129. Monsieur Stanley, je présume?

“Monsieur Stanley, je présume?”

Stanley had heard the joke thousands of times before but he acted like it was the first time.

“A nice quip, your Majesty.”

He didn’t want to get off to a bad start with the man he hoped was going to finance his next expedition. The King of the Belgians cut a stately figure with his impeccable square beard but he seemed as exited to meet Stanley as the street kids who had read about his African adventures in the papers.

A servant flung open the double doors to the palace garden.

“Inform me about the Dark Continent,” King Leopold said. “It excites me.”

“It is an inhospitable region, your Majesty. No roads. Rivers infested with crocodiles. Tribes out to get you. And a humidity that causes a fever that has claimed the life of one third of my men.”

“Yet not of you. Tell me, is it true what they say about the female wildlings? Do they have an insatiable libido?”

“Some of our company seemed to think so.”

“Did you taste the black flesh?”

Stanley did not want to answer. Luckily the King did not press on.

“The niggers, they work hard?”

“Some of the finest men I’ve ever encountered.”

“And they scoop coal and gems from the ground? No digging needed?”

Stanley nodded.

“You are invited to dinner tomorrow, monsieur Stanley. We shall talk about how the Belgians can help you out.”

Stanley bowed politely and followed the servant out of the garden. King Leopold smiled. His advisors had been correct. Stanley was desperate for financing.

An exploitable explorer.

Just the way the King liked them.

 

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103. We’ve lost the Belgian contingent in the Sinai

“We’ve lost the Belgian contingent in the Sinai.”

The general kept staring silently through the window, his hands behind his back, ignoring the reflection of the messenger who was still saluting on the other side of the spotless oak desk, the only piece of furniture in the gargantuan room.

This war, this long, drawn-out war would never end. Years of slaughter and nothing to show for it but millions of dead soldiers – good, honest young men who never intended to be cannon fodder but signed on the dotted line anyway.

“How many?”

“Three thousand one hundred and twenty-four, sir.”

The general bowed his head. The number was but a droplet in an ocean of lost souls but it hit him hard every time. He went on holiday to Belgium once, with his wife and sons. They enjoyed it there: the kindness of the Belgians, their witty sense of humour, their fabulous cuisine. He’d like to go back some day. If there was a country left, that is.

“You’re Belgian, aren’t you, Serge?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Anyone you knew in the Sinai?”

The messenger did not reply immediately so the general assumed the answer was yes.

“Had any leave of late?”

“Not since February, sir.”

The general turned and opened the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out a standardized form, dipped his quill in the inkwell, filled in the form, signed it, sprinkled some pounce over the ink en then handed the form to the messenger.

“Consider yourself on leave till Sunday, Serge.”

Serge declined the paper.

“My place is here, sir.”

War never fails to make damned fools out of soldiers, the general thought.

Damned naive fools, who imagined their ceaseless dangerous efforts would win the war.

How he longed to be one of those fools again.

 

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71. Why not nuke Belgium?

Why not nuke Belgium?

Bouncing through the mind it seemed a preposterous proposition. But spoken aloud by the Chief of Staff at the height of the crisis there was some logic to it.

The war room debated the issue under duress. Armed warheads were flying across the Bering Strait as they were speaking, half of them towards the commies, the other half bound for the American mainland. Time to find a solution for the accidental stand-off was running out. And so the rank and file gave the option of Belgian annihilation due attention.

Would it persuade the Soviets to break off their counterattack? The answer, they all agreed on, would be a resounding yes. NATO had its headquarters in Brussels so the red party leader would be able to sell it as a great victory against the capitalist pigs.

But how would the West react? Would Belgium be considered an appropriate sacrifice for the American cock-up that had led to this conundrum? If we vaguely inform them of the circumstances the world will comprehend, the Secretary of State concluded. During international summits he had found that most of the world leaders didn’t even know Belgium existed. And those who did thought it was either part of France or found it to be an annoying little shithole. There would be some people’s protests, but they should be quelled by going to war with Vietnam, an operation that was in the pipeline anyway and this way would gain some much-needed legitimacy.

The President was the lone hold-out. He was an avid Tintin fan and feared the irreparable loss of cultural heritage. Then again, how much would be lost if both New York and Moscow were wiped out?

“Mister party leader,” he finally spoke into the red telephone. “I have a suggestion.”

 

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