\this chapter is rewritten and in current rewriting/
I am rewriting this. Currently. But I lacks the proper things to do it easily
I both lack times, the fact I don't have my computer but only a very old phone to rewrite it. And the fact I am in a country that has a firewall on the Internet. Which bears a toll on my WiFi.
So it is going slowly.
So expect some parts of this chapter to have awful mistakes, both grammatical and orthograph. And also incoherence.
Sorry for the trouble. And have a good read.
____________
The room had fallen silent again, except for the echoes of the wind passing through the long corridors of the palace. The sunlight gently filters through the large windows overlooking the Piazza Venezia, casting long golden beams that reflected off the polished marble floor and shone on the rich brown oak grain of the desk where Mussolini is still seated, the fingers of his right hand now busy tapping on the desk, while his other arm rest behind the back of the chair, his legs crossed, the man in a thoughtful and tranquil pose, that of one who need only wait, not ask or act. Who doesn't need permission to talk, neither to stay silent.
"You wanted to be useful," replies Mussolini, in a calm and tranquil voice, almost joyful, yet remaining firm. "Well, I have given you an opportunity to do so, I offered you a pencil, plans, and my support. Now I am giving you an even greater opportunity, but with responsibilities that go with it. And you didn't disappoint me or the country. As always. So, i thought you could be rewarded with more, a bigger and better opportunity, one which suit you even more, and that you crave... i know it. A job perfect for you and where people will finally recognise your talents. Not hidden in the shadows behind a desk, but leading, in plain light..."
"You will not have a forge to use, but men to coordinate and lead, orders to give, a war to win, a continent to reshape, and before that, to tame and domesticate. No matter what is necessary"
He gestures towards a thick leather binder resting on the edge of the desk before pulling out a folder that he carelessly tosses onto the wood, the folder sliding until it reaches the other side of the desk. Amedeo leans over it and opens it, revealing page after page of engineering sketches, followed by production charts, lists of names and itineraries, test reports, and maps of military and industrial logistics. On the first page of the folder, written in a crimson red, are two words: "New prototypes."
Following this are several sketches, plans and scrawled drawings, followed by their redrawn sketches, finalised and polished versions. These are not mere sketches, but car designs, armoured cars. It is not simply an armoured truck as commonly found in Italy or elsewhere in Europe, but something entirely new. Then followed by two pictures, each shows one of the two vehicles, proudly standing in the middle of a tarmac with typical Tuscan hills in the background.
The vehicle in the first picture is low and slender for an armoured vehicle, about 1.9 metres in height; the sketches display soft-angled plates at the front and sides of the vehicle, slightly inclined like the bow of a speedboat. A legend on the side of the plan outlines the different components of this car, the surface of the hull being a mixture of riveted and bolted plates, assembled with a finesse and elegance that is purely industrial.
The front windscreen is covered with armoured shutters, barely opened to reveal split vision ports, fine horizontal lines resembling a hawk's eyes. Just above the cabin is a small dome turret, which is equipped with a cannon. The weapon barely protrudes from the turret, resembling the beak of a predator. The wheels are robust, made of rubber, chain links can be seen on the rear tyres. On the sides are fuel barrels, suspended like bags over the rear wheel arches. Extending beyond the vehicle and swaying in the wind, an antenna.
The car is painted in a dusty ochre, one of its sides displays a black fasces painted in stencil, the other shows a sequence of letters followed by a number, "Falco26".
The second photo shows another vehicle, this one is not wheeled but tracked, a tankette, the engineers, soldiers and white-coated individuals surrounding it demonstrate in comparison that it is smaller than one would expect from a tracked vehicle, barely taller than a man, and certainly no wider than a small car. But it is nonetheless compact. Its hull is cubic, but not clumsy, the front armour platform is sharply inclined, neither horizontal nor vertical, the design is unusually avant-garde for 1927. Some who are neither Amedeo nor Mussolini might think it looks dangerous, or at least very experimental.
The tracks run almost the entire length of the chassis. The vehicle does not have a true turret, only a small rotating dome or a fixed mount, in which a short gun is integrated. The gun is short but thick, clearly intended to fight other tanks, made to confront small fortifications and infantry.
At the rear, a pair of cylindrical fuel drums is mounted on the hull, removable and securely attached with armored brackets. Next to them, there is an engine access panel that opens outward, designed with the idea of quick field repairs. A canvas bag and a small pickaxe hang on the side - revealing its intention to be used deep in the field, where breakdowns are a constant risk.
The tankette is painted in the same desert ochre as the previous armored vehicle, although its surfaces are more matte and less polished. On its right flank is showed another drawing in stencil, the pattern of a skull holding a pugnale, a dagger, in its mouth, under this drawing, is written in black paint a motto "Me ne frego.".
On his left flank, is written in blank white 'Lupo27'.
Amedeo has his eyes fixed on the detailed sketches, his fingers slowly tracing the faint lines of graphite and ink that described machines and new designs, a new grammar of war. Waiting some time to talk, lost in thought and admiration for his own work, his own creation... with some help and inspiration from others, not that anyone beside him and the man in front of him will ever know that fact.
"They are magnificent," he finally said softly. "Ugly, blunt, with unappealing shapes, like dull daggers... but beautiful in what they can bring."
"Yes," replied Mussolini, his incessant rhythm on the oak wood stopping. His tone changed to become more thoughtful, and much more respectful, which may seem surprising from him, almost reverent.
"They are not just simple tools, they are examples, they speak of a new era, a new way of waging war, which Italy will be the first to adopt and to use, as well as the first to demonstrate its incredible effectiveness. Also showing a future-oriented Italy, not dreaming of a new empire but creating it with its own hands, not remaining stuck in the past with its cavalry charges and doctrines of the last century, but charting a path toward the future in steel and oil, with the engines of cars and the propellers of planes."
"Until now, our military has been nothing short of... inadequate... that's the most generous word I can probably find."
Probably yes...
"The Regio Esercito is limited by an endless array of constraints and outdated traditions. His mobility is abysmal, so poor that in this modern age of steel and engines, cavalry still plays a quite large and meaningful role. Cavalry ! The embarrassing relic of a bygone era."
"Our infantry tactics and doctrines are relics stuck in the past, clinging to strategies that might have had some merit during the Great War, at best, but are utterly obsolete today. The officer corps, especially the highest ranks, are the worst of any great power's military leadership."
He shrugged "The entire hierarchy is riddled with nepotism and political favoritism, governed by a load of stubborn, old-fashioned bureaucrats, more interested in preserving their petty privileges than adapting to the demands of modern warfare.
Lions led by donkeys, very old and outdated donkeys."
Painful but true
"Our army marches as if we still were in 1915, slow and cumbersome, like a bunch of snails. The bulk of our forces are infantry. An infantry that isn't prepared for anything but static, drawn-out battles of attrition. Our troops are unfamiliar with maneuver warfare or rapid, decisive action, and quite frankly, anything remotely modern and different than a war where you wait 4 years in trenches to wait that your enemy give up before you do. The army is only sluggishness and rigid mindset.
Italy lack tanks, motorized infantry, gosh, even modern artillery."
Mussolini paused for a few seconds, letting the silence attempt to settle over the room. But, quite frankly, it failed. Rome, ever full of life, refused to surrender its noise and motion. The sounds of the city filtered in uninvited, indifferent to ceremony. The windows of the Sala del Mappamondo seemed thinner than those of his previous office, allowing the hum of the capital to slip through with ease.
"But these," He said, taping on, the folder.
"these are the first steps in changing that. And it perfectly worked. After month of thought, speculation, correspondence, and testing, we finally gave Italy a chance. A turning point begins here, with these two revolutionary vehicles... the Falco 26 and the Lupo 27..."
"Two machines, forged with the advantage of foresight... yours, mostly. Thank whatever dwells above that you and I are here. Your knowledge and my position. My vision... our creation. This moment wouldn't exist without either of us."
"These two things, these are more than prototypes. They are the first glimpse, the first trace of the future that lay ahead of us, these are the glimpse into the future of warfare... mechanized, fast, and decisive. A spear through the heart. Like a single powerful punch.
He leaned forward, fingers steepled before him.
The LANCIA FALCO 26, or "Autoblinda da Ricognizione Celere" if you are formal on the name, which honestly, no one will be.
A fast armored scout car, designed for recon, escort, patrol, and rapid response, especially useful in flat and open territory, and in colonial territories. Which makes him perfect for a war in low density area of population. Especially in a desert warfare... like in Libya, for exemple..."
"Or parts of Ethiopia... but that, it will be a discussion for another time."
He quickly added in a breath, before continuing
"Quite a good idea of yours—drawing inspiration from both the future and the present. From our own AB41, to the German Sd.Kfz. 222 of 1936, and even the venerable Rolls-Royce armoured cars that once roamed the Arabian front in the last war... all part of the foundation."
"Most of the plans follow our earlier concepts and propositions, though several elements have been refined based on recommendations from our testers and industry partners, to improve both reliability and production efficiency. The power of the vehicle is important yes, but his reliability and the output are even more critical, we must take our industry in consideration. After all, we're not aiming for a flawless vehicle that put fears in our ennemies heart but that would break down and defy field repairs, and that can only be built once a year, are we ?"
He asked rethorically before continuing
"The chassis is based on a modified Lancia or FIAT 4x4 truck frame, reinforced and fitted with upgraded suspension. It's powered by a FIAT 6-cylinder petrol engine, outputting between 80 and 100 horsepower. The armor consists of 8–14 mm riveted plates, angled wherever feasible to improve deflection and reduce weight.
As for armament, it's built primarily around a Breda 20mm autocannon—effective against infantry and light vehicles—supported by a coaxial 8mm machine gun for suppression and coverage."
"In opposite to this stupid idea that our engineers and companies promoted in the previous time, the crew will, as we planned, consists of three, driver, commander/gunner and a radio operator. Doubling our battle efficiency. A fourth member will be added to be gunner if we consider it is needed, but it is unlikely."
"Suspension is handled by upgraded leaf springs with reinforced shock absorbers, ensuring the vehicle can withstand the rigours of off-road movement and prolonged operations."
"In the same spirit, the transmission is a five-speed manual, equipped with a high-torque low gear for difficult terrain, which will handle off road and desert way better than the basic 4-speed."
"Fuel capacity is way improved in comparison with the ones of our world. Our reserves allow for an operational range of approximately 200 kilometres, supported by modular external fuel drums to extend endurance as needed. Double the range than the original version."
"While not ideal, the Magneti Marelli long-range radio set will suffice for both vehicle-to-HQ communication and coordination between units. Oh, and the design, as you know it, is made to be easily repaired. With easy access to the engine bays and the tool compartments. And the use of common engine blocks between this and our new tankette"
"And the cooling system?" Amedeo asked, a trace of unease in his voice. He hoped it hadn't been too heavily altered by the engineers—brilliant men, no doubt, but hopelessly outdated compared to him.
"No point if she chokes on dust," he added dryly.
"Double fans, raised intakes, oil bath filters, as you insisted. We stole the principle from a Polish mechanic who spent time in Iraq... at least that's what the papers will say. It works. She won't die in the dunes."
"Its top speed is projected at 65 to 70 km/h on paved roads, while the off-road performance will decrease, of course, it will range around 35 km/h, reaching up to 45 km/h if the engine is pushed to its limits... though not without long-term wear."
Amedeo nodded, satisfied.
"The vehicle's production will be a collaborative effort across our key industrial companies, everyone will put his hand in it, the best of each of our wonderful Italian companies. Fiat in their Turin factories will be responsible for the engine and gearbox, Magnetti Marelli in Milan for the radio, Terni steelworks for the armor. Lancia, also in Turin, will handle final assembly and testing.
The result is perfect for us. The Falco 26 is the best armored car for our needs. It will patrol long stretches of road and desert, escort our logistic convoys and by a shield for our infantry, and respond swiftly to insurgent threats, as versatile as capable. It will also occasionally serve as mobile headquarters, command relay, or forward observer platform for artillery units."
"The Falco 26 will be m... I mean our first truly modern combat vehicle, purpose-built for the unique demands of North Africa, as it is there we currently need to focus today. It will fill the doctrinal gap left in our army, erase the cavalry patrols and the static infantry deployments of this now bygone era of static warfare, it will be the head of the spear of our new doctrine."
...
Mussolini turned the page. Now the drawings were smaller, tighter. More insect than hawk.
"And the Ansaldo Lupo 27…" Amedeo said, resting his hand on the second folder, cutting the man in front of him, but so proud of his technological mastery that he couldn't resist to explain it himself.
"Compact, fast, stripped from anything not essentials. Track-based. Same for the previous one, the old two-man crew was stopped, now passed to three, this time a driver, a gunner and a commander with radio duty. Like the old Vickers tankettes, but what's way more modern. The chassis is the new one, custom-built in the north... wider track base, extra road wheels, far better ground contact. This thing will cross terrain that would leave other light vehicles stuck. And its hull isn't cast but is in riveted steel. That means we don't need specialized foundries. We can build her almost anywhere, with basic tooling and trained hands. That's production efficiency. Perfect for our industry, craftmanship and specialized rather than mass output."
He flipped the page, the next one being the plans of the vehicle, with series of abbreviations that only the people on that have worked on this project could understand, each one followed by its series of numbers, some of them are crossed out, others are separated by a slash to indicate either an undecided choice or an attempt to simplify production by broadening the options, and some are followed by a question mark.
"It will not just be for scouting scout... but a proper light assault vehicle, built to move with the infantry, to protect our men while pushing through streets and desert alike. This will lead our urban patrols in Benghazi, Tripoli, Derna. Be the spearhead of the cross-country raids on rebel supply lines and remote oases."
"This wolf will be deadly alone, and in pack... let's say it will deliver results."
He almost laughed, that say how happy he was at this very moment
"Fast enough for pursuit, especially as our actual enemy lack anything even remotely modern or industrial. it is small enough to sneak through narrow passes and some riverbeds."
He tapped the diagram again.
"FIAT petrol engine—around 70 horsepower. A big stomach for this time, giving her 30 to 40 km/h on the road, off of the road, it should be reduced the something like 20 to 25 km/h. A little bit less on deep sand, but way within what's supposed to stand as an infantry support and patrol duties car. The armor is 10 to 20 millimeters, sloped as we wanted. Light, very light, but enough to shrug off small arms and shrapnel. The armament will vary, depends on the company, it is depending on the unit, the terrain where it's deployed, and the role it's assigned, we're currently testing both a Breda 20mm autocannon and a short 37mm gun, either in a fixed mount or a compact turret."
"In the newest prototype, we've got a fixed Breda 13.2mm heavy machine gun. It's turretless, yes... but also raw forward firepower. It'll easily tear through just about anything these desert fighters throw at us... or ride on."
"Because I doubt a camel, a horse, or whatever passes for transport in this god forsaken region, will react well to a burst of high-velocity shrapnel to the face. This is the machine age, and this is high time for these backward nomads to be given a polite reminder of that."
There was a pause in the room. Not quite a silence... Rome never allows that in these modern times, if she ever did. The sound of cars could still be heard in the far-away.
There is only a soft stillness, like an opera, the right second before the explosion of instruments and voices.
The prince then resumed, slower now.
"Five-speed transmission, improved by a crawler gear for tight turns. Bogie system with return rollers for the suspensions... Christie-style torsion arms are being considered although the technical difficulties of our time could prevent this. Dual air-oil radiators, sand-proofed. Fuel range sits at 150 kilometers, rear drums aren't accounted in that. The radio's isn't as good as for the Falcon, only short-range, from the vehicle to another vehicle. It is not far, yes, but that's all this thing needs for now. As a practical, mobile support platform, it will never be alone."
"Ansaldo in Genoa will handle the hull, suspension, and final assembly.
FIAT in Turin will provide the engine systems.
Terni Steelworks will cut and shape the armor.
And Breda in Brescia will manufacture the autocannons and..."
"And the machine guns."
Mussolini interrupt Amedeo as he closes the folder. The prince being obliged to remove his hands to prevent them from being caught in the closing backrest. Before the man unceremoniously threw it near his leather case. Then making a few turns around the desk, his heels clicking on the immaculate marble. The figure of the imposing man, not by his physique, but by his nature, turning in circles, fists on his hips as if posing, seemingly lost in deep thought, before coming back.
"This tankette, this Lupo 27 is our first truly practical tracked combat vehicle. Speed, firepower, and survivability in a compact format, it has it all. And unlike the future CV33, she won't suffer from stupid mistake, arrogance and lack of foresight and doctrine."
"You know what I wanted to call it, at first?" Mussolini added, with a little smirk.
Amedeo can only rais an eyebrow. His friend really likes to name things; he has a talent for that at least. He cannot take that away from him.
"Sabbia. Sand."
The Duce said with a little smile on his face
"Cause it fight in... sand"
...
Maybe he can take that back.
It is really...
"Exactly," Mussolini says while knocking on his desk, reading him like a book.
" I've realized it was as unappealing as it lacked impact and meaning. The name needs to be something with teeth, sharpness. Something that bites, that fight in group, a true pack. Lupo, the wolf, does that."
They stood together now, walking slowly along the edge of the great table as more folders were opened—one by one. Charts, estimates, timelines.
"The production of our little wolf right here will be more dispersed. Cheaper. Assemblies in Palermo, Naples, and Taranto. As it is less difficult to build than our falco, and isn't as needed."
"Besides, with the recent, events that occurred in the Mezzogiorno, thanks to Mori's efforts in... cleansing, there is an increase in labor availability, and conditions are more favorable for economic restructuring. The south region is, as always, in dire need to modernization and industrialization. This is the first step in that direction."
"We'll use some old train workshops too, as these old things are in dire need of something new to produce, and frankly, just a reason to exist. And a few of the new military-industrial schools we are trying get off the ground will get prototype kits for instruction."
Amedeo was impressed. "These are quite good results. More than I expected you could pull off."
When he finalised the plans and sent them to the Direzione Armi e Munizioni, he still thought that their projects would sit for at least 2 to 3 years to even being approved, and quite some more months after that to be tested and eventually produced.
In case you wonder, giving control over designs, production and materials to the very people who do the design and build them, that is not a very bright idea. As they will not be very keen to approve anything that is not coming from their minds or factories.
even if it is the best and more advanced project in the entire world.
The absurdity of corporatism.
"This state capitalism is also the reason why these pretty little things could be approved so quickly, and are already in production."
Mussolini cut with a sharp voice, always eager to offer him a lecture
"You really ought to train yourself to better manage your facial expressions. There are people that I'd understand less easily even if i could read their fucking minds.
I spent years and years being an examiner during exams, believe me, I quite know how to read a face when i see one. Especially when it harbours guilty thoughts."
"I sent letters of recommandations, offered exclusive contracts. Gave hopes of prestige and money. And in a few cases... one or two little threats or reminders who I am. You know how this works."
"And I can't deny it; there is a certain pleasure in seeing people bend the knee and bow under nothing more than a name... particularly one that was meaningless 10 years ago."
They both chuckled., not behind a mask of politeness, but with genuine ease.
Is that because they see the change they can bring ?
is that because they can finally see this slow bureaucratic machine start to move, oiled and working... at last ?
Is that because these great corporations finally bow to the state ?
or just the simple idea of absolute power and authority without question... in their sole hands ?
Honestly... both.
"They are already being assembled,"
"Right now, our output is 15–20 and 5–10 units each end of the month. By January of next year (1927) we'll have 50 Falchi at least 25 seventy Lupi. Enough for the job, pacify the Libyan interior once and for all."
"Libya..."
Amedeo murmured while looking at the on a canvas placed against the wall near the fireplace, ready to be hung, but left lying there as if the person who brought it did not know where to hang it, on it, a map of Europe, middle-east and Africa, with Italy shining in green as the others countries as in deep grey.
Under the boot, separated from it by the Mediterranean, also colored in green, Libya, proudly posing between Tunisia and Egypt.
Libia, a region rich... in opportunities in their homeland. But in their world of the future, a pile of shit where civil wars, warlords, famines, and slavery are common.
"Libia, the daughter of Epaphus, granddaughter of zeus"
Mussolini cut his thoughts with his usual gibberish and wave of theatrical rhetoric, strong of half-remembered old Greek or roman fairy tales.
"A mysterious foreign land, hidden beyond the edge of the known world for the people of these ancient times. A realm separated by an endless expense of water and danger. For the ancients Greeks, the farthest reach, the last piece of earth before the mythic space land, the endless sea where the dead lay down for eternity. The last line between civilization and the infinite chaos. A horizon of myth, shadow, and sun.
Inhabited by monsters, by strange peoples painted in unfamiliar colors, speaking unknown tongues while living under the unyielding sky.
Home of the Gorgons, where Perseus went to struck down Medusa and bring back her head. Where was hidden the Garden of the Hesperides, and its golden apples shining under the unstopped watch of dragons and nymphs.
Mysterious land whose songs and verses of Virgil and Ovid have desperately tried to describe the wild and unknown beauty."
The man stops for some second, letting the tension settle as he has his next words laying on the lips, turning his watchful eye on his friend.
"A land of sand and hidden treasures, and where you will go."
Amedeo barely has time to utter his first words before he is instantly interrupted by the Duce, cutting short the complaint with a sharp wave of his raised hand. A silent command for him to be quiet, an order, not a request.
"No need to try to debate or to bargain, I've already sent my orders and my request to the King to appoint you in Libya. He signed it immediately, so unusual for such an indecisive na weak little man."
"The dwarf must be thrilled at the idea of a member of the aristocracy, especially from the royal house, his own cousin, taking the reins. it could be the first time in years that the monarchy gained something close to power, without having to give up ten times more elsewhere."
he chuckles, dryly. "The idiot must think I'm relinquishing some power... which, from a certain point of view, is technically true."
"May I ask why ?"
Amedeo says, seizing the brief silence to speak before his friend goes into another rambling about those endless old myths... or worse, a self-centered monologue.
"Are you... giving me an exile wrapped in gold, meaningless power and lost territories to govern ? With an empty title over a "mysterious", for not saying forgotten, utterly useless and savage, land to oversee, far from any center of influence ? Sending me at the other side of the world to not de opposed while you play a remake of the dictator ?"
To this, the Duce, his nose buried in yet another file, suddenly lift his head.
His eyes are empty, the man saying nothing. Slowly, unnervingly, he tilts his head to the right, his ear almost brushing his shoulder, like an owl twisting its own neck to get a more interesting view of a small rodent. A stiff, deliberate move that should stretch his neck at its limits.
A faint, dry crack echoes as his face turn almost completely, exceeding 45 degrees from its original position, a subtle, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.
His eyes are still completely fixed on those of the prince, no longer even blinking, the seconds stretching into what feel like hours for Amedeo as he endures a gaze impossible to place. Being somewhere between straight indifference, curiosity, irritation, intrigue, and... amusement ?
The man still says nothing as he stands, passing around the desk before joining Amedeo.
"Oh, do not worry... my friend"
The man says while placing a hand on the prince's shoulder, an iron grip pinning Amedeo to the chair from which he was trying to rise. The smile not leaving his face, as if he is using only a fraction of his strength to keep the prince seated. Or rather, as if he isn't using any at all.
"If there is ever a day which comes when our paths meet in true opposition. Not by chance, nor fate, nor the erratic turns of life... but because neither of us could will ourselves to be anything other than what we are, then know this: As your friend, I will not dishonor you with hollow titles, a gilded exile, or empty reassurances about a bond that no longer breathes. When conviction meets conviction, like two cars hurtling toward each other's, and unwilling to stop. I will have no need, nor desire, for pretense. It will be real. It will be honest. And it will be swift."
Amedeo cannot says anything, his tongue fry, as pressured by the man as he is impressed by him.
"Are we friend ?"
He nods
"Good..."
The Duce says while suddenly releasing his grip, tapping Amedeo's almost painful shoulder as if a deal had just been concluded between them. Saying nothing more as he goes back to his chair, waiting to be tranquilly settled in it to talk.
"To answer your... somewhat misplaced fears. No, it isn't an attempt to sideline you, rather the opposite."
Amedeo could only raise his eyebrows in silence. Benito mirrored the gesture with exaggerated precision, his expression unreadable, before speaking in a clipped voice:
"Remember to keep your mouth shut when you are surprised. The eyes already say enough."
"Don't you think I put myself in a problematic position ?" he continues while waving his hand toward Amedeo
"The dictatorship is still young—my power isn't as absolute as it will be in a few years. The monarchy and the dictatorship have not yet fused. There are still many points of tension between the party and the traditional elites, between the old monarchist and aristocratic guard in the army and the new fascist generation. Some within my own party still carry a revolutionary spirit, and the same goes, but in reverse, for yours.
People, and not just on my side, have begun to ask questions, about you. Because why you? Without any particular reason, you've been appointed. Why you, a still young and relatively low-ranking colonel, is now spending half your time in my office, wielding so much power while three months prior you were with your camel in Libia ?" Duce ask rethorically
"No. it needs to end."
He answered himself
"You need to rise to a higher rank, because if you gain greater control, that will make our mission easier, you will have more power, more things within your reach, more problems and stupid errors, especially in our army could be repaired or prevented with you in charge."
He then argued against himslef
"But can I give you a position to do that ? Not really, I could but it would be difficult politically to make you minister or chief of army for not reason other than "I like this guy". Especially as you are close, how shall I put it, close to Il Re Muto."
Can he stop giving him this nickname, let the cousin alone for god damn.
"You need to have a reason to being in higher ranks. You need to earn the trust of the people here, fascist and royalist alike, and prove to them you deserve your position. "
He continued. "You also need to gain valuable experience in warfare, as this likely won't be the last time you'll be leading a battle plan."
"Moreover, you'll have the opportunity to see what's wrong with our army, what can be improved, and perhaps discover some hidden talents."
"And by the way, with your... experience. I thought it could be a great idea to put you in charge of our campaign in Libia. It is a matter of speeding things up a bit and not having to wait 5 years before I am confirmed that this sandy patch is pacified."
"So, you send me to this useless pack of sand, to deal with these... people, like a dog sent to hunt mice and rabbits.... what a joy."
Amedeo reply, the voice dries with irony.
Oh, he understands the reasons why. Actually, it makes a lot of sense, the cold and ... rational side of him understand it.
But still, being sent there, is hardly stirring even a scrap of joy from him.
Benito lifts his eyes from his paper, blinking in response to the remark, before replying.
"In fact, it is far from desperate as you seem to think. Libya holds to some extent, a wealth of resources like iron ore to start with. Or even lots of fertile and unused lands, ideal for agricultural means, which our country so much lacks if it want to be self-sufficient..."
The man begins, with his usual teacher like voice. Which irritate Amedeo with a violence that makes him want to beat his hands on the wall. Although he doesn't ever know if it is the condescending voice dripping in sarcasm and despise that annoys him, or the fact this voice often bear truth.
The man continues without noticing Amede's anger, or probably just ignoring it. With this autistic brain that makes him unable to even see the most basics of emotions in a man face.
"And that's without even mentioning what we both know is buried deeper une this pile of sand: gas and oil. Difficult to extract, yes...
probably unreachable for us before the '40s, or even the fifties... but still, it's there, and that's enough for us to make sure this land is completely at peace, under our boot."
Thanks but he never asked for a lesson. Can you never notice when someone is irritated with you ? Or do you consider yourself too much above it all to even give your attention to someone that isn't yourself ?
"... The coastal lands are fertile and could be made productive with the help of... new people coming there. With the application of modern agricultural techniques as well. And let's not forget its strategic position, it's a natural outpost for projecting power across the Mediterranean, having an important localisation, commercially and militarily."
"So no, this place is far from being "useless". And its people could be of great benefit for us"
The Duce finish dryly, his tongue dripping with sarcasm.
That's all he has to say it seems, before going back on his paper to... is he drawing ?
But Amedeo does not let himself be discouraged, certainly not this time, if he is sent to this godforsaken place, he can at least complain about it and eloquently express his feelings about it. And it's not the guy who puts his face on larges buildings and calls himself a 'guide' who is going to lecture him about duty and the need to do
things he doesn't like to do.
Especially concerning place he will probably hardly ever visit, if only one time in his life.
"Yes... and nearly a century later, even with all those precious resources."
Amedeo let out a dry laugh, devoid of amusement.
"It is still a sun-scorched wasteland of tribes, warlords, smugglers, Islamists and slavers. That fertile coast you're so fond of talking about? In another century it'll be nothing but scorched earth, just good to be a departure dock for thousands of desert bumpkins trying to cross the sea into a Europe that doesn't even want them."
He gestured dismissively toward the green patch beneath Italy.
"And that oil? Wonderful. In a century, it will be a prize every tribe and militia murders its neighbour over."
"These people are wonderful, they all speak the same language, pray to the same God, wear the same robes, yet somehow still find reasons to butcher one another because some great-grandfather belonged to another clan."
He leaned back.
"You can build roads. Ports. Railways. Schools."
His shoulders rose.
"And then what? The moment we leave, they'll tear it all down themselves. Which we will do, sooner or later, if nothing is done about it. Fascism or not"
His voice became flatter.
"You could hand them a functioning country today, and within a generation it'd collapse into the same chaos."
A pause.
"Some soils simply refuse certain seeds."
This, as eloquently as it was, or wasn't, at least gave him the attention he wanted. The 'Duce' now focused on him more than ever, putting away his pen before folding his hand together on the table, leaning toward him.
Amedeo had learned, that this pose was usually one of the worst you could expect from his friend.
He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing.
"You and I both know that no matter how much steel you pour into the sand, if these men remain... unchanged, all you'll grow is a huge debt on us, and for a useless place."
"We already know what will happen to this place. These people have repeatedly proven they've never known how to govern themselves... let alone a country."
This only brinks a blink of an eye in the other man's face. Before he took again his pen, this time bringing a sort of little... notebook. As if taking Amedeo's thought into account.
He doesn't care actually, he will continue, whether this guy takes him seriously or not.
Can he not see it ? Civilization isn't just imported like a factory. it is in the mind of a people, maybe even in their blood.
And libyans definitely don't have that blood.
Amedeo doesn't for how much time he continues like this, rumbling about this and this. Letting everything he has on his heart out.
If you would say to him, before now, that he would have so much to say about libyans, of all people, he would normally laugh at your face. But it seems he actually has.
Or maybe was this not about the people ,but more about the mission in itself.
Benito has already stopped writing when he finished, now completely focused on the prince, and not really in the right sense of the term. Now a single emotion is clearly perceptible in his eyes. annoyance, and even more, a hint of irritation... and anger. Which he doesn't wait to express
He never does anyway.
"Have you finished?"
His voice dripping with the same comptes he used every time they saw each others and Amedeo had disagreed with him.
Maybe someone should tell him we are not in university, and he isn't a teacher. Not anymore.
"...For now."
He tried to put as much sarcasm as he could in this, hoping that he could match his friend in this.
"Good."
The word came quietly.
"Because you have just spent five minutes confusing contempt and half assed racism with analysis."
Oh, the irony. Coming from him.
Amedeo's jaw tightened.
Mussolini stood, his chair scraping softly against the marble floor, and walked toward the map resting against the wall.
He remained there for several moments, looking at Libya with a gaze that only meant trouble
"You always make the same mistake."
"Respectfully, my friend, you are as wrong as you are ignorant. As usual"
The dryness in his voice is less wet than the fucking Libyan desert, Amedeo can be sure of this.
The man continues
"That is the thing with you. No matter how many charming historical anecdotes you might share at a party, or how precisely you recall the materials, composition, and production details of every machine and weapon of this precise country at a precise moment in history. Knowing everythin there as to know about this or this weapon that nobody normally constituted has even heard about… Even with all of this, you still lack a proper understanding of our world. Sadly."
The man then slams his hand on the desk, cutting off Amedeo before he can even reply, while maintaining the same expression.
"Everything you spitted from this young naive mouth of yours, reeks of ideas borrowed not from any sense of reality. But more of a misplaced emotion."
Please, get to the point.
"You speak of Libyans as though they were a people carved into stone." He began his gaze gaining a sudden light in it. Although Amedeo would probably argue it is a dark one.
"I see them as uncared things. Ready to be ... corrected."
A second finger land on the map on the wall.
"There are no Libyans. And if there were at some point, not anymore..."
He continues, a smirk forming on his face.
"These people are tribes. A mismatch of a hundred of hundreds of clans."
Maybe.
"Some are fomr religious brotherhoods. Locked in the desert"
Hmmm ?
"Some are urbans folks, growing in the cities."
Yes... and ?
"Some are farmers, some are shepperds, some are marchands...."
He turned only slightly toward him, repeating the same words
"There is no Libya."
Silence.
After all, what could he say to such nonsense ?
"There are merely a bunch of different populations, whom have not yet decided what they will be, in this new modern century."
Amedeo scoffed. Seeing what this is about.
"And we're supposed to decide it for them?"
"No."
Mussolini answered immediately. Adding rapidly
"There will be no choice."
"We are going to make their new path so obvious that, eventually, as the years passes, they will have forgotten there was ever another they could have taken."
He walked closer to the map, almost hugging it.
"I know the meaning between your simplistic words. You want to erase them, wherever they are in the Libyan soil, whatever their stance toward us is, replacing them. With people you deem more worthy of our love and care."
His eyes remained fixed upon the green territory for a few more seconds before landing on Amedeo.
"But with whom?"
No answer. He cannot respond to his
"Do you have six hundred thousand Italians ? Although probably one of two millions would be realistically needed, are they hidden somewhere ?"
Shut up please
"No."
"We will not replace them. Or at least, we won't have to. There will be new people arriving, yes. But these old folks won't disappear."
"Identities. That is what will be replaced "
The room became quiet. Only stopped by the sounds of car in the busy Rome.
"Rome did not become an empire by exterminating every people she conquered."
He spoke almost absentmindedly now, as though reciting something he had taught dozens of times before.
"She conquered them."
"She then taxed them."
"She taught them Latin."
"She recruited them."
"She settled veterans among them."
He continued reciting. Like being back as a teacher. With only one student this time
It enrages Amedeo.
"And after enough years, and enough generations, weren't their grandchildren Roman ? Yes they were. No longer remembering their blood had once been anything else then, only seeing their roots as the ones of Rome."
His finger rested gently upon Libya. Tapping. As if provoking a seismic even on Tripoli.
Adding nothing. Letting the silence settle.
Amedeo felt way too much irritation rising in his chest.
"So that's your nice and grand design ?"
He wanted to laugh, he would really wants to, if this wasnt so stupid or needlessly cruel to him.
"I am to spend years educating shepherds and goat fuckers ? I ain't some school teacher"
"No."
Mussolini replied with an amused gaze
"You're going to spend a year or two, if not only months, it depends on your capabilities, or actually more on your willingness to do your job, you are far capable enough to do this befitting task."
He then added
"And you will not be a teacher. You will be the one to take care of the teachers, among others people that are not... accomodating enough on the new status quo in Libya."
A pause. This means another metaphor. If he knows his friend well.
"Kill the shepperds and the black members of the group. Someone else will take care of the sheeps. You don't have to lead the flock, just take care of the one doing it, so that an eagle can take his place."
"Educating their children will be the task of aother man, well more made for this job than you. And, hopefully, way more willing to do so..."
"The men who refuse the new order will simply disappear. Whether rotting in a dark prison, or ended by a bullet in the back of the skull, or by a loose rope tied around the neck, that is the only question that will be asked regarding their fate. Which will you be the judge of."
"The rest, the quiets, the one willing to partake with us in this new country we are building, and the young ones, all of them, they are not a matters you should have to care about. It will be someone's else job."
...
Ooooh no, that's not true and you know it !
"You think you're defending them. You're only excusing them. A century of opportunity... and what did they do with it? You know who built the roads, the ports, the order. And who burned it down."
Amedeo respond, his voice also begins to rise, though a little bit less, as he also leave his chair, not wanting to back up.
Benito chuckle at this, smirking.
"You call that opportunity, like you are a gentle man doing charity, a totally disinterested hand with only the life of these people in mind. Like what you give them is some sort of gift. I call that investment. Stop acting like any road or hospital that was and is still built there is done out of charity."
And the two men stood, against each other.
Strangely, their biggest confrontation wasn't about democracy, fascism, liberalism, economy, diplomacy, industry, justice, war, power or even ideology at all.
But about a bunch of camel riders in another country ?
Amedeo couldn't believe it !
....
"You keep hearing 'Libya' and imagining exile."
The words struck harder than they would have in any shooting man's voice. So... Benito had a knack for this kind of things.
He should really learn this trick.
"You hear Libya, and you think of exile, of an annoying task, of something beneath you. Fot lesser men to take care of.while you design your rifles and create a new state"
"I hear 'Libya'..."
His hand opened toward the map.
"...and I see the only place left in this Kingdom where an ambitious officer, royal or not, may still carve a name of his own."
"Unless maybe Ethiopia, but this is a matter for another day..."
Amedeo's expression hardened.
"So that's what this is?"
He laughed bitterly.
"A proving ground. To show the court and your little fascist goons what a good boy, I am "
"It is. Although these words are not the proper ones."
He don't deny it ? Wow
"And, what if I fail?"
Mussolini shrugged, while closing the gap. Posturing himself beside Amedeo's chair, the man almost a shadow in his back.
"Then you fail. Nothing more, nothing less"
No sympathy.
No encouragement.
Simply the straight fact.
But honestly, he didn't expected much more than this
"And what if I succeed?"
A smirk, he can't see it, but he knows it is there. As the hand land on his shoulder.
"Then no marshal, no subordinate of mine, no minister, no senator, no one in this damned country, not even Il Re himself, will ever again be able to claim you stood where you did only because of my friendship."
Brief silence, before it continues
"No one will be ever able to question why you are standing where you wants you to stand."
Then added, like a whisper, so much Amedeo already question if this wasn't just his imagination
"... and where I want you to stand."
The Duce leaned forward slightly. Breath close to the prince's neck as he speaks
"They will hate you for succeeding. Certainly some will do."
A faint smile appeared. But this time on Amedeo's face, as he knew what words will follow.
"But they will never again dare call you my creature."
That landed.
Painfully.
Because it was true.
Every promotion Amedeo had received these past months had carried whispers behind it.
The King's cousin.
The Duce's favourite.
Too young.
Only there because of his name, Savoy, and because of the Duce affection.
He never heard them, but he knew they existed.
Libya could silence all of them.
"Beside." The voice continued, close to his ear.
" 'What if I fail ?' You asks yourself. But aren't they just some horse and camel riders ?"
Yes... they are just that
"Riding in the sand like if this was still the time of the crusade, bearing weapons that are older than you and me. I am sure you can do it. With your talents. It will be only a matter of months."
For sure it will be
Voice closer, almost in his brain
"They will talk about it, the quickest victory Italy has ever had. Made by the new promising prince. Ready to be the Marshall of this new empire..."
Yes, he can already see that happening.
It will be like this.
He will be italy's great champion. The next Garibaldi.
Or like one of the old romans general that warred in the deep south, on the other side of the Mediterranea, destroying the Punic and adorators of Bhaal, what menaced Rome in her darkest times.
But still
"You still haven't answered the real problem."
Amedeo crossed his arms.
"What if these people themselves simply aren't worth the effort?"
The smile vanished from Mussolini's face. As he reappeared on the desk, as quick as Amedeo couldn't even notice.
"There."
He pointed at him.
"That."
"You insist on asking the wrong question."
He tapped the map once more. While leaning on his chair
"The State does not care about a population's background. But about its usefulness. These sort of matters only appears if they threaten the state integrity. Which is precisely why you are sent there."
He tapped Cyrenaica with one finger.
"If... it is assimilated. Then almost nothing to care about"
He leaned on his chair, opposite of Amedeo, while crossing his legs
"You continue speaking of races. Which is a matter that is far too much important for you than it should ever be"
"My concern is not what these people look like or what they call themselves today."
"My concern is what their grandchildren will answer when, in ten years, someone asks them who they are, what are they, and where they belong."
He let the words hang in the air for a few seconds.
"If, in twenty-five years, a boy born in Benghazi speaks Italian..."
Another short pause.
"...serves in an Italian regiment..."
"...sends his children to schools where an italian flag hangs on the wall and where eveything, from the language to the simple dishes is italian..."
"...thinks first of Rome before thinking of his tribe..."
He gave the faintest shrug.
"...then I frankly cease to care what his grandfather happened to call himself. Or even if he lowered himself 7 times a day on a carpet to pray his old imaginary man"
Amedeo frowned. Not even for the blatant disregard of religion, but for this matter
"And if he refuses?"
For the first time since the discussion had begun, Mussolini's expression became almost disappointingly simple, like stating an evidence, an evidence so simple it is almost annoying.
"If i recall correctly, we talked about loose rope tied around the neck, did we not ?"
Ah, so simple solutions it is.
Amedeo would like to think he can work with that.
But..." the Duce adds in a breath, almost imperceptible.
"You should seek to remember that, among all the paths that exist... death should always be a last resort."
The Duce lets the silence linger as he... licks his lips.
"It is quick... and extremely satisfying, for sure..." he admits, a faint whisper of a laugh escaping him. "But it is far too costly. On far too many levels."
He slowly shakes his head.
"And it makes a noise that can be very damaging... for everyone involved."
On that point, they seem to disagree.
"Yes..." Benito says, although Amedeo does not voice the thought aloud.
"You are more of a fascist than I am."
Another brief silence, followed by the mix between a sight and a shrug
"At least on that point."
That single sentence irritates Amedeo perhaps more than everything that precedes it. His friend, however, does not seem to care in the slightest.
"A State cannot tolerate organised refusal."
His eyes drift for a brief moment toward the ground, on mosaics depicting the Rape of Europa before returning to Amedeo.
"Fortunately..."
He makes a sound of the throat while his eyes drift toward the ceiling, like reminiscing something.
"...most men drop their weapons and kneel long before killing is ever discussed. They merely require the proper incentives."
Another slight pause, as he comes back on gazing the prince
"Only a few need to end up as ornaments hanging from a tree... or a gallows."
"But it is faster," Amedeo interjects before Benito can continue.
"And far more efficient with the simple-minded. I don't think grammar alone will tame these people. Fear will do that"
He does not hesitate to repeat himslef, with more emphasis on the word fear
"Fear will."
Mussolini smiles at that.
Genuinely, this time.
Amedeo can now tell the difference.
His lips are like if he tasted a sweetness
"Good."
Benito smiles a little wider.
"And Italians fear me."
He tilts his head ever so slightly.
"Curiously enough, very few of them had to die before they learned."
Amedeo can only nod, albeit reluctantly.
________________________________________________________________________________
Normally I thought I would make only two chapter about this scene, but it seems I've underestimated the number of words.
The two pictures of the vehicle have been made with ai. I hope it doesn't annoy you, i thought it could be a good idea to illustrate the vehicle.
And by the way, the two vehicles are invented, but as said in the text, everything, from the shape of the tankette and the car to the different items and parts of the vehicles, is inspired by different models of tanks and armored cars that have really existed.
ps : if you are interested in the ascension of Mussolini and the beginning of the dictatorship, i recommend the new series "M : son of the century"
it is pretty good.