Chapter 84
Chapter 84
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 84
Chapter Title: Back to the Russo-Japanese War
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“...To think you'd come see me tonight, Witbooi.”
“The Germans were too busy throwing their own festival. I wasn't invited, you see.”
“White folks.”
“Still, the baron felt sorry for me and sent over plenty of booze as a gift for me and my tribe. A few bottles won't be missed if we share them, Maharero.”
It was the night of the grand feast celebrating the victory at Waterberg and the end of the Herero rebellion.
Hendrick Witbooi handed a beer bottle to Samuel Maharero, who was locked away in his prison cell.
Maharero hesitated for a moment before snatching the bottle from his hand.
Witbooi smiled at the sight and picked up another bottle for himself.
Maharero spoke up.
“So, what's your take? On seeing me defeated after ignoring everyone's warnings.”
“You fought like a true warrior and lost. What's there to be ashamed of in that?”
Maharero let out a snort of laughter at Witbooi's words.
Some things never changed with this friend of his.
“If your Nama people and mine, the Herero, had fought together, could we have changed the outcome?”
“Who knows. Though I would've given it my all either way.”
“Yeah. You would've.”
Maharero took a bitter swig of his beer, his face twisting.
German booze still tasted like watered-down cow piss.
He missed Herero liquor.
Not that he'd ever taste it again.
“I'm worried about what's next for us Herero.”
“They won't kill us all. And our treatment might improve a bit. The Germans aren't fools—they'll learn something from this.”
“Even if it changes, how much can it really? It's like sprinkling water on the desert.”
Witbooi didn't refute Maharero's bitter words.
No matter how hard Governor Leutwein tried, the German settlers would keep looking down on the Herero and other African tribes.
People didn't change that easily.
White or black, it made no difference.
“I'm more curious about what you'll do next.”
“What is there to do? Just wait honorably for the day I die.”
“The baron and Governor Leutwein see it differently. They don't want to make a martyr out of you. Looks like they're planning to win you over.”
Win him over?
Samuel Maharero scoffed in disbelief.
“Join the Germans now? Ridiculous. Even if they say they'll spare me, do you think the other Germans will accept it? They'll riot to have me killed.”
“Sorry, but there's a guy right in front of you who rebelled and lived to tell the tale.”
Maharero fell silent, out of words.
Witbooi had rebelled first, and for far longer than he had.
Hendrick Witbooi had fought the Germans even under Governor Heinrich Göring.
“Sure, working under the Germans isn't exactly pleasant. But at least it'll guarantee your people's safety. And you've got to stay alive for there to be a tomorrow, right?”
Witbooi's words made Maharero lower his head in thought.
If he rejected Leutwein's offer, he'd be executed—or at least exiled from Southwest Africa.
That didn't bother him much, but what came after did.
The Germans would just install some obedient lackey as chief in his place, and the Herero would be under their thumb forever.
But accepting meant rendering his brothers' sacrifices meaningless—the ones who'd died fighting the German army.
Neither choice was easy.
“The baron's crueler than I thought. Forcing a choice like this on someone.”
“You look conflicted.”
“And you're the one who brought me this dilemma.”
“Eh, drink up for now. The night's long, and you've got time to think. At the end of the day, isn't this why we live?”
Witbooi raised his bottle with a grin, and Maharero couldn't help but chuckle back.
The African moon shone as brightly as ever.
“To the German Empire and His Majesty the Emperor!”
“To the Empire!”
While Maharero and Witbooi shared drinks in prison, the Germans at the governor's residence cheered their victory with toasts.
Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air.
In one corner of the hall, soldiers danced merrily with young ladies to lively violin music.
I sat in the corner, nursing my glass amid the raucous party.
Of course, it was just orange juice, not booze.
Governor Leutwein and the others had been pushy with the real stuff—awkward as hell.
The era was lax on underage drinking, so no legal issues, but my lingering Confucian upbringing wouldn't let me touch the stuff at my age.
'Not that I could hold my liquor anyway.'
I was chuckling inwardly at memories of my past life's pathetic tolerance when Captain Lettow-Vorbeck approached.
He wore the colonial protection force uniform like the other soldiers, a hefty beer mug in hand.
Seemed he was enjoying the modest bash.
Modest by the standards of royal and noble parties I'd seen, anyway.
Compared to those, this victory bash felt like a neighborhood block party—maybe even a bit tacky, but honestly refreshing.
“Doing alright, Baron? Enjoying the feast?”
“So-so. Can't drink, but the vibe's intoxicating enough.”
“Haha, good one. Shame Chief Witbooi isn't here. Would've been perfect.”
“Can't be helped. We're fine with it, but not everyone else.”
As I'd said, even though Hendrick Witbooi and the Nama had helped the German army against the Herero, they weren't invited.
Some already grumbled about me being here—a white guy.
No way a black man like Witbooi could show up.
This celebration was strictly for Germans. For whites.
“Sent some booze over personally as an apology, for him and his tribe to share. They're comrades who fought alongside us.”
“Heh, Witbooi'll love that.”
“Heard you're sticking around Africa a bit longer, Captain?”
“Yeah. Governor Leutwein thinks highly of me, it seems.”
Lettow-Vorbeck scratched his head with a smile.
In real history, he'd stayed in German Southwest Africa for years.
Trotha's blunders had sparked the Nama rebellion after the Herero.
And he'd lost an eye fighting them.
But in this timeline, Lettow-Vorbeck was unscathed, actively learning from Witbooi and the Nama about their ways of life and survival.
Maybe this synergy would turn Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck, the Lion of Africa, into an even greater figure than in history.
Ludendorff, the famous WWI general alongside Hindenburg, was passed out drunk in the corner, tension finally released.
Worried he'd end up less useful than in real history at this rate.
'Anyway, wasting a talent like Lettow-Vorbeck on the African front—a backwater in the grand scheme—is pure squandering.'
Same for the African troops.
When the World War hit, Germany would scrape together every able body from its colonies, including Southwest Africa. Using black units was inevitable.
But they didn't have to fight in Africa like in history.
France threw Senegalese blacks onto the Western Front.
Britain lured Indians with autonomy promises, sending them west too.
France saw them as cannon fodder at best; Britain reneged post-war.
'Britain's racist instincts kicked in again, using the Rowlatt Act to tighten their Indian grip.'
That betrayal fueled Gandhi and the independence movement; Britain cracked down hard.
The interwar years were peak British oppression in India.
I had no intention of screwing over Africans who'd fought for Germany like that.
“There you are, Baron.”
“Governor Leutwein.”
“Congratulations on the victory.”
“What did I do? You handled all the command.”
“Your presence let us end the Herero rebellion faster and smoother than expected. And the foreign press is praising Germany's mercy. All thanks to you.”
The better Germany's image got, the harsher the backlash against Leopold II and Belgium.
No sympathy there.
They deserved worse.
“So, heading back to Germany now?”
“Afraid so. The Russo-Japanese War's getting interesting; Berlin wants me back pronto.”
“Shame. But I enjoyed meeting a friend like you.”
“Same here. Leaving Ludendorff to clean up—handle the rest, Governor.”
“Leave it to me.”
I shook Leutwein's hand with a smile and turned my gaze toward the distant, war-torn east.
(Ludendorff had no clue he'd be stuck in Southwest Africa for months more.)
Boom! Kr-boom!!
“Charge! Chaaarge!!”
Even as spring gave way to sweltering summer, the Yalu River echoed with ear-shattering artillery and the stench of blood.
Ratta-tat-tat-tat────!!
“H-Hiiik!”
“What the hell are you doing? Private Nobita! Keep advancing—don't stop!”
“Sergeant Takeshi, b-but...!”
“You, proud soldier of the Imperial Army, acting like a coward? Forgot your life belongs to His Majesty and the Great Japanese Empire? Get up and storm those Russkie trenches unless you want my bullet!”
But Japanese soldiers cowered under the endless Russian machine-gun fire, unable to advance.
Officers and NCOs screamed and brandished pistols at the huddled men in trenches, but they couldn't erase the primal fear of death in their eyes.
Just look at the unburied corpses rotting everywhere.
They'd stopped counting how many comrades the Russian guns had claimed.
Japan shipped in every cannon they had and threw troops at the line relentlessly, but achieved zilch.
The Russian defenses were goddamn impregnable.
Even reaching the trenches through the barrage didn't help.
They gave soldiers crude iron shields against bullets, kept shelling regardless of friendly fire—and occasionally broke through.
But Russians greeted them with shotguns and the brutal new pipe-guns the Japanese called that.
And every time, the soldiers despaired, cursing the high command for their pointless deaths.
“We're done for. Screwed!”
“Heh... That's the gateway to hell. No one's crossing alive—obvious.”
“Can't do it anymore! You want us in those Russkie trenches? Lead the way yourselves!”
Failed assaults eroded morale daily.
Some troops even mutinied against officers shoving them into the meat grinder despite knowing it was futile.
The propaganda about stopping Russian expansionism and restoring East Asian independence? Faded long ago.
Now, Japanese soldiers just prayed to the gods to survive the River Styx called Yalu and return to families waiting home.