Red Soil: 1919-1921

Prime Minister

Prime Minister

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Prologue:
1918
Sunday, March, 10th
Fort Riley, Kansas
​
Private Albert Gitchell moved through the mess hall at Fort Riley like a man possessed. He couched into the crook of his arm as he readied supper for the troops, soon to be sent to Europe. The United State of America had recently devoted it's men in uniform to the struggle against the Kaiser. Which was lucky for the Europeans. Albert had heard rumours that the Russians had surrendered in the midst of some kind of Civil War. If the Russian Empire really had fallen out of the war. The British and French would be crushed if it wasn't for America. They would have to be thankful, if it wasn't for the US Army, they might very well all be speaking German soon.

He coughed again, his throat hurt, and he was starting to feel hot. He shook it off. It didn't matter much. He was a cook, there were men out there in the trenches of Europe who were fighting and dying in the mud. He was lucky, clean, warm, well fed. And he'd probably stay that way for some time. Even once he reached Europe. He and the other men at Fort Riley would be shipping out in under a month. At least that's what the rumours said. Rumours never meant much, just talk, it was when they made the move towards fact, and away from ideas, that things got important, that things got real. He was excited to see just how real they were going to get.

He dropped down another huge pot of mashed potato on a counter.

"Where's the meat!" One faceless voice called out.

"France!" Another voice answered. That brought a roaring laugh from everyone in the mess. Albert and the other cooks chuckled as they worked. It was hot in the kitchen, and they were all sweating. Albert a little more than the others. He stopped, leaning on a counter for a moment catching his breath. "Eh, Bert!" Another private called out. "You're looking pretty bled out. You feeling light or somethin'?" Albert went to say something sarcastic, but just nodded and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Well, we don't wan't you getting the whole fort down. You go rest for the night. Be up and ready for breakfast. I'll let the others know." Albert nodded again, taking off his apron and walked to his small bed. It wasn't really much more than a lifted sleeping mat really. But God damn it was like the clouds of heaven come the end of the day.

Albert tossed himself down, fell was more like it. And was asleep almost before his eyes had shut. His dreams were erratic, confusing, blurred, shifting and changing at random. It was like a witch had cursed his world, and melted away reality, replacing it with the devil's laughter and trickery. He woke, much later than he had intended. The sun was high in the sky, and it's light filled every inch of the cramped sleeping quarters. It must have been sometime in the early afternoon. The other's had let him sleep, or were to afraid to try to wake him. He was cold now, covered in sweat that also soaked his pillow, blanket, and clothing from the night before. He felt reborn, better than he had in his whole life from as well as he could remember. Sitting up he dried his face in a towel that was nearby. The Fort physician walked in dressed all in white. Albert looked up at him. "What's up doc?"

"Oh good, you're alive." He said very matter-of-factly. "Gave us a scare there." He came into the room putting a thermometer in Albert's mouth. "Good thing it didn't catch. You're a lucky man. You're body did it's job." The doc gave a solid nod looking at the thermometer. "I'd say you're healthy as ever Private. Fit for duty." He gave another nod and left the room. Albert changed into a clean uniform, and walked off to the get some food of his own, before dinner prep was started.

He had no idea how right the doctor had been. He was lucky. Very lucky. And his luck, a few white blood cells being at the right place, at the right time.

Had change not just his life. But the course of the lives of billions of people.
 
Prime Minister

Prime Minister

Red Soil:
1919
Saturday, October, 20th
Flanders, Belgium
​
Thomas "Constitution" Jefferson sat in the back of the truck rattling it's way across the pock marked countryside that was once the western edge of Belgium. It had been beautiful once, at least that's what Thomas had been told. To him, it was the manifestation of a barren hellscape. Though the war had moved further east, the claw marks of the beast were visible everywhere. The surface of the earth was black and muddied, the trees ghostly skeletons, and the city of Ypres was ghostly ruin of an era that seemed as far away as ancient Rome. Shadows, moved around the cities destroyed edifice looking for whatever remained of their former lives. Whatever they were looking for, they were unlikely to find. Thomas couldn't think of a worse fate for someone to behold. He thought back to his family living in New England. His mother was crying, his younger brothers cheering him on, his elder sister giving him a stern but loving look. The war had taken their father, in '17, and his elder brother that December. Now, he faced the monster.

The truck gave a sudden jolt and he clasped his helmet to his head. "Careful now son." His CO said. He was a tall lean man with greying hair. He was from somewhere in Georgia, but lived in Boston now. He had come to command the 366th Infantry Regiment after the last CO had taken a bullet to the gut in the last push. Thomas looked out once more over the ruins left by the rolling tide of the war. He noticed odd pink and red patches mixed with the black hell of Europe.

"What's that?" He asked nodding, pointing with his chin. One of the other men is his unit. A massive man named Rufus, who looked as if the truck were to burst a tire, he'd simply carry it, and them to the front in on arm. His ask was a few shades darker than Thomas, and his cheek bones hinted at some Indian ancestors. All Thomas knew about him for sure was that he had grown up on a plantation in Georgia, where his family had been slaves until the end of the Civil War. He was the first to move North, to find something better.

"Dat boi?" He said in a deep stern voice. "Dat dere is chalk. Damn near dis whole part o' France and Belgium be made from da stuff."

"Why's it pink then? I thought chalk was white?"

"Blood." The mountain said flatly. "The blood o' millions o' dead bois just like you self." He chuckled darkly. "Red flowers, coming out o' da red soil. Damn shame. Damn waist is all." He leaned back again, looking thought full.

Thomas didn't know what to say. Or do. Or even think. So he chose nothing, he just sat back watching as the earth rolled track. Now and again catching glimpses of the red poppies that had become so famous the world over. The only life that thrived among the sprawling empire of death that western Europe had become. He had no idea how much time had past. But soon they were stopping, as the sun began to set. Not far a head he could see smoke rising from the horizon like a billowing forest, or a line of smoke stacks stretching from one end of the world to the other. He could hear the faint pop's and cracks of rifle fire, and suddenly, the thundering boom of artillery. Who was killing who he was unable to tell.

"Men killing other men." He muttered under his breath shaking his head. He shook his head and wiped sweat away from his eyes despite the general cool of the early evening. The truck drive who had brought them a white man, clean shaven, and balding despite his young face, gave him a sad sympathetic smile. Thomas started to move with his unit towards the far off battle, but was called back.

"Hey kid!" Their drive called out in a Brooklyn accent. He was running towards him something in his hands. Thomas had just enough time to notice the red bandanna tied around his right wrist. "Ya dropped this." He said handing him a slightly damp paper. Before Thomas could say anything, the driver returned to his vehicle and drove of towards the west. Thomas looked the folded paper over before opening it up. The writing was all in red pen, with a drawing of a bullet at the top.

"A Bullet with your name on it."
​
That was unsettling. He chuckled slightly. At least if he had it no one else did. He read on:

"Brother. I know not what nation you hail from. I know not your race
your religion, nor your colour. I know not if I am alive today so that
we may one day meet. But know this as truth, this is not your war
this is not our war. The German, the Austrian, or the Turk across
from you. With weapons in their hands, and fear in their heart
the are your brother, as you are mine, and I am yours. This is not
our war. This is not the war of the worker. And believe me brother
You are a worker. At home before the front, did you live in an estate?
Did your father own the local factory? Or did you suffer, as we have all
suffered? In the fields? In the Mines? In the Factories? And now on the
Front. Make no mistake comrade, if I may be so bold, your uniform my have
changed. And you now work with the rifle, rather than the hammer.
But your position has not. The bourgeois, your masters, cared not if you died
in their factories, and they have sent you to die here. They care not
if you return home on your feet, or in a casket, or are buried in
foreign soil. So long as they, and their power are protected.
British, American, German, it is all the same.
The gears of the bourgeois system are built from the bones of the workers.
But they are greased by the blood of the soldier.
Never forget."
​
Thomas thought about tossing the paper for a moment. He knew that some nations had started to conscript Socialist, Communists, Trade Unionists, and Pacifists to work behind the line. They had been talk, about what they might do. And this was it. He looked at the paper again before dropping it on the ground. He'd be killed if he was caught with it, maybe by his own unit. He wondered, how many papers like that were behind the lines, behind both lines. He took a few steps before stopping again for a moment. He wondered how many were in the trenches too.
 
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