germany formally presented, through Joachim von Ribbentrop, a demand to the British Foreign Office for the return of Germany’s colonies.

Hearing this the Field Marshall just laughed. “We’ll never give them back. NEVER!”

“Well,” said the Captain as he served the Field Marshall his tea and blueberry muffins , “we don’t own all of them anyway. We got some of the colonies but so did France, Belgium, Portugal, and Japan. Even New Zealand and Australia were assigned some islands to oversee.”

“Australia?” replied Field Marshall as he added a fourth lump of sugar into his tea when he thought Malek wasn’t looking.

“I can understand Japan,” he continued. “A great island nation with a warrior heritage and lovely handlebar moustaches. And they love their tea like all Christ loving nations. But the Australians? They couldn’t grow a proper moustache if they killed a wombat and glued it to their faces!”

The Captain was starting to see why the Field Marshall had been placed in Africa and not, let’s say, Hong Kong. He would have likely handed the colony over to the Japanese.

“Why do these blueberries look strange?” asked the Field Marshall as he peeked closely at the muffins. “And where WOULD one get blueberries this time of year? The cooks are trying to kill me again!”

The Captain sighed.

On the 21st of February the French reported to British Intelligence that the Italian unit on their side of Africa had disappeared and then had reappeared. Almost as if they were having logistic issues.

Pondering Spanish Communists​

Then, on the morning of the 24th, it was announced, at least to those in the government and military, that agents from Republican Spain had stolen blueprints of a cavalry support weapon the Ministry of Armaments had been working on.

“Those cads!” proclaimed the Field Marshall during his breakfast on hearing the news. “Those left-leaning, flan eating, wine drinking, goat stealing…oh no. Wait a second. Where’s my eggs? I always have scrambled eggs for breakfast. What happened Captain?”

“They ran out of powdered eggs sir,” replied the Captain with a embarrassed grin.

“No wonder they tasted so strange,” remarked the Field Marshall with a frown. “Wait…what was I talking about?”

“Goat stealing sir,” answered the Captain.

“Oh yes…goat-stealing Communists!”

So the month dragged on and the Middle-East Command Theatre settled into their daily routines. The soldiers drilled, the laborers dug ditches and put up barriers, the officers planned, and the Field Marshall complained.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------​

Author’s Notes:

I must point out, in all fairness, that Spanish goats are a hardy race who can live in all kinds of environments. They were NOT stolen by Communists or any other political party. And they’re kids are good eating! Baby goats go great with tomatoes and a local wine. Yum-yum-yum.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty-Five : Armoured Tactics - 1.3.1937 To 31.3.1937

It seemed in March the tension between the European powers increased.

The members of British Parliament, on the 2nd of March, endorsed the government’s massive rearmament program by a vote of 243 to 134.

The Italians, in response, ordered every male in the nation between the ages of 18 and 55 to be fit for ‘integral militarization’.

The Americans responded on the 4th by giving ‘The Great Ziegfeld’ the Award for Best Picture at the 9th Academy Awards held in LA. Well, the Americans were in their own little world.

On the 18th the Arabs in Tripoli presented Mussolini with the “Sword of Islam” to symbolize his leadership and present him as a protector of the Muslim faith. As you can guess the Italian press loved this and the photo of him with the sword became famous.

More importantly, in the UK, there was a technology improvement in how armoured units would be used. The idea that the tanks would massed together in a ‘spearhead’ and ‘breakthrough’ the enemy lines.

During the Great War the tanks had been spread out throughout the lines and attacked in pieces. The British Research Team suggested that acting like a iron fist might work better.

When told about it that morning, during breakfast, the Field Marshall surprised the Captain by saying, “The Germans tried that during the Great War. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now.”

“What do you mean?” as the Captain refilled the man’s banana juice. They had run out of orange juice.

‘Sturmtruppen’​

“The Germans trained men to create breakthroughs in our lines,” replied the Field Marshall. "Special units trained with bombs and armor. Men picked for their height and strength. Stormtroopers they were called.”

Captain Timothy Malek blinked. The idea that Sir Anthony C.H. Melchett might have a memory better than a goldfish seemed a tad blasphemous.

“Tanks are a lot faster and tougher than men, sir,” he pointed out.

“Sophisticated technology does not change human nature,” remarked the Field Marshall before chewing on a banger. “Hmmmm…love these sausages they started supplying us with during the Great War. Looks like meat, tastes like meat. But most of it is water and meat substitute. Doubleplusgood.”

After the Field Marshall finished his breakfast and briefing he went out to lunch. The Captain stood in the hallway trying to understand what had just happened.

Was the Field Marshall smarter than he looked? Or was he a parrot who repeated what he had overheard and sometimes, out of pure chance, what he repeated seemed to make sense?

The Captain decided to follow the example of the Field Marshall and had a ‘liquid’ lunch that day.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty-Six : East Africa and Gibraltar - 1.4.1937 To 31.4.1937

In April it was noticed by the government leaders in London that most of the military theatre commanders were sure they could win the upcoming war.

All of them assumed they would win. But for the East Africa Command Theatre. This was likely due to being neighbors with Italian Ethiopia which happened to be full of Italian military units.

Also, Field Marshall McCulloch of the East Africa Command, only had the 34th Destroyer Flotilla under his command and a hand full of infantry divisions.

The man was known for being a trained engineer and skilled at defensive tactics. And known for being somewhat conservative in his ideas of how the world worked. In other words, a member of the ‘Old Guard’.

So, he likely felt somewhat at threat as ALL THE GROUND TROOPS assigned to his command were on the OTHER SIDE of Ethiopia. In other words he had no infantry available to protect his HQ and the British territory directly around him. The head of the snake, in other words, was already cut off from the body.

It was the morning the 2nd of April in the Officer’s Mess. Edmund Blackadder and George St. Barleigh had decided to share a early breakfast before the briefing.

They were enjoying rye toast with butter, bangers, scrambled eggs with a dash of hot peppers, and mugs of extraordinarily strong black coffee.

“Blackadder,” said George after draining his first cup of coffee which he needed to become human, “I have a question about the maps in your office?”

“Maps are used to find out how to get from one point to another,” said Blackadder as he smeared some jam onto his toast.

“No, no, no,” said George with a laugh. “I mean I noticed that on all the maps you have had circled three locations with think red ink. Gibraltar, Malta, and the Suez Canal.”

“Yes, George,” replied Blackadder. “I marked those locations because those are likely the most important spots on those maps. If we lose any one of those spots it is likely we may find it impossible to keep the Far East, and maybe even the whole Empire, from falling apart.”

“Really?” stated George, looking a tad shocked, almost dropping a banger under the table.

“Well,” said Blackadder, “you can see the importance of the Canal? Without it convoys would have to move around the southern tip of Africa. Adding weeks if not months to their travel.”

“Yes, yes,” nodded George. “And Malta?”

“Malta would allow us to hunt down convoys and even surface fleets,” pointed out Blackadder. “If the Italians took it they could attack our convoys moving back and forth through the Mediterranean.”

“Gosh!”

“Yes, George,” continued Blackadder. “As you say. Gosh. And there is of course the Rock of Gibraltar. Which protects the western approach into the Mediterranean.”

“Oh yes,” said George, “but how would the Italians taking Gibraltar block the convoys? I mean, they would also have to get Spanish Africa across the strait.”

“True,” said Blackadder with a nod. “That does seem a little unlikely.”

On the 21st of April that the UK had finally developed a working medium tank. A design that was a compromise when you think about it. They were trying to make a tank with the mobility of light tanks but with more armour and more powerful armaments.

“Blah! Humbug!” exclaimed the Field Marshall when he heard the news during his breakfast.

“Yes sir,” replied the Captain. “About those tanks. I was thinking once our Tank Brigade was available maybe we could switch out our light tanks for new medium tanks?”

“What? Such gobbledygook! Brand NEW medium tanks? I’ll not have it. I won’t! I won’t!”

“Sir, please, calm down,” said the Captain trying to calm him down. “Here sir, have some more banana juice.”

As the Field Marshall drank his juice the Captain cleared his throat and said, “One more thing sir.”

“What is it?” demanded the Field Marshall.

“Your court case is next week,” said the Captain.

“These Arabs have no sense of humor!” said the Field Marshall. “All I was trying to do was make the orphans happy. All I did was dress up like a giant bunny, enter the orphanage, and try to put painted eggs into the children’s beds.

“The eggs were still raw and the paint was still wet,” pointed out the Captain.

“There was nobody in the kitchen to help me cook them,” complained the Field Marshall. “And I was only able to find some paint at the last moment.”

“And it was a goat outfit,” added the Captain.

“I couldn’t find a bunny costume,” responded the Field Marshall with a pout.

“And you broke in through one of the windows.”

“Nobody answered the front door,” murmured the Field Marshall. “It wasn’t my fault!”

The Captain sighed.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty-Seven : Radar And The North Pole - 1.5.1937 To 31.5.1937

On the 8th of May airbases in Malta and El Iskandariya announced that the first radar stations had been completed. Once the tests on the stations were finished they would be upgraded with new equipment and more powerful energy sources.

It was believed that they would be equal to second generation radar systems some time in November of that year.

“Blah!” responded the Field Marshall when he heard the news while trimming his moustache. “I don’t trust those…THINGS. But as long as they keep the fly boys happy I guess I don’t mind that much.”

He looked over his moustache in the mirror and asked the Captain, "Do you think the fly boys prefer long or short moustaches?"

"Eh..."

On the 22nd of May the Soviet Union claimed the North Pole as its territory. There were rumors that they had find some massive amounts of rare materials under the ice.

“HA!” said the Field Marshall when he heard the news while having breakfast. “Ice isn’t rare material. I mean, out here is it. But not in Russia.”

“Well sir,” replied the Captain, “it is believed the North and South Pole might have untapped resources that we have yet to discover. Many nations are, in fact, trying to find oil, minerals, and other resources in both territories.”

“HA!” stated the Field Marshall. “The British Empire has sent explorers to both poles and find nothing of value. Let them waste their time running around in the snow and ice. All they will find it frost bite! Hmmm…why does this sausage look weird?”

On the 26th of May, due to what they called the ‘Holiday Incidents’, Egypt joined the League of Nations.

“What does that mean?” asked the Field Marshall as he nursed his afternoon tea. “Holiday Incidents?”

“Nothing sir,” replied the Captain. “Nothing at all.”

“Was there something happening besides my court cases?” probed the Field Marshall.

“No…maybe…I don’t know sir,” said the Captain as he refilled the man’s glass with more water. “Have some more water sir. You had a very…powerful…lunch.”

“Yes, yes, I did,” remarked the Field Marshall with a nod of his head. “I feel it in my head. Maybe next time I should have something to eat with my lunch?”

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty-Eight : Agent Bowler Hat - 1.6.1937 To 30.6.1937

It was the 15th of June, on a Tuesday, in the morning. The sun was up, which was very important factor, because Mr. Wooster was never up before the sun.

He had arrived rather early last night and retired to his bedroom in a relatively stable state. So when I sensed he had awaken from his slumber I brought him a cup of Oolong tea which I placed softly on the table next to his bed.

I said, “Good morning, Sir,” as I also handed him the morning mail and the London times. I was slow and silent and careful not to make any sudden moves. It always took Mr. Wooster a few moments to totally wake up and become fully aware.

After a few sips of the tea he started to peek at his mail. Noticing it free of anything from Aunts, questionable friends, and dangerous females he gave off a sigh of relief.

“Morning Jeeves,” he finally said with a happy sigh. “How’s the weather?”

“Slightly cloudy, sir,” I said as I stood by his bed and adjusted his pillow so he could sit straight up. “Normal for this time of the month.”

He picked up the newspaper and gave it a quick scan. “Anything new?”

“Still come grumbling from the free press about Mr. Baldwin being both Prime Minister AND Minister of Security,” I stated.

“Yes,” said Mr. Wooster with a frown on his face. “I have to say that does seem off. I mean, I may not have paid that much attention during my history courses, but I am sure very few Prime Ministers wore TWO hats. If you get my drift?”

“Indeed, sir,” I said. “Once you’re ready I’ll bring in breakfast.”

After Mr. Wooster had finished his breakfast and was properly attired he opened one of the windows and sighed happily.

“Yes, the weather is not bad,” he added before he lit a cigarette. “Yes, maybe a walk in the park, a visit to the Drones, then…I don’t know.”

There was something wrong. I could tell. I had been with my employer for many years and could sense the stress of worry on his brows. He was thinking about something.

“Sir, if I may inquire?”

“You may, Jeeves, you may,” he replied.

“Something seems to be weighing heavily on your mind, sir,” I said. “May I ask what it is?”

“Well,” he said, glancing at his cigarette for a second, “I rarely think of such things Jeeves. But lately I have been thinking about the world as a whole. Maybe because most of my friends are now in foxholes across the world. Maybe because of some of the news I have received this month. But I am worried.”

“Indeed, sir?” I said with lifted eyebrows.

“Well, for example,” said Mr. Wooster as he flopped himself into one of the more comfortable chairs, “On the first day of June the Ministry of Popular Culture in Italy ordered all foreign words and names to be Italianized. I mean, really, does that sound very popular to you?”

“No, sir.” I said with a serious face.

“Then there was Jean Harlow’s funeral on the 9th,” he said looked a tad depressed. “I knew she had died. And so young to boot. But it didn’t hit me till the funeral in California. I almost came home early without even ONE cocktail that evening.”

“Yes, sir,” I said mournfully. “Tiring times when such a young star falls so early in her life.”

“And then on the morning afterwards the newspapers were full of the good news that our troops around the world would be getting mountain gear,” he said after drawing on his cigarette to steady himself.

“Sir?”

“Well,” he continued, “maybe I’m getting my geography wrong but most of our troops seem to be in jungles, plains, and deserts. Why do they need climbing gear?”

“Indeed, sir,” I said with a nod of my head. “Your knowledge of geography has hit the nail, as they say, on the head. You’re friends in the Middle East Command will unlikely need climbing kits.”

“It just makes me wonder if our government, and the world as a whole, knows what it is doing,” Mr. Wooster said as he finished the cigarette.

“Thanks for listening Jeeves,” he added as he smashed the cigarettes into one of the ashtrays. “I’ll think I’ll take that walk and visit the Drones for a good feed. Then back for tea. Maybe. I might hit a few clubs instead.”

“Of course, sir,” I said as I helped him with his jacket, handed him his walking stick, and then sadly looked at the hat he had chosen for wear that day. Really.

After he left I make sure his bed was made, the few dishes used were washed and dried, than I retrieved my own gloves, hat, and, of course, garrote wire.

I found the target leaving the Soviet Union’s Embassy around lunchtime. In the public eyes the man was a English citizen who was a file clerk of the Embassy.

Under the surface he was, in fact, a spy from British Intelligence. Like me.

But unlike me he had been turned by a member of the, slightly misnamed, People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs.

He was a spy and a traitor. And I was about to deal with him.

While the public might twist back and forth between hating the Italians and hating the Germans in reality the Soviet Union was seen as the real enemy of King and County by those in the know.

I followed the man down one of the least busy side streets. Once the coast was clear I asked for directions for a location I knew was facing the direction we were already going.

As the man turned to point down the street I moved quickly. The wire was wrapped around the man’s neck in a flash. As he kicked and silently choked I dragged him into a alley, using the trash bins to block anybody’s view, and twisted the wire so as to finish him off.

Decades of housework had allowed me to stay very fit and trim, if I do say so myself, and the target was on the slim side. Not really the kind of chap able to fight me off. Even if he had not been taken by surprise from behind.

It only took a few seconds to fold the man’s body in one of the rubbish bins.

“Sorry Mr Bean,” I said as I carefully replaced the lid. “No harsh feelings.”

I walked out the other side of the alley, took a trolley a few blocks so I could leave the wire in a old lady’s hand bag, and made sure I was not being followed. Finding my tail was, as they say, clear, I went to one of the local grocers and picked up some items I needed for the kitchen. Then I returned home to do some dusting.

I am sure Mr. Wooster would be arriving late but he might show up for tea. Or maybe one of his friends. So I had to make sure everything was ready. Just in case.

Also I had to find a way to get that hat off his head for good. My work was never done.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Twenty-Nine : Jungles Of India - 1.7.1937 To 31.7.1937

Lt. General Darling took the towel around his neck and mopped his brow. The desk before him was piled high with paperwork and it would likely take hours to just read a faction of it.

It was the 31st of July and the local time it was 4:53 AM. Chittagong was a port that was more jungle than buildings. And nature refused to let go her hold on the land.

Outside the windows of his office was a curtain of water turning the roads into mud and blocking his view of the buildings and structures that made up the city.

The city had been, and still, was one of the most famous and wealthy city of Bengal. Not that you could see that in this weather and this time of day.

It was so important that two of his three divisions were stationed there with him. As was the HQ unit of the 3rd Army Group with Field Marshall St. Clair-Morford.

The factory complex, the port, and the large urban center made it a very important province. And a point that needed to be protected if war with Japan came.

As he sighed and pulled another pile of reports towards him the office door opened and his ‘Batboy’, a native of the name Fahim, came in with a cup of freshly brewed tea and a couple of digestive biscuits.

“Thank you Fahim,” said Darling as he smiled at the man.

Fahim was an older man, a veteran of being a gentleman’s personal gentleman, and was skilled at knowing the right time to do the right thing.

“You’re welcome, sir,” said Fahim. His face was lined and very tan. From years of service with military officers, rich businessmen, and sometimes even Royalty.

He wasn’t a proper English Butler but proper English anything was hard to come by in India.

In Africa, for example, it was hot in July. Which was about it.

In India it was hot and raining. All the time. Everything was wet. Dryness was not something to be seen most of the year. The climate just didn’t really allow for it.

To be honest it wasn’t THAT hot. About 12 degrees Celsius or 53.6 degrees Fahrenheit. The 100% humidity, on the other hand, made it feel hotter. The clouds also kept in the heat. And the mud made moving about a horror story.

English Butlers, Walsh maids, and Irish cooks didn’t stay long in India. The climate, forests, and strange foods normally meant they lasted about a month before fleeing back for home.

So most intelligent people hired the natives. Whole families could be hired in fact. The father would be the Butler, the wife the cook, and the children ended up maids, stable boys, gardeners, waiting staff, and whatever else was needed.

By hiring the natives you ended up with staff who would not run away, knew how to get the supplies and items needed to run the household, and it was said they didn’t steal as much as European servants.

They also didn’t care if you had a towel around your neck or took more than one cold bath a day or sometimes unbutton the top buttons of your shirts.

Darling had decided that keeping comfortable was more important than looking neat and crisp. He was known for even being in shorts on his days off. And sometimes he would even put wet towels on his head. Much to the amusement of his staff.

The tea helped a tad. It was Indian tea yet still reminded him of home and cooler weather. At least it did something. The ceiling fans in the building just seemed to move air around and, funny enough, made things feel warmer.

Or was that just in his mind?

“Any letter Fahim?”

The man smiled. “No letters from Africa. Not lately.” The man gave off a soft chuckle. “I must say your friends and their stories about the Field Marshall are somewhat funny, sir.”

“Yes, stories,” said Darling to himself as a eyelid twitched. “Well, we’ll already gotten good news from the Home Front.”

The government had announced on the 14th that engineer brigades were now better than ever and would be equipped with more than just duct time and chewing gum.

There had also been an announcement, just that day, that there had been advancements made in Tactical Air Command organization. No doubt that would approve their efficiently.

“Yes, sir,” replied Fahim. “More tea, sir?”

“No, no,” said Darling. “This is enough for now. I’ll have lunch at one-thirty. Want to get some of this work done if I can.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fahim. He silently left the office and closed the door.

Darling sighed, took another sip, and dived into his paperwork.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Thirty : The Second Sino-Japanese War - 1.8.1937 To 31.8.1937

August turned out to be a very active month. First off, on the 3rd of August, a Yunnan spy was able to get away with a blueprint of the UK’s latest Battle Cruiser.

“Nobody thinks about security this days, “complained the Field Marshall during his breakfast when he heard the news. “Nobody! They treat it like a dirty word. Well, it isn’t. Crevice is a dirty world. But not security. I want guards everywhere. Everywhere!”

“Yes sir,” said the Captain. Increasing security wasn’t a bad idea and he couldn’t see it hurting anybody. He hoped.

On the 5th the Captain was serving the Field Marshall his not-so-English breakfast of flapjacks, scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon, and coffee, when he also pulled out a piece of paper.

“Sir, do you know what this is?” he asked as Sir Anthony C.H. Melchett eyed his breakfast.

“Some weird kind of ham?” said the Field Marshall as he poked the bacon with his knife.

“No, sir, focus.” He handed the paper to the Field Marshall. “It is a official protest from the Americans about you arresting the two young adults our guards found hanging around the archaeological excavation.”

“You mean the dig where the chap was found murdered?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the Captain. “Colonel Mustard, retired, was found dead in the Tomb with his head bashed in by an Egyptian oil lamp.”

“Well?” said the Field Marshall as he tried, and failed, in cutting the Canadian bacon. “They murdered him, no doubt.”

“They showed up a WEEK after his death,” pointed out the Captain, “and were asked by the Colonel’s family to investigate the man’s murder.”

“Okay, okay,” murmured the Field Marshall. “Release Nancy Drew, that newspaper reporter, and her boyfriend Ned Nickerson. Now find me a sharper knife!”

“Thank you sir,” responded the Captain with a nod.

On the 7th of August the UK government announced they had assembled the perfect Arctic Warfare Kit for the troops and had started sending them to the different Fronts.

When the winter equipment started to appear on the docks on the 9th Blackadder was not impressed.

“Do you see what this is, George?” he asked as he placed a pair of boots on a table in the Officer’s Mess in El Iskandariya.

“Hmmmm,” said George as he stopped sipping his cocktail to examine the boots. “Boots. With furry insides. Winter boots, I would say?”

“Yes, very good,” answered Blackadder. “And this?” He placed a think leather coat, with fur on the inside, also onto the table.

“A winter coat?” George guessed with a tilt of his head.

“Correct,” said Blackadder. “And what do these things have in common?”

“Well….” George thought for a few seconds. “They are about as useful to us as the mountain equipment we received?”

“In other words…?”

“Not at all useful?”

“Very good George,” replied Blackadder. “Next round on me.”

On the morning of the 6th, as the Captain served the Field Marshall his breakfast, he pulled out a piece of paper.

“What have I done this time?” grumbled the Field Marshall as he poured the maple syrup onto his flapjacks.

“No trouble this time, sir,” replied the Captain with a half-smile. “News from the UK. The first active tank division has come into existence. Under the St John’s HQ. So I was able to get news on what our light armoured brigade will look like.”

“And?”

“Well, sir,” said the Captain looking a tad uncomfortable. “I was half right in my own guess work. It is a Vickers Model Tank. A Mark 1. In other words a light tank armed with a Vickers water-cooled machine gun.”

The Field Marshall stopped in the middle of bringing a piece of Canadian bacon to his mouth. “Machine guns? Our light tanks are going to be armed with MACHINE GUNS?!!”

“Well, yes, sir,” responded the Captain. “But St. John’s is already in the process of upgrading them to have better guns, engines, so-on.”

“And how will making our light tanks slightly faster and less fuel efficient help our lone brigade in the middle of the wasteland that is the desert?”

“Eh…we could try to replace them with medium tanks, sir.”

“The Italian infantry divisions, DIVISIONS, will crush them,” pointed out the Field Marshall. “No, you were right to think of them as a small mobile force. No front attacks. No combat at all.”

“Yes, sir,” remarked the Captain.

“And tell the cooks to stop trying to make me into a Canadian,” complained the Field Marshall. “I want proper ENGLISH food!”

On the 17th, during a breakfast of corn flakes, milk, apple juice, and toast, the Captain pulled out a telegram from one of his pockets.

“Oh no,” said the Field Marshall, “it’s bad enough I am having a cold breakfast without even a proper French pastry but now you bring me bad news before my first cup of tea or coffee?”

“It’s NOT news about you sir,” stated the Captain. “Japan has declared war on Nationalist China and Shanxi!”

“Good,” grumbled the Field Marshall as he pondered if he should pour the milk or the apple juice on the corn flakes. “Our fellow Islanders from the other side of the world, our brothers in spirit, should crush the Chinese once and for all! Always causing us so much trouble.”

“Er…most of the populace and government are somewhat Anti-Japanese sir,”

“HA!” said the Field Marshall with a smug smile. “And that’s why the King is in charge and the Houses are just figureheads.”

“Er….”

That very day Nationalist China, in order to strengthen ties with the UK, agreed to allow the UK to accumulate debt when trading with them. Which would help the UK’s industry secure resources from Asia.

Then on the evening of the 20th the Japanese government formally joined the Axis. Japan and Manchukuo were now allies with the Germans.

“TRAITORS!” screamed the Field Marshall when he heard the news. “Scum! The Japanese have back stabbed us! Why God, WHY?!?!”

“Sir,” said the Captain. “Calm down. You have to get ready for dinner!”

“Blah!” said the Field Marshall. But he did calm down enough to go get ready for his dinner that evening. His red dining jacket seemed to help keep him under control much of the time.

It was the 23rd of August, after dinner, and the Field Marshall was getting ready for bed when a clerk brought the Captain a telegram.

“Good news?” asked the Field Marshall as he hugged his teddy bear.

“No, sir, as it is about you,” answered the Captain with a frown.

“What have I done now?” pouted the Field Marshall.

“Once again the Americans are protesting,” the Captain said. “Seems you arrested one of their Agents. A Tom Sawyer?”

“He was poking around the dig. Asking questions about the murdered Colonel Mustard. And he was armed!”

“He is a detective,” remarked the Captain. “Of course he was armed.”

“With a rifle!”

“Oh, well, that does seem a tad overkill,” admitted the Captain. “But they still say they want their agent released.”

“Alright,” mumbled the Field Marshall. “But don’t give him his rifle back till he leaves the territory.”

“Yes sir,” said the Captain as he left the room after tucking the Field Marshall, and his teddy bear, in.

 

[Eurasia]

entleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Thirty-One : Frenemies? - 1.9.1937 To 5.9.1937

It was the morning of the 3rd of September and the only sound in the office was the ticking of a clock. Hercule Poirot was examining his upturned moustache. No doubt worried one of the hairs were too long or out of place.

Miss Felicity Lemon came in with the morning mail and placed it on the desk. By now Poirot had finished worshiping his facial hair and was now too busy being annoyed at his collar to notice her entry. So Captain Arthur Hastings gave her a silent head nod in way of greetings.

“Why do they never get my collars right?” said the grumpy Belgian as he pulled at it with a finger.

Captain Hastings just smiled and said, “Why not just send your clothes to another laundry? If one business does not please you try another.”

“Nonsense,” replied the tiny man. “All I need to do is get them to understand. Just once. I will not let them defeat me!”

The Captain just shook his head in amusement and went back to the newspaper he was reading.

“Anything of interest?” asked Poirot. “A mystery for me to solve? A murderer to capture?”

“Well, besides the normal rumors of technology breakthroughs inside the halls of government,” remarked the Captain, “the news is mostly about the war in Asia. Japan has taken Tianjin and Beiping.”

“But,” he said with a grin as he got to his feet, stepped over to the desk, and placed the open newspaper in front of Poirot, “they have been counter attacked and overwhelmed by the forces of Shanxi.”

Poirot carefully placed his pince-nez reading glasses on his nose and peeked at the map.

“What I don’t understand is this Anti-Japanese feelings that had buried itself into the populace’s heart,” said the man thoughtfully as he looked the map over.

“The Japanese have been expanding themselves in Asia for decades,” pointed out Captain Hastings. “They are bullies.”

“But surely European powers have been doing the same for centuries,” replied Poirot with a sly smile. “Even Belgium has colonies over seas.”

“It is not the same,” grumbled Captain Hastings.

“And even if the Japanese are the…what would you English call them…the scoundrels? Surely the Chinese are not the Heroes.”

The Belgian put his glasses away and added, “The government of Shanxi are warlords. Nothing better than bandits. And the Nationalist Chinese….the Kuomintang I believe they are called…is nothing but a dictatorship. With strong anti-Communist AND anti-Democratic ideals. Surely you do not support them?”

“The Japanese must be stopped,” was all Hastings was willing to stay.

“You did not seem too quick to stop them when they were defeating the Russian Tzar, eh?” pointed out the egg headed man behind the desk.

“In fact at one point I would say the English and the Japanese were almost hand-in-hand in their beliefs and traditions,” added the detective.

“Not hand-in-hand,” remarked Hastings. “And you are just saying this because you don’t like how the Chinese do your shirt collars.”

“Not at all. I am basing it all on facts. For example, both the UK and Japan are island nations, both are dependent heavily on their navies, both have Constitutional Monarchies,” he continued. “You were like a pair of twins.”

“To be fair they got their government system from the Germans when the Kaiser was in charge,” admitted Hastings from behind his newspaper. “Not us.”

“Oh, excuse me,” replied Poirot. “Do you know why I think you British have become so upset by the Japanese lately? They remind you of how the rest of the world looks at you. They were your friends until you realized how the rest of the world saw them and now you try to distance yourself. And in doing so you realize just how much alike you are. And it is upsetting. Yes?”

“What?” exclaimed the Captain almost dropping his newspaper. “We are no where near as bad as the Japanese! Er…I mean…”

“You have a massive Empire of colonies,” said Poirot. “There are people in Asia, Africa, and South America who downright hate you.”

“Well…don’t we all have that problem? People will get jealous you know. Even Belgium has colonies.”

“True. But you supported slavery for centuries and even after making it illegal yourself, you almost joined the Confederacy,” added the Belgian.

“I say, that was a long time ago! Stick to the current century if you plan to make a point,” remarked Hastings with a frown. "Also the French were thinking about helping the slave states too you know."

“Your past is mostly made up beyond the 14th Century,” Poirot added with a small smile. “I mean, you were not really civilized until the Romans showed up and when they left it was mostly a Dark Age. How embarrassing it must be. I wonder if that is why you needed to conquer all these other nations? Egypt, China, and the people of the Middle East. All very advanced civilizations when you were still painting yourself blue and living in caves. Maybe a inferiority complex? Is that why you invented King Arthur and-”

“I’m going out for a pint,” was all Hastings said in return as he grabbed his coat and left the office.

“The English are so easy. So many feathers to ruffle,” the detective said to himself as he glanced at his pocket watch. “A little too early for a pint I would think. Oh well, he knows best.”

“I wonder how they will handle it if the Italians decide to conquer them and force them to eat pasta and drink cheap wine?” the man said to himself as he closed the newspaper and set it to one side.

The Belgian understood what it was like to have a nation taken from him. During the ‘Great War’ he had fled his own nation and had ended up in England.

He loved his new motherland. Well, there was flaws. The countryside was too…well..natural. Mud and sheep and other creatures of mother nature’s horrible invention. And then there were all the people who thought he was French. And the English sense of fashion was always changing. Few people even carried pocket watches or seemed to wear patent leather shoes. Fewer even seemed to understand the art of facial hair. Tut!

“I should ask Miss Lemon can get me some tea,” he said aloud before going back to tugging on his collar.

On the 5th Poirot noticed, in the newspapers, that the Japanese had recovered and were making headway in their war. Or was it wars? The British press wasn’t very happy about this news and said it was only a small setback for the Chinese.

But Poirot was not as optimistic as he sometimes seemed when on the trail of a criminal. He had already been on the wrong end of a war. A war that, he felt, could have gone either way. Only luck, and the Americans, had brought victory.

In the end he could not, honestly, support either side of the Second Sino-Japanese War. But he prayed for the many civilians on the ground. He hoped they would find safety and some kind of peace.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Thirty-Two : Upgrades - 6.9.1937 To 30.9.1937

It was the morning of the 6th of September and both Blackadder and St. Barleigh were sharing a British breakfast after the daily briefing.

“I must say our cooks are doing a jolly good job at making these delightful meals!” exclaimed George. “Grilled Tomatoes, pork bangers, this wonderful bacon, and the mushrooms. Still, not too sure about sourdough toast. And they added cheddar cheese to the scrambled eggs. But the side of baked beans really brings it all together!”

“I think they are just exploring what they can do with what they have,” remarked Blackadder as he poured himself some tea. “Makes them happier and less likely to poison us.”

“Ha!” said George with a smile. “Always a kidder!”

“Yes,” said Blackadder with a slight smile. “Which reminds me, did they figure out what happened to Field Marshall Melchett?”

“Well,” replied George, “as you know he isn’t that popular with the people in Cairo.”

“Yes, so I have heard.”

“So,” continued George, “when he was on one of his daily rides to inspect the city he stopped at one of the coffee shops.”

“Must have mistaken it for a bar,” commented Blackadder.

“Could of,” remarked George. “Anyway, he asked for some proper English tea and they decided to serve him some of the local coffee.”

“Oh my,” said Blackadder. “You mean the spicy type?”

“Yes,” said George. “So, of course, he accused them of trying to poison him. Had the waiting staff, the cook, the owner, the owner’s family, and the owner’s chickens all arrested. From what I recall one hen made a run for it and the Field Marshall shot it down in the street without even a warning.”

“What a waste,” remarked Blackadder with a shake of his head.

“Course he ended up in court again,” remarked George with a sigh. “This time they had him gagged the whole time. He was furious. Kept trying to eat through his gag.”

“No jail time?”

“No,” said George. “The old insane plea worked again. But I heard he did have to pay a lot for the death of the bird. From what I understand the poor girl was only three days from retiring.”

“Always the way, isn’t it George,” mumbled Blackadder as he started to work on his meal. “You work hard from sunrise to sunset, saving each pence, trying to keep a roof over your nest and worms on the table, keeping the family happy and BANG, some nut with a gun kills you in the middle of the street.”

“Not really sure I would say that is always the way,” responded George. “But I agree it isn’t the best way to go.”

George was silent for a moment and then added, “It reminds me of one of my birthdays.”

“Oh?” responded Blackadder after trying the eggs. “Shot a lot of hens at your birthdays?”

“No, no,” replied George. “I had a pet rabbit. And Sir Anthony C.H. Melchett shot it.”

“Oh, yes, I heard of that.”

“Course, he had his dogs attack it first, then he ran over it with his car, THEN he shot it. Then we had rabbit pie for my birthday instead of cake.” George twitched and pushed away his breakfast.

“Not in the mood for food right now,” he said before waking away from the table to sob in the corner.

By the afternoon of the 7th the garrison units on Malta and in Alexandria reported that their sticky anti-tank bombs had been replaced by Boys 55 inch Anti-Tank Rifles. Nicknamed “elephants guns” by those who operated the weapons.

“The troops must be happy,” remarked Blackadder on reading the report.

“They look big but do they work?” asked George.

“We will not know till they are used against armoured vehicles of the Italian Army,” said Blackadder. “But I am betting the troops prefer them to the sticky bombs. Have you ever used a anti-tank sticky bomb?”

“No,” replied George, “how did they work?”

“They are bombs with adhesive surrounding a powerful squash-head shaped explosive, with two pins, and a outer casing. The adhesive is exposed by pulling the first pin,” explained Blackadder. “You then attached the bomb to the target in question, pulled the other pin to arm it, released the handle to activate a five-second fuse and ran like hell.”

“Sounds dangerous,” remarked George.

“Oh yes, very dangerous to use,” replied Blackadder. “If it worked. Sometimes it would not stick to the target or sometimes it would attach itself to the user’s uniform. So, even if the Rifle is useless I think our men will prefer it over the sticky bomb.”

“Yes,” said George with a nod, “I can see that.”

By the 22nd of September a few advances had been announced in destroyer technology.

So, of course, the Destroyer Flotillas in the Mediterranean Fleet were soon having their Anti-Aircraft Armaments replaced.

By the end of the month there were also breakthroughs in Medium Tank development. Of course, the Field Marshall cared nothing about Medium Tanks. Too modern for his taste.

He was still suspicious of butter substitutes and other such inventions from the ‘War’. He still didn’t trust chocolate. Only thing he had come to accept was the banger. And that was likely due to the fact it would explode in the oven.

Of course the war in Asia was also ongoing but by now nobody in Africa cared. Their future was in what the Italians were up to.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Thirty-Three : Breakthrough After Breakthrough - 1.10.1937 To 25.10.1937

The month of October was a series of announcements from the government. The scientists, it seemed, had made advancements in many fields of technology. There were breakthroughs in naval warfare, in tactics and in the command structure. There were breakthroughs in aircraft and armoured land vehicles.

Of course some breakthroughs were more important than others to certain people of certain intelligence.

“Look at this wonderful article about the benefits of tobacco to the human body?” said Sir Anthony C.H. Melchett as the Captain brought in his tea during the afternoon on the 25th of October.

The Captain glanced at the article in question.

“That’s not a article, sir, that’s a magazine advertisement,” pointed out the Captain as he prepared the Field Marshall’s tea.

“But why would it be in a scientific journal if it was just a advertisement?” demanded the Field Marshall.

“It isn’t a journal sir,” replied the Captain as he added three lumps to the man’s tea. “It is one of those science fiction boy’s magazines.”

“I’ll have you know men read these too!” said the Field Marshall as he gestured towards the cover of October’s ‘Thrilling Wonder Stories’. “They have some very interesting…er…articles on….hmmm..Tubby and stuff.”

“Yes sir,” said the Captain.

As the Field Marshall sipped his tea and downed his glass of water the Captain decided it had been a good idea to stop telling his commanding officer about all the REAL scientific advancements being made in the world. It would just cause them both pain and grief.

He had held back other pieces of news also.

For example there had been, in London on the 3rd, a march of thousands of members of the British Union of Fascists. The police had been present to keep the peace. It didn’t work as over 300 people were arrested when anti-fascists started to jeer and throw items at the Fascists.

Then the Italians sent a note of SUPPORT to Japan on the 9th. Something about Japan exercising their right of ‘self-defense’? What THAT had to do with invading China was anybody’s guess.

On top of all that, on the 14th there was violence in Palestine. The Captain was scared to tell the Field Marshall about that. How would the old man react to that? Would he bomb them? Send in soldiers?

Captain Timothy Malek found himself trapped between wishing to censor what the Field Marshall was told BUT also knowing that knowledge was power and facts were needed for proper decision making.

How could the Field Marshall make the proper choices if he didn’t have a clue of the real picture of what was happening?

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Thirty-Four : Agent Old Maid - 26.10.1937 To 31.10.1937

Miss Maple, under a false name and using false paperwork, almost made it to the train. If only the custom guard had not noticed something wrong with her suitcase.

Maybe he realized it was lighter than it should be. Maybe something in the hidden compartment made a noise.

When she realized he was going to give it a more exhaustive search she sliced his throat open with one of her many razor sharp tea saucers and jumped over the table to kill his two comrades.

Even as she made a rush through the barrier towards the waiting train her heard the shouts of alarmed soldiers and stomping of military boots.

“I’m always too impulsive,” she murmured to herself as she pulled out a specially designed tea tray to deflect the first bullets fired at her. Many of the soldiers cried out as their own bullets whizzed back at them.

She also returned the soldiers fire with a dozen deadly tea saucers. Some painful screams told me a few of them had hit their marks.

Miss Maple dodged and weaved between pillars and piles of luggage. The people around her screamed, ran about in confusion, and helped protect her from the soldiers. The armed men were too scared to open up with their guns in such a small space among all these citizens. Fools. She herself had no problem killing civilians. She had been trained to be deadly agent for King And Country but only after the government realized she had been born ruthless.

And if she got to the head of the train and commandeered the engine there was a chance she could escape Moscow and meet up with a agent outside the city.

As she approached the engine she tossed a tiny tea pot behind her. The resulting explosion produced more smoke than anything but allowed her to climb up into the locomotive and overcome the shocked engineers.

It was lucky for her the train was already preparing to leave the station and all she had to do was release the brakes.

Sadly for her the soldiers had not been fooled by her smoke bomb and a few were able to leap onto the train before it picked up too much speed.

“Well,” she said to herself. “I just have to disconnect the engine from the rest of the train.”

Soon she was crawling along one side of the locomotive, using the small walkway, towards the back of the engine.

Every time a soldier’s head appeared she threw a saucer and forced the man to duck. A few were not fast enough and fell to the tracks below with dishware impaled in their face.

But she must have missed one. For as she started to disconnect the train carriages she heard a pair of boots land on the walkway next to her.

She twisted just in time to block the man’s fist. But failed to stop the second one.

But Agent Old Maid, while old, was a tough bird. She ignored her bleeding right eye and punched the soldier right back.

And was surprised when he just grunted. The man was built like a rock. Funny enough he didn’t LOOK Russian. He was somewhat pale with golden locks of hair that looked so fair they could be almost be pure white. She would have called him a ‘White’ Russian in older times. Maybe he had some German in him? Or maybe his looks came from a Norwegian grandparent?

They continued to exchange blows like two Titans but Miss Maple feared that her time had come. Decades of spy missions and wetwork was about to come to an end. Due to a young Russian soldier who was four times her size, God only knows how many times her mass, and seemed to have no reaction to her deadly strikes.

In fact there seemed to be NO soft parts of his body. So she did the last thing she could do to save the mission from complete failure. She activated her last tea pot and tossed it at the train engine.

“So Miss Maple is dead,” said Stalin after reading the report given to him by Colonel Klebb. "Do we know what she took from us?"

“No Comrade,” replied the Colonel as she nodded her head. “The train was destroyed and whatever she had went up in the flames. Officially all our soldiers, and some of the passengers and crew, were killed.”

“Officially?”

“Yes Comrade Stalin,” said the Colonel. “There was one who we found alive. A Private Arkady Rossovich. He was found still alive. Barely. On the side of the tracks. From what we could tell by examining him and questioning him it is likely she blew up the train to keep herself from being captured by him.”

“Sounds tough,” remarked Stalin as he pulled out his pipe and started to clean it.

“Yes Comrade,” continued the Colonel. She leaned forward and added, “Maybe tougher than a normal human should be. Which it why I am asking permission to send him over to Operation Omega.”

“I see,” said Stalin with a knowing nod of his head. “The secret super soldier project. The real one not that fake one all the German and British spies keep breaking into. HA! I wonder what they thought about those files about the half-men half-ape soldiers we let them steal?”

“It does not matter what they think,” remarked the Colonel, “as long as they keep getting the wrong information. Anyway, I think this Private Rossovich would last longer under the scientists than our last batch of volunteers.”

She leaned back in her chair and added, almost in a whisper, “they didn’t last very long under the enhancements the doctors inserted into them.”

“Yes,” nodded Stalin as he examined his pipe. “Yes, I approve. See to it Comrade Colonel. Private Rossovich may prove to be just the man we need to finally make a true Soviet Man. The final product of the Revolution. A man superior in every way to the weaklings who still practice Capitalist and crush the proletariat under their jackboots.”

Colonel Klebb stood up, took the report, saluted, and left the inner office of one of the most powerful men in the Soviet Union.

Stalin waited till she was gone and started to stuff his pipe thoughtfully.

“Yes, a new Man. The Final Man of the Great Revolution. If he survives we should call him…Omega Man. No, no, no. Too common. He would no longer be just a man. He would be an ideal. Omega RED.”

He lit his pipe, puffed on it a few times, and nodded his head.

“Yes,” he said to himself. “If he lives we’ll rename him Omega Red. After all Private Arkady Rossovich is now dead.”

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Thirty-Five : A Busy Month - 1.11.1937 To 30.11.1937

“BREEEEHHHH!”​

The month of November was a busy month. A very busy month indeed. The Heavy Cruisers in the Port of Alexandria (El Iskandariya) was replacing their old anti-aircraft guns with newer models. Newer designs for such guns had been released by the government for use on the 10th.

On the other hand it was very clear that Japan was winning the war with the Chinese. Reports from within Nationalist China suggested that the people were still willing to keep fighting. Their spirits had taken a beating but was still in one piece. But they had lost a lot provinces to the advancing Japanese.

And the nation of Shanxi was pretty much on the verge of collapse. It was likely the warlords that made up its government would pack up and leave any day now.

Then there was good news on the 17th. Seems the first of the brand new Transport Flotillas were coming out of dry dock for the other Theaters. St. John’s HQ was the first to received one and, it seemed, was already loading it up with units to deliver to the New World.

Then, on the morning of the 24th of November, after the Captain had brought the Field Marshall a REAL British breakfast, he pulled out a few pieces of paper.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Sir Anthony C.H. Melchett, “This is about me, isn’t it?”

“Well, let us say the news is mixed,” replied the Captain. “First, the good news. Both Malta and Alexandria report that the radar stations have been upgraded to second tier. In other words, they are now better than before. Once they have been tested, and found to be functioning properly, the engineers will start working to make them even better.”

“Sounds a little TOO modern to me,” remarked the Field Marshall as he sliced up some of his bacon. He didn’t like the idea of ‘mixed’ news and was waiting for the other shoe to fall.

“Oh, no sir, our radar stations are the…er…valley of technology. Our equipment is so out of fashion that goat herders from the Bible had better radar stations than we do.”

“Oh. Well, that’s okay then,” remarked the Field Marshall.

“As for the bad news-”

“I already KNOW the bad news,” said the man with a shake of his head. “How DARE the cooks try to pass this off as a FULL British breakfast. Look at this!” The Field Marshall held up one of the small loafs of bread. “This ISN’T toast. These are small French baguettes! BAGUETTES! In a British breakfast! BREEEEEEEH! SHAME!”

“Shame indeed sir,” replied the Captain. “But not the bad news. Remember when I mentioned the goat herders?”

“Noooo….” said the Field Marshall pretending to find his morning tea VERY interesting.

“So you DIDN’T punch a goat yesterday?” asked the Captain.

“It was being stubborn and was refusing to put on the bomb,” answered the Field Marshall.

The Captain sighed, pondered all the things he COULD have done with his life, and plowed on.

“You were trying to strap a bomb onto a goat?”

“To try to blow up the house,” explained the Field Marshall as he started to work on the bangers with a knife and fork. “Can’t blow up a house without a proper bomb.”

“Why were you trying to blow up a house?” inquired the Captain.

“Because there was no Italian tanks to test out my bomb-goat on,” said the Field Marshall with a eye roll. He didn’t roll both eyes. He just rolled one.

The Captain sighed. “So…you were trying to weaponize a goat?”

“Well, of course I was,” responded the Field Marshall as he chewed on some mushrooms. “What ELSE would I be doing with a goat?”

The Captain decided to leave the office before making a comment.

It was noticed by the troops on Malta that the Italian Port of Misurata had a unit of militia.

It was unknown HOW they noticed this enemy unit. Some suggested that the radar station had, somehow, picked up ground vehicles.

This seemed unlikely but the idea was kept secret from the Field Marshall. It was believed he would likely declare the radar station staff witches and have them burned for using black magic.

So the month ended with Captain Timothy Malek keeping even more information from the Field Marshall AND paying for a goat’s therapy sessions.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Thirty-Six : Winter Is Here - 1.12.1937 To 16.12.1937

The first part of December was what some might call semi-busy. While many important events would happen during this month these events were so removed from the Middle-East Command that only a few people there even noticed them.

On the 1st of December the French pointed out that the Italians on their side of North Africa were withdrawing. Likely heading over to the Port of Tripoli to top of their supplies and get dry.

The Italian units facing British territory stayed put. No doubt due to being so close to their own supply stockpiles and, therefore, they didn’t have to move.

“Yes,” remarked George as he stood by the front door of the Officer’s Mess looking out into the downpour. “I can see why those Italians made a run for Tripoli. Just look outside. Thunder, lightning, very, vert frightening. I would make a run for it too!”

“Yes,” said Blackadder as he sipped his whiskey. “Not good weather for the nerves. My wife has a dog who hides under the sofa during storms such as these. Which reminds me, any news about the Field Marshall?”

George walked back to the table to join Blackadder. “Well, yes. They say he hides under his desk when he sees or hears lightning.”

“Of course,” was all Blackadder said as he sipped his whiskey. “Drink your whiskey George. It’s going to be a long war.”

“Do you think there will be a war?” asked George as he sat down and picked up his drink.

“When you prepare for war you normally get it,” remarked Blackadder.

“But…the quote is ‘Let him who desires peace, prepare for war’. Isn’t it?”

“Yes George,” replied Blackadder, “but the problem with that is when you have massive armies with piles of shells and guns and military equipment standing around sooner, or later, somebody wants to use them. They get bored or they get paranoid or they just do something stupid.”

“Ah,” remarked George. “Like the pistol in a murder mystery. It’s there and, therefore, it is going to be used.”

“Something like that, yes.”

On the 5th of December the Japanese annexed the nation of Shanxi. The government of Shanxi just could no longer keep their nation together and down they went.

“And then the Japanese declared war on the Communist Chinese, right?” said George on hearing the news.

Blackadder looked up from the breakfast he was sharing with George in the Officer’s Mess. “No, not at all. Right now the Japanese are focusing all their energy and men on defeating the Nationalists. It would be silly and stupid of them to start a second conflict before they even finished their first conflict.”

“Yes, you’re right Blackadder,” replied George. “I wonder what came over me.”

“The bacon IS a little under done,” suggested Blackadder.

On the 10th Captain Timothy Malek heard news that some of the first motorized brigades had finally been deployed in the UK.

From the reports he received the vehicles being used had 13mm armoured hulls. This suggested some kind of hybrid between a lorry and a armoured tank. In fact it was said they were also using light tank engines.

There were no photos in the reports but he could imagine the vehicles as massive land ships, crushing all before them, with dozens of guns blasting away at the helpless enemy!

The Captain would have loved to ask for a motorized infantry unit or two but knew the Field Marshall would turn down such a modern idea. Sir Anthony C.H. Melchett refused to have globes of the Earth in his office, as he believed the planet was flat, felt electric shavers were inventions of the Devil, and would sometimes leave out milk for the leprechauns he believed lived in his moustache.

The Captain had spent most of the night before trying to calm the man down. The sound of thunder would cause the Field Marshall to hide under the covers of his bed and he would pray to Zeus, Thor, and Set for hours.

It was embarrassing. Well, more embarrassing than usual. And it wasn’t even Christmas yet.

The Captain thought about the upcoming holiday and shivered in horror.

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Thirty-Seven : Agent Two-Faced - 17.12.1937

 

[Eurasia]

A Gentleman’s War : The Middle-East Command
(HoI3 TFH - UK AAR)
Chapter Thirty-Eight : Counting Down To The New Year - 18.12.1937 To 31.12.1937

On the 19th Captain Timothy Malek had received news from the “Royal Hussars”. Their light ‘Vickers’ had been totally replaced, not just upgraded, with ‘Stuarts’. In other words repainted American ‘Shermans’.

The ‘Stuarts’ had 50mm armoured hulls and 37mm canon which had started out as anti-tank guns. So these light tanks carried a powerful main armament against the current generation of tanks that populated the world.

Getting the Field Marshall’s permission to replace their own tanks, when they were issued them, with ‘Stuarts’ was unlikely to happen. So the Captain started to practice writing the Field Marshall’s name. The trick to forging a signature was never making them look exactly the same. A person never EVER made the exact same signature.

“You Can Trust Me, Tim.”​

It was the morning of the 24th and the Captain was serving the Field Marshall a breakfast of fried eggs, mushrooms, bacon, bangers, proper toast, grilled tomatoes, and tea. This put the Field Marshall into a somewhat jolly mood so the Captain dared to ask a daring question.

“Sir,” said the Captain, as the Field Marshall played choo-coo train with one of his bangers, “do you have any plans for Christmas?”

“Wait? Oh, no,” answered the man as he chewed on his banger. “I refuse to waste my time trying to bring the love and glory of Christ to these people. They just don’t seem to care about how hard I try to bring happiness to their stupid little lives. Remember that time I dressed up as the Tooth Fairy? Almost got stoned.”

“To be fair, sir,” said the Captain. “The Tooth Fairy isn’t IN the Bible.”

“Really? How weird,” remarked the Field Marshall. “Anyway, I give up. They can all burn on hell. No, no more celebrating religious holidays for me!”

“Or you sure about that?”

“Of course I am. You can trust me, Tim.” Sir Anthony C.H. Melchett then gave the Captain a smile. A smile that suggested horrible things being done in basements.

The Captain just nodded and tried to focus on the floor. Well, at least he knew nothing horrible would be in the newspaper about the Field Marshall for the next few weeks.

On the 27th of December the Captain received even more good news. The Empress of Canada Flotilla, the transports under St. John’s HQ, were finally on their way delivering units from England to Canada.

In other words it looked like the Theaters of the British Empire would likely be prepared for the next war.

This was a relief and took some of the weight off his shoulders.

And the Field Marshall seemed to be fulfilling his promise. He had done NOTHING for Christmas.

Maybe he would behave from now on?