Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 390 On the other side of the mountain, on the other side of the sea, there lives a group of...

In July 1881, the sun was scorching in North Africa, but the anger that had gathered in the holy city of Kairouan in the interior of Tunisia was even more intense than the sun.

Warriors from all directions, like converging streams, surged toward this ancient city.

Their loose alliance included elders with white headscarves, sharp-eyed desert riders, and mountain dwellers wielding ancient matchlock guns...

They gathered around the elders, vowing to drive out France, the "protector of Tunisia."

Major Brest, the French detachment stationed there, paid no heed to the commotion of these "natives," as they were equipped with newly armed Glashütte rifles and artillery.

However, the battle did not take place in open areas, but rather in narrow streets and densely populated residential areas.

The French troops' orderly volleys of fire were greatly diminished in the complex urban warfare; while the Tunisians were familiar with every low wall and every corner.

Sniper rifles were fired from the roof, from behind windows, and from the cellar vents, precise and deadly.

With the same patience they would use to hunt desert foxes and wolves, they hunted these Frenchmen who had intruded into the holy land.

As one young sergeant cursed—"Damn it! They're like shadows!"

He leaned against the broken wall, his military uniform worn down to strips, his face covered in sweat and dust.

He had just peeked out when a bullet grazed the brim of his hat and struck the earthen wall behind him, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Major Brest's face was ashen. His soldiers were dwindling, his supply lines were completely cut off, and water was also becoming a problem.

Outside, the enemy is growing larger and more numerous, and their morale is high; if we continue to hold out, we will only be slowly worn down.

He finally forced out the order through gritted teeth: "Retreat! Retreat towards the coast. We can't all perish here!"

The French army abandoned unnecessary supplies and, under the cover of night, fought their way back towards the coastline.

Behind them, cheers of victory rang out from the walls of Kairuan!
The sound was like a wave, crashing against the hearts of every French soldier, filling them with unprecedented humiliation and panic.

When the news reached Paris, the military leadership was furious, but even more so, incredulous.

They originally thought that a treaty would settle the score, but they did not expect to encounter such fierce resistance in the interior of Tunisia.

The French army was forced to shrink its defensive line, and heavily stockpiled its troops in several key coastal strongholds such as Bissell and Tunis; plans to reinforce the troops were also being urgently formulated.

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Meanwhile, the fighting in the Hammama, Gafsa, and Gasserine mountains of western Tunisia was like a persistent, malignant wound, continuously draining the French army's strength and will.

The mountains here are steep and the ravines are deep. For outsiders who are unfamiliar with the terrain, every step could lead to a death trap.

A patrol led by Captain Durand is ordered to clear out tribal militias "harassing" supply lines in the mountains near Gafsa.

The unit consisted of fifty infantrymen and ten cavalrymen, and was also equipped with a wheeled machine gun.

They marched along the dry riverbed, the sun baking their dark blue military uniforms until they were scorching hot.

Captain Durand shouted a warning: "Stay alert! These barbarians are masters of ambush!"

The soldiers, guns at the ready, nervously scanned the bare cliffs on either side.

It was so quiet that there was no sound except for the wind and the sound of horses' hooves on the gravel.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle broke the silence.

Almost at the same moment, gunfire erupted from all directions—not in neat volleys, but in sparse yet precise bursts.

The two vanguard soldiers at the very front fell to the ground.

Durand shouted at the top of his lungs, "Enemy attack! Take cover!"

The team instantly descended into chaos.

The soldiers hurriedly rushed to the boulders on the riverbank or lay down on the spot.

However, the attackers occupied the high ground, and their bullets seemed to have eyes, always finding gaps where the French soldiers could hide.

Durand yelled, "Machine gun! Get the machine gun up there!"

The soldier operating the machine gun tried to turn the heavy gun around, but a denser hail of bullets riddled him and his assistant with holes.

The machine gun lay askew to one side, and fell silent.

At that moment, the Bedouin riders appeared!
They emerged from behind the ridge like ghosts, riding ponies and brandishing scimitars, swooping down the steep slopes.

Their charge was unstoppable, accompanied by a chilling roar.

As Durand drew his pistol and fired, he commanded, "Free fire! Stop them!" But in the blink of an eye, the knights had charged into the ranks of the French army.

The scimitars slashed and hacked, producing a dull thud, accompanied by the dying screams of French soldiers.

Horses knocked over infantry attempting to form ranks, and the situation spiraled completely out of control.

Captain Durand watched as his soldiers were felled like stalks of wheat.

He wanted to organize resistance, but communications had been cut off and command was completely ineffective.

A Bedouin rider charged straight at him, and he raised his gun to fire, but missed.

The next moment, the cold glint of the scimitar swept across his neck...

The battle ended within twenty minutes. Of the fifty French soldiers, only seven managed to escape and bring back news of the entire patrol's annihilation.

Similar small-scale ambushes occurred frequently between July and August 1881, resulting in a total loss of over a hundred French soldiers.

The western mountains became a nightmare the French army was reluctant to mention, and forced Paris to send an additional 20,000 troops to this "protectorate" in an attempt to crush all resistance.

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The battles in coastal cities were far more brutal than those inland.

In mid-August, French landing forces in Sousse and Sfax encountered fierce resistance on the outskirts of Sfax.

The illusion of successfully taking over the city was shattered the moment they stepped into the urban area.

The streets of Sfax have become a new battlefield.

The resistance fighters here were not only tribal warriors, but also ordinary citizens, artisans, and even pro-Ottoman armed personnel.

They used the familiar streets and alleys to build makeshift barricades and used every weapon they could find to fight off the invaders.

The French army attempted to advance in skirmish lines, but every house could fire bullets, and every window could throw stones or even ignited oil cans.

The weapons used by the resistance fighters were varied, including "heirloom" muskets that required a match to be lit, as well as scimitars and spears.

"For freedom! For Tunisia!" The shouts echoed through the streets.

The French soldiers advanced cautiously, back to back, but were still frequently hit by bullets that seemed to come from nowhere, falling down screaming in agony.

Capturing a house often comes at the cost of several casualties, and the battle begins again on the next street.

Progress was frustratingly slow, and every inch of land the French captured was soaked in the blood of both sides.

Time was dragging on, casualties were rising, but the city's will to resist seemed undiminished.

General Juno, who was in charge of commanding the landing forces, was anxious in the rear command post.

His face was grim. He said to his staff officer, "Send the order to the navy and request naval gun support. Target: the district where the resistance fighters are gathered."

The staff officer hesitated for a moment: "General, there are many civilians there..."

Juno rudely interrupted him: "Follow orders! They are accomplices of the thugs! They must be destroyed with the harshest measures!"

The French warships anchored on the sea slowly raised their gun barrels, pointing them at the sun-drenched city.

The moment the first shell landed, the enormous explosion silenced the entire battlefield.

Immediately afterwards, more shells rained down on the city of Sfax like hail.

The houses collapsed in the explosion, the wood caught fire, and the narrow streets were instantly blocked by rubble and corpses.

French soldiers used artillery fire as cover to launch a renewed attack.

This time, the resistance they encountered was significantly weaker—the barricades were destroyed, and the surviving resistance fighters could only launch sporadic and desperate counterattacks amidst the ruins.

The main urban area of ​​Sfax has become a hellish scene.

Amidst the ruins, charred corpses were everywhere, and the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, blood, and burnt flesh.

Some surviving citizens stared blankly at the soldiers of this "civilized nation," their eyes devoid of anger or even fear, only filled with deathly silence.

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Just as the Tunisian rebellion was stirring up trouble in the Paris parliament, another report from Indochina was placed on the desk of the naval colonial officials...

(End of this chapter)