India's self-satisfied expansionist mindset was still a problem. It was fine to have Hindus as the dominant group to suppress Muslim power, but India couldn't be allowed to grow too strong either. Best to give India something to keep it busy — that way, one could still claim to be "contributing to the world."
Now it was a matter of choosing between two bastards, picking the one that was only slightly less repulsive. It wasn't a good choice, but there was no better alternative anywhere in the British Empire.
"Your Highness, when do you think this war will end?" Alan Wilson abruptly changed the subject, asking a question that seemed unrelated.
That caught the Nizam off guard. The war had dragged on for years, and it was obvious to everyone that the Allies now held the advantage. But as for exactly when it would end — who could say?
"Your Highness, only strength earns respect," Alan continued with a measured air. "Right now, the British Empire has five million soldiers fighting across multiple battlefields. They represent Britain's military might. But the war will end eventually. When it does, their weapons will already have been produced — tanks, planes, and ships — a military legacy beyond imagining. Rather than letting it all rust, it would be best to put it to good use after the war, easing Britain's own losses."
"You mean…?" the Nizam asked, as if he had caught the hint but wasn't entirely sure.
"Your Highness, I'd like to see Hyderabad's army as soon as possible," Alan nodded, confirming the Nizam's suspicion. With the surplus from five million soldiers, upgrading a princely state's army would be no problem.
As for the composition of Hyderabad's forces, there was no need to guess: with the ruler being a Muslim, his army would naturally be majority Muslim. The simplest reason was that the Nizam had the wealth to absorb those postwar weapons.
"Can you actually do this?" the Nizam asked, studying Alan with a skeptical eye.
"If the war ends soon enough, there will be time to do it. If we do nothing, and the worst happens, then all that's left is surrender. But as for channeling some military surplus into Hyderabad — I believe it's possible," Alan replied confidently. Selling off part of the postwar arsenal would be no challenge at all.
He knew that of Britain's 5.7 million troops, some 2.58 million were Indians — nearly half. The number looked huge, but it was only sustainable because the British Empire's entire network of colonies was footing the bill. Once India became independent, its own finances could never support a standing army that large.
In fact, early independent India wasn't known for military strength — though bullying Pakistan was always within its means.
Alan also knew how the Indian Army evolved. It was heavily veteran-based, with long service terms. Many soldiers who fought in WWII were still serving as late as 1962, when they suffered humiliating defeats in the highlands. Alan's view of Indian soldiers was not high, and bolstering Hyderabad's army seemed the most effective short-term fix.
Ever since meeting the Nizam, Alan had set himself a goal: during the independence process, he would extract as much personal benefit as possible. This would help him climb the British civil service ladder afterward.
British India's situation was awkward — hugely important, but not part of the home islands. There were about 100,000 British civil servants working there; after independence, how many would still keep their secure posts? No one knew, and Alan had no intention of ending up in the job-hunting crowd.
Hyderabad, though small, had all the elements of a proper state — and it was entirely the Nizam's personal property. To protect his own assets, the Nizam cared nothing for what India's Hindus might think. And as a British official, Alan cared just as little about colonial subjects' opinions. The reality was clear: the Nizam had money, and Alan — for the sake of that money — would help Britain's three-century-old ally.
A few days later, Alan brought several assistants to Hyderabad's army camp to see what this "private army" could do. The sight was… underwhelming. To Alan, who knew the steel juggernauts of later years, it was laughable: they had men, they had guns, and that was about it.
Heavy weapons consisted of WWI-era Maxim machine guns. Semi-automatic rifles were reserved only for the Nizam's personal guard. The only impressive sight was the cavalry.
Watching the spectacle, Alan almost felt like he was at an Indian Republic Day parade — only missing the motorbikes that could carry a whole platoon. He wondered what Modi would think watching his motorcycle formations. In any case, Alan wasn't impressed.
"Sir, these Lee–Enfield rifles look like very old models," whispered his assistant Andy. "Is the Nizam trying to show off?"
"Not really. It's just a straightforward display," Alan replied without turning his head. So what? Even in the 21st century, the venerable Lee–Enfield — a weapon designed in 1896 — was still a mainstay of the Indian Army.
When the parade ended, Alan clapped at once, putting on his "Britain's loyal ally" face and expressing admiration for the entirely unremarkable display.
Wearing a formal, fixed smile, he told the Nizam's son, Azam Jah: "Hyderabad's forces are truly worthy of being Britain's long-standing partner. Frankly speaking, for a Muslim-majority army, their quality is not inferior to that of the Indian Army — apart from size. But if we compare them to European armies, there's still room to improve in terms of combat standards."
After all, Alan knew these troops would eventually face the Indian Army. As Hyderabad's British Resident, it wouldn't do to hurt the morale of India's future enemy.