The Storm Arises
November 22, 1933. Ethiopian Empire, Ogaden Desert, Walwal.
The noonday sky over the Ogaden was cloudless and heavy as lead. Captain Affenberg had never once described it as blue since arriving in this land. The sky at Walwal wasn't blue—it was hot. Direct sunlight hammered the sand, the heat rising back up to shimmer in the air. The horizon's wavering wasn't an illusion. It was the perfect condition for mirages, hot air refracting the light.
Under the tattered canvas awning of the outpost on the village outskirts, Captain Affenberg leaned back in a wooden chair without armrests. In his hand was an iron cup of cool water—not tea—and even that would go tepid in a day or two. His adjutant, Lieutenant Dereje, had a map spread out beside him, tapping it lightly with his knuckle.
"Captain."
"Yeah."
"How long have we been posted to this sector?"
"Me? Two years and three months."
Affenberg took a sip from his cup. "Why?"
"All we've seen in two years is sand, oases, and more sand."
Lieutenant Dereje's voice carried a note of complaint, but it was half-joking. Affenberg let out a low chuckle. "You should've known the Somaliland garrison was the most boring before volunteering."
"Who'd volunteer if they knew that ahead of time?"
"Didn't you volunteer…?"
Lieutenant Dereje looked away sheepishly, and Affenberg quietly laughed again at the reaction.
Two years and three months. The biggest incident in Walwal during that time had been a camel nearly drowning after wandering into the oasis reservoir. The border with Italian Somaliland lay somewhere far beyond that horizon, and aside from Somali nomads crossing back and forth without a care for lines on a map, this oasis was like a quiet island in the heart of the desert.
If asked whether that quiet bored Affenberg, he'd honestly say yes. But voicing it felt somehow irreverent. Whenever his men grumbled about the tedium, Affenberg always said the same thing: A boring outpost is a good outpost. He couldn't remember if he'd heard it from some instructor or made it up himself. But it wasn't wrong.
"Anyway," Lieutenant Dereje continued, folding the map. "Word is more volunteers came in from Italian Somaliland."
"Which side?"
"Locals crossing over from Italian Somaliland. Six of them headed to Gode a week ago, fleeing Italian oppression."
Affenberg set down his cup and thought for a moment. "Including this month's, how many is that?"
"Just this year… fourteen?"
Fourteen times—and that was only the ones Affenberg had personally tracked. There were probably more unreported. "It's picking up."
"Yes, sir."
Lieutenant Dereje wore an odd expression—pride, or contemplation of what it meant? Affenberg couldn't tell.
Africa's view of Ethiopia was nothing like what Affenberg had heard as a child. Back then, his father called it "the land of Adwa." That 1896 battle where they'd shattered the Italian expeditionary force. That was Ethiopia's meaning across Africa: We fought, and we won. It had been a symbol for decades on that alone.
But now it was different. He'd heard stories from soldiers returning from Addis Ababa. Steel mills in Alessa, military academies graduating classes yearly, Ford trucks roaring down boulevards, rifle factories stamping out guns day and night. When Ethiopian delegates spoke at the League of Nations, European diplomats listened intently.
Those tales were spreading beyond the borders. From Italian Somaliland, British Somaliland, Kenya, Sudan. Africans under great powers' rule were looking at Ethiopia differently. Not just a symbol, but a place making its own guns, running its own steel mills, holding its own country together. The very existence of such a nation in Africa was drawing people in.
"Not a bad thing," Affenberg said.
"Do we take in the refugees?"
"As far as I know. They go through training and language courses. Not easy."
"They're still coming."
"Yeah. Still coming. After we screen out the spies."
Affenberg picked up his cup again. Volunteers crossing from Italian Somaliland meant, in other words, people fleeing Italian colonies. Rome couldn't be blind to that.
"Figures it'd bother them," he muttered.
"The Italians?"
"Yeah."
Lieutenant Dereje pressed his lips together briefly. "Reports from the Eritrea sector keep coming in. Troop buildups too."
"I know."
He knew that too. Bits of intel mixed into regular reports: Italian reinforcements on the Eritrea border, supply stockpiling, road expansions. A boring outpost is a good outpost. He repeated it in his mind once more.
"By the way, Captain," Lieutenant Dereje said, shifting tone. "Wish they'd station some AA guns here too. The 76mm ones."
"What're you talking about? AA guns for a local garrison…?"
"But they're starting production by year's end, right? The 76mm AA. Mehal Sefari gets them first, but eventually we'll see some."
"Talk about it if we live that long. Know how many E-2s the company has right now?"
"Twelve total."
"You know your stuff."
"You check every day, sir."
Affenberg nodded. The Ethiopian army's standard light machine gun, the E-2. At 8.6 kilograms, it was hefty to lug around, but slam in a 30-round box mag and pull the trigger—it spat 450 rounds per minute. A crude-looking beast from the Addis Ababa arsenal. When they first got them, a veteran had said it looked like a leg bone, and he was right. Ugly as sin, but well-oiled and maintained, it ran without a hitch.
Rumors said Her Majesty the Empress had designed it herself. Affenberg had been skeptical at first. Now he believed it. Those rifles, those machine guns—they were built for real combat. No frills, just honest work.
"Alright. Full company equipment check this afternoon."
Lieutenant Dereje let out a quiet groan. "We did it yesterday."
"Desert means sand gets in everything. Gotta do it daily."
Affenberg started to rise from his chair—then froze. That was when it happened. Something even binoculars weren't needed for. Horizon haze was common in the desert. Heat shimmer rising, mirages forming and fading. He'd seen it countless times over two years and three months.
But this shimmer was different. Southeast. Toward Italian Somaliland. Dust. Not rising within the haze, but spreading wide above the horizon in an ochre cloud. Not a camel herd—the direction and density were wrong. Something was coming. Not one or two, but many, at regular intervals.
Affenberg's body moved first. "Lieutenant."
His voice dropped low. "Yes, sir."
"Binoculars."
Lieutenant Dereje caught the shift in tone and handed them over silently. Affenberg gripped the handles and fixed the lenses southeast. Adjust. Focus. The horizon pulled closer; shapes emerged from the dust.
People. But not just that. Vehicles mixed among them. Trucks with cargo beds, something towed behind. The people marched in formation.
Soldiers. Affenberg's eyes narrowed. Khaki uniforms, but a different weave from Ethiopian khaki. Helmets visible. Hemispherical, with short brims—the Italian style.
He swept the binoculars slowly right. More. Dust rising right and left. Back to center. Lead element. A figure ahead, holding something.
A flag. The cloth hadn't fully unfurled in the wind, hiding the emblem, but the colors said enough. Green, white, red. The Kingdom of Italy flag.
Affenberg kept his eyes on the lenses, calculating distance in his head. Walwal was Ethiopian Empire soil. Over 130 kilometers straight-line from the Italian Somaliland border. Not a routine patrol range. Too far for getting lost, too far for misunderstanding.
They'd penetrated deep into Ethiopian territory. Heading straight for Walwal.
"Captain."
Lieutenant Dereje's low call. Affenberg lowered the binoculars at last. He scanned around. Two on-duty soldiers leaning against the outpost wall were staring southeast. The dust was visible to the naked eye now.
Affenberg stood there for three seconds. In those three seconds, his mind sorted it all. Distance. Direction. Troop size. Italian order of battle. Since Adwa in 1896, Italy had avoided direct clashes with Ethiopia. Hadn't they signed a friendship treaty in 1928? That scrap of paper was a 20-year timetable.
Yet here they were, crossing 130 kilometers from the border. Affenberg knew it wasn't a mistake the moment he lowered the binoculars.
"Emergency."
His voice drove in like a wedge. The air inside and around the outpost changed instantly. On-duty soldiers straightened. Somewhere, a metallic clack—magazines loading.
Lieutenant Dereje moved on reflex. "Full company to battle stations!"
The order echoed inside; footsteps thundered from the corridors. Affenberg gestured to Dereje amid the noise.
"Radio."
"Yes, sir."
"Straight to Addis Ababa. Route through division HQ."
Lieutenant Dereje's eyes widened briefly, then he nodded. Bypassing division meant this wasn't routine contact—it was going straight to high command.
Affenberg mentally drafted the report.
That was it. Nothing more to add. Interpretation was for higher-ups. Right now, Affenberg's job was to report facts.
"Send it."
"Yes, sir!"
Lieutenant Dereje dashed inside. Affenberg walked to the wall rack, grabbing an E-1 rifle and ammo belt. And… his eyes fell on the gas mask case hanging there.
A round, flat metal canister holding a filter mask. Standard issue for the entire Ethiopian army. He'd wondered why when they got them. What use for gas masks in the Ogaden Desert? One soldier had griped just that, and Affenberg hadn't entirely disagreed.
He still did. That formation was standard infantry. No gas-drop unit would march like that, so no need for masks right now.
Affenberg left the case and stepped out of the outpost. November or not, Ogaden noons were still scorching. Sunlight glared white off the sand; he squinted, then opened his eyes wide.
Southeast. The dust was closer. Riflemen took positions along the outpost walls. Machine gun deployment echoed from the north end. Clack.
The company had numbers, but if they were battalion-sized or more, they'd be outnumbered. But the goal wasn't to charge out now. It was to hold.
Hold this position until orders from Addis Ababa.
Affenberg fixed the thought and stood by a firing slit, raising the binoculars again. The dust cloud over the horizon had sharpened. The Kingdom of Italy's column advanced slowly but relentlessly toward Walwal.