//------------------------------// // Interlude in the Balkan Powderkeg - Creditors of Western Civilisation // Story: The Scramble for Equestria (A Pre-EAW Story) // by Radical Centrist //------------------------------// "Πάλι με χρόνια με καιρούς, πάλι δικά μας θα 'ναι!" "Once more, as years and time go by, once more they shall be ours!" - Megali Idea The Greek Irredentist, Resparked God, Thou hast allowed me to live till now. I thank thee and offer up my sufferings thee and pray thee at the same time to take me further into thy protection. This and several other pious meditations I had with god, and I considered my destiny. Although it was never quiet the entire night, and though a new battle might have started at any hour, none of all my miseries were so hard and depressing as the thought of my brothers, sisters and friends back home. This thought was my greatest pain, which I sought to repress with this hope: With god, everything is possible. So I will depend upon his further help... ... In the month of March 1888, I and my fellows from the sleepy town of Argos has decided to take up arms, discarding our laborious, monotonous chores to claim a stake in fulfilling the Great Idea. From there, we marched through Roumeli and Thessaly, pleasantly being surprised to encounter countless like-minded folks on our way, who seemed as determined as we were to accomplish our father's dreams. The outlook seemed great. I and all the other soldiers were very merry, always singing and dancing especially since throughout the entire Macedonian Country. The quarters in eating and drinking were particularly good, because of the large supply of wine the locals would jubilantly supply us with, so that everyone voluntarily had his flasks filled with wine and his pockets with cookies. At the time of departure moreover, the beautiful villages on the main river, surrounded by vineyards, fruit trees and grain fields put everyone in a happy mood. We were still very lively in these towns. Singing and laughing cheerfully, although, we could imagine the unusual campaign before us. But everyone always believes in and hopes for the best. The woes are never expected, yet always regretted... ... ... ... From there, the line of the march turned towards Komotini, along the ancient road that shortly led to Istanbul. A perversion of its original name, Constantinopole, which, we were sure to restore in quick order. A hope, swiftly dashed by the halt made here by our general. We were quartered for four days, and by this time we had to be contented with poor food and regiment bread. We had to drill even on ascension day, justified by our General, Zelos, for most of our's lack of experience. However, in his lame charm, he would convey so thusly: "I will do you a favour, private, and not arrest you. Do you think I don't know what day it is?" On Corpus Christi day for those devoted to the Latin church within us, we marched into the city of Corlu. Here, for the first time, we saw all the corpses of the Ottoman remnants strung together. We had always encountered sporadic headless barrels of our former oppressors in our journey through the countryside, no doubt, perpetrated by a disgruntled farmer or equally incensed revolutionary. Here, though? It had seemed our fellow peoples' collectively sought efficient retribution. All the gates were jammed and the regiments had to wind through the streets in a great throng. We still obtained quarters, however, we had to prepare our own food from our ration meat and bread. The meat came from the salted ice pits, and there was a rumour that it had been stored from a regional revolt by our fellow peoples in 1871! ...The condition of the meat made the rumour seem credible, since the meat appeared bluish black and was sharp as herrings. The man who attested to this would forever have our pity, and our equally genuine ridicule. ... Daily, the hardships increased and there was no hope of bread. My colonel spoke to us once, and said that we could hope for no more bread until we finally reached Silivri, an eye-away distance from the soon-to-be Constantinopole. But every great achievement imply an equal exchange in blood. As the Bulgars stood holdfast between our Capital. On June 25th, the army, under General Zelos's discretion, became determined to march through the Bulgarian formations. Even today, I still do not know what had compelled him to take such initiative. I would later learn the government had not consented to Zelos's advance, nor did they even know he was leading a modest army of few adventurers like me and my Argos fellows. Athens would applaud his eventual results. I would forever curse him for leaving me alive. Our company was of 80 men now, of the initial 300. Our numbers, having already been shaved from the ravages of disease, had been thoroughly battered from the Berdan Rifles of the Russian's design, lent to our foes whose unfortunate proficiency with their borrowed arms bored bloody holes in our thick ranks. The same could not be said with our purchased Gewehr 71. Not for their inadequacy, but our inexperience. I can still feel the splatter of blood across my cheeks, bled by my fellow whose curdling screams slowly quieted behind me as I heartlessly marched forward, possessed by the hardness of those that quickly took my friend's place in the ranks, and the zealous cry of the officer, swaying his sabre hypnotically above his head. Even as a bullet spilt the contents of the officer's skull across me, I mutely carried on my march, stepping over his limp body, feeling the crunch of his splayed wings beneath my recently souled shoes and the grainy shattering of fragments of his skull. ... For 200 blurry souls of men in my company, we would take a single hill of many from the Bulgarians. Sorrow and anger would fill me, as the men who had leisurely shot and massacred my fellows would escape unharmed to another hill overlooking us, this time, leering with cannons. ... On the morning of June 26th, fit men of every regiment were set in motion, and all advanced in crooked columns against the rigid, refortified Bulgarians. Here every regiment without exception was under fire again. And again, the troops attempted assaults, but because of the greater number and training of the Bulgarians, we were forced back every time on this day, since their heavy artillery stood on the heights and could hit what Zelos had generously exposed. ... Finally, by night, we had made good our position on the heights overlooking Constantinopole, and the battle was discontinued. That night, the thought of the coming day alternated with fitful sleep, and in fantasy, the many dead men came as a world of spirits, haunting many from good rest. Before the last judgement, as soon as the day broke, we marched for our holy city. Once again, we were checked by the disciplined Bulgarians who had not been routed from our previous day's engagement. Zelos sought the employ of any sappers or engineers among us, only to dismay once he realised we were but petty men, formerly engaged in menial labour either in petite towns or the fields. Once again, Zelos would resolve, that we had to march directly into the clattering, sharp teeth of the Bulgarian's mouth. The defences on the road were frontally stormed, but the usual hail of bullets wouldn't meet us. By then, we had run dry of ammunition, resorting to the bayonets and thereby pitifully hoping the enemy had been struck blind just before our assault. Faith would have it, our Bulgar foes had similarly been afflicted with a shortage of munitions. Later I would learn, that the Bulgarians had never expected a fight. But another horror awaited us atop the hill. Hell came early to many on the 28th. We never knew what races the Bulgarians, or for that matter, the entire Balkans were supposed to be. Like lions, they had an encompassing mane, but instead of paws, they had hooves. They also had an antlered, often vibrant, colourful singular horn on their heads, reminding of valuable gems or rubies. But most confusing of all, they had scales on their backs whose curvatures straightened into echelons that stretched along their muzzle, accentuating their sightly horn. At a distant glance, their similar equine silhouettes gave us impressions of regularity. The later sights of scales reminded of us of lizards, or any type of reptile with patterned scales. Was it complacency then, that we had not considered that the fire-breathing dragons of fantastical tales, also had scales? The first one was enough to momentarily halt our charge. Despite the engulfing fire, we definitely spotted the unmistakable highlights of a charcoaled creature galloping, not running, as its epicentre. The dreadful Bulgar warcries, heard from the days before, heard clearer now, further confirmed our suspicions, then, that these weren't incended objects to break our charge, but quite literally, enflamed Kirins, ripped straight off from the Oriental's texts, before us. The first of the Bulgar Kirins were soon followed by his entire line, galloping in feral rage downhill towards our own exhausted formations. In the glaring light of their fiery bodies, I made out their officers, who, strangely were not afflicted with similar spontaneous combustion, as they were still on their two 'feet', rallying their feral comrades to, with great momentum, smash into our scattered ranks. The first to go, burnt up, was my company's doctor named Stressle, a good Bavarian fellow who had his arm shot away prior while taking the hill, now, harrowingly scorched to death underneath the feral stomps of a blazed hoof. After the manner of his death, I no longer could pay any attention to my comrades and, therefore, knew not in what way they perished or were lost to later convey to their heartbroken parents or spouses. Everyone fired and struck at the enemy in wild madness and no one could tell whether he was in front in the middle or behind the center of the army. Even still, I refused to run. A blindingly bright hoof, as squint-worthy as it was burning on my skin, approaching my bare cheeks is all I remember of that day. ... I awoke in a daze, the glaring pain of a scorching brand iron of sorts slowly irradiating from my cheeks to my jaws. Soon, through spreading pain, I would be made aware that I was burnt all over. Miraculously survived. Surrounding groans of pains and amalgamated distant, too-quiet conversations quickly told me that I was in a hospital, albeit, clearly a hastily scrounged facility or the 'waiting room' of a triage; those within, like I, deemed beyond expedient treatment to save. My loud curses, uncaring of the lord above, listening, would, though, disprove the first theory and validate the last, as I would be promptly relocated out of the 'waiting room.' It was through that, in a passing conversation with a nurse, that I was made aware that I was currently in a Constantinople hospital, after our brutish General Zelos's victory from a timely reinforcement via sea, after a sortie to occupy Cyprus returned triumphantly. ... ... ... I saw the huge city lying before me. I contemplatively gazed at the occasional headless Ottoman official, distincted from their severed heads, attached, their awkward headdress. And already, the first fires for the long-sought retribution against the oppressors were lit in the former governor's palaces and the wealthier Turkish districts of the city. ...Clouds of fire-red smoke, great gilded crosses of the church towers glittered; shimmered, and billowed up to us from the city. This, holy city was like the description of the city of Jerusalem, over which our saviour wept. It even resembled the horror and the wasting, according to the gospel. Hurrah! The megali idea had been realised...!