In July 1881, North Africa was scorching under the sun, but the fury gathered in the holy city of Kairouan in Tunisia's interior burned even hotter than the sun.
Tribal warriors from all directions, like converging streams, surged towards this ancient city.
Their loose alliance consisted of elders with white turbans, keen-eyed desert riders, and mountain dwellers armed with ancient matchlock rifles…
They gathered around the elders, vowing to expel France, the "protector of Tunisia."
Major Brest, commanding the French detachment stationed there, paid no heed to the unrest of these "natives," as they were equipped with new Gras rifles and cannons.
But the fighting did not unfold in open terrain; instead, it took place in narrow streets and dense residential areas.
The French army's orderly volley fire was greatly diminished in the intricate street fighting; the Tunisians, however, were familiar with every low wall and every corner.
Snipers' bullets flew from rooftops, from behind windows, and from cellar vents, precise and deadly.
With the patience of hunting desert foxes and wolves, they hunted these French invaders of the holy land.
As a young sergeant cursed,
"Damn it! They're like shadows!"
He leaned against a broken wall, his uniform already worn to rags, his face covered in sweat and dust.
The moment he poked his head out, a bullet grazed his cap brim and hit the mud wall behind him, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Major Brest's face was ashen; his soldiers were constantly being depleted, the supply lines completely cut off, and water had become an issue.
Outside, the enemies were growing in number and morale; continuing to hold out would only lead to a slow attrition.
He finally gritted out the order:
"Retreat! Retreat towards the coast. We cannot all perish here!"
The French army abandoned unnecessary baggage and, under the cover of night, fought and retreated towards the coastline.
Behind them, on the walls of Kairouan, cheers of victory erupted!
The sound, like a wave, crashed against the hearts of every French soldier, filling them with unprecedented humiliation and panic.
When the news reached Paris, the military high command was furious, but more than that, they were incredulous.
They had originally believed that a single treaty could settle everything, but they never expected to encounter such tenacious resistance in the interior of Tunisia.
The French army was forced to shorten its defense lines, concentrating heavy forces in several major coastal strongholds such as Bizerte and Tunis City; plans for reinforcement were also being urgently drawn up.
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Meanwhile, the fighting in the western Tunisian mountains of Hamama, Gafsa, and Kasserine became like a festering sore, continuously draining the French army's blood and will.
The mountains here were rugged and crisscrossed with ravines, and for outsiders unfamiliar with the terrain, every step could lead into a death trap.
A patrol led by Captain Durand was ordered to clear out tribal armed forces "harassing" supply lines in the mountains near Gafsa.
The detachment included fifty infantrymen and ten cavalrymen, also equipped with a wheeled machine gun.
They marched along the dry riverbed, the sun baking their dark blue uniforms scorching hot.
Captain Durand shouted a warning:
"Stay alert! These savages are good at ambushes!"
The soldiers held their rifles, their eyes nervously scanning the barren cliffs on both sides.
It was too quiet; apart from the sound of the wind and hooves on loose stones, there was no other noise.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle pierced the silence.
Almost at the same instant, gunfire erupted from all directions—not orderly volleys, but scattered yet accurate single shots.
The two scouts leading the way fell immediately.
Durand yelled hoarsely:
"Enemy attack! Seek cover!"
The detachment instantly fell into disarray.
Soldiers hastily dove behind large rocks by the riverbed or dropped to the ground.
However, the attackers held the high ground, and their bullets seemed to have eyes, always finding the gaps where the French army sought cover.
Durand roared,
"Machine gun! Set up the machine gun quickly!"
The soldier operating the machine gun tried to turn the heavy weapon, but a more concentrated spray of bullets tore him and his assistant gunner into a sieve.
The machine gun toppled over, silenced.
At this moment, Bedouin riders appeared! They charged out from behind the ridge like specters, riding short horses, brandishing scimitars, and swooping down the steep slopes.
Their charge had an unstoppable momentum, accompanied by chilling howls from their mouths.
Durand, drawing his pistol and firing, ordered:
"Free fire! Hold them back!"
But in a flash, the riders had charged into the French ranks.
Scimitars hacked and slashed, producing dull thuds, accompanied by the dying screams of French soldiers.
Horses knocked over infantrymen attempting to form a line, and the scene descended into complete chaos.
Captain Durand watched his soldiers being cut down like stalks of wheat.
He tried to organize resistance, but communications were cut, and command had completely broken down.
A Bedouin rider charged directly at him; he raised his pistol and fired, but missed.
The next moment, the cold glint of a scimitar swept across his neck…
The battle ended within twenty minutes.
Of the fifty French soldiers, only seven managed to escape, bringing back news of the patrol's complete annihilation.
Similar small-scale ambushes occurred frequently between July and August 1881, with accumulated French losses reaching over a hundred men.
The western mountains became a nightmare the French army preferred not to mention, and forced Paris to dispatch an additional twenty thousand troops to this "protectorate" in an attempt to crush all resistance.
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The fighting in the coastal cities was far more brutal than in the interior.
In mid-August, French landing forces in Sousse and Sfax encountered tenacious resistance on the outskirts of Sfax city.
The illusion of smoothly taking over the city was shattered the moment they took their first step into the urban area.
The streets of Sfax became a new battlefield.
The resistance fighters here were not just tribal warriors, but more often ordinary citizens, artisans, and even pro-Ottoman armed personnel.
They used the familiar streets and alleys to build simple barricades, confronting the invaders with every weapon they could find.
The French army tried to advance in skirmish lines, but every house could shoot bullets, and every window could drop stones or even ignited oil cans.
The weapons used by the resistance were diverse, including "ancestral" matchlock firearms that required igniting a fuse, and of course, scimitars and spears were indispensable.
"For freedom! For Tunisia!" Cries echoed above the streets.
French soldiers advanced cautiously, back-to-back, but were still occasionally hit by bullets from unknown directions, screaming as they fell.
Occupying a single house often required several casualties, and turning into the next street, the fighting resumed anew.
Progress was agonizingly slow; every inch of land the French captured was soaked with the blood of both sides.
Time dragged on, casualties mounted, and the city's will to resist seemed undiminished.
General Jannot, who was in charge of commanding the landing forces, was restlessly pacing in the rear command post.
His face was grim as he told his staff officer:
"Order the navy to request naval gunfire support. Target: the urban areas where resistance fighters are concentrated."
The staff officer hesitated:
"General, there are many civilians there…"
Jannot brusquely interrupted him:
"Execute the order! They are accomplices of the rioters! They must be destroyed with the harshest possible means!"
The French warships anchored on the sea slowly raised their broadside cannons, aiming them at the city bathed in sunlight.
When the first shell fell, the massive explosion silenced the entire battlefield.
Immediately after, more shells rained down like hail on the urban area of Sfax.
Houses collapsed in the explosions, wood caught fire, and the narrow streets were instantly blocked by rubble and corpses.
French soldiers used the artillery cover to launch a new offensive.
This time, the resistance they encountered was significantly weakened—barricades were destroyed, and surviving resistance fighters could only launch sporadic, desperate counterattacks amidst the ruins.
The main urban area of Sfax had become a hellish scene.
Amidst the broken walls and ruins, charred corpses were everywhere, and the air was filled with the smell of gunpowder smoke, blood, and burning flesh.
Some surviving citizens looked at these soldiers from "civilized nations" with hollow eyes; there was no longer anger, nor even fear, only deathly silence.
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While the Tunisian resistance was just stirring up a storm in the Parisian parliament, another report from Indochina was placed on the desk of a naval colonial official…
(End of chapter)