Who cares. I can always chokepoint him in copenhagen, and Britain won't let him even consider a landing anywhere. And if he should land in britain from norway, he'd be nothing short of an idiot, because that's less troops defending moscow.
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canonized: Well...I'm not sure if going after the rest of Scandinavia is a good idea, really 
Discomb: I would've invaded Britain with the Murmansk Front!
coz1: Hmm, Poland? Never heard of it
comment day again, next update tomorrow!
Discomb: I would've invaded Britain with the Murmansk Front!
coz1: Hmm, Poland? Never heard of it
comment day again, next update tomorrow!
I see a Red Sweden hanging like the Sword of Damocles over the head of the Reich. Not only is it a short hop across the gulf to Berlin but it also denies the fascisti the iron ore they rely on to build their vile instruments of war. Soldier onward, comrade, to the inevitable victory of communism!
Ok, I felt like grand-standing today, so sue me.
Ok, I felt like grand-standing today, so sue me.
VILenin: Hey, glad to have you back! That was some nice grand-standing, too, though I'm not really that sure that Sweden looks like a sword, much less a Sword of Damocles. What I am sure of, however, is that everyone will be surprised by my next target!
Update coming up!
Update coming up!
15 kilometers southwest of Irkutsk
October 15, 1936
Lieutenant General Korothin, commander of the under-strength 65th Rifle Corps of the Manchurian Front, stared at the operational map on the table of the headquarters, surrounded by his staff and by three other Manchurian Front corps commanders and their own staffs. He did not particularly like any of them and never really bothered to even attempt to learn their names. His face was grim as he considered his situation; it was Voroshilov’s drunken idea of a joke to put Korothin in charge of the expedition rather than take command of it himself. Korothin’s lips became a thin line as his brain marched inexorably ahead, Voroshilov was also too lazy and he claimed to be organizing the invasion of Manchuria. Korothin snorted, too deep in his thoughts to notice the others in the room glance toward him curiously; Voroshilov was so incompetent he could not organize a panic from a burning apartment building.
Thus the responsibility for the operation devolved onto the person he liked least, or perhaps wished to jokingly torment most: Korothin. When he had learned that Voroshilov had chosen him, in late summer, he had stared at the telephone receiver in disbelief and exasperation before sighing resignedly. That same day, Voroshilov sent out the order for four corps, each of only one division, of the Manchurian Front to entrain for Irkutsk from the western and northern Manchurian border. The last of the four divisions—corps, Korothin thought to himself, they were corps, not divisions—had arrived in late September around Irkutsk and Korothin had begun organizing them for the future campaign.
He wondered how difficult it could be, given that the Tuvans had only one single division guarding their capital at Kyzyl. Korothin almost wanted to hide in shame; the greater part of an entire Front was dedicated to attacking Tannu Tuva. Four divisions—corps, rather—of six corps—really divisions—were going to essentially beat up a minor Stalinist state in the middle of nowhere right next to Mongolia. The war aims were ostensibly because Tannu Tuva had valuable industry and resources and its people were virtually Soviets anyway and would thus not know the difference between the native Tuvan regime and that of the Moscow Kremlin. However, Korothin thought, privately, that Voroshilov simply wanted to prove to an increasingly annoyed and skeptical Stalin that he was indeed a military man worthy of the post of Chief of the Army, not to mention the rank of field marshal. Thus, Voroshilov wanted to conquer Tannu Tuva, thinking it would appease Stalin.
The Soviet Union declared war on Tannu Tuva.
War was declared early in the morning on the 15th, which was the reason the corps commanders and their staffs were assembled in Korothin’s headquarters at that moment. Korothin froze, realizing that he was not alone. His eyes darted from the map, upon which his fingers were splayed, to his attentive audience. Korothin did his best not to flush, wondering if he had actually been talking and if so, what he had been saying. Taking a deep breath, he realized there was only one way to discover this. Straightening, he looked the three other corps commanders each in the eye, in sequence, and asked, “all right, are there any questions? Or is the operational plan clear?”
His audience stayed uncomfortably silent, with men darting glances to each other. Finally, one of the corps commanders spoke up. “Y-yes, General Korothin. Everything is quiet clear. Though I wonder, you don’t really like Field Marshal Voroshilov, do you?”
Korothin turned slowly to face the man, suppressing his Soviet instinct of denial in the face of any charge. “What makes you think that?”
“In between explaining your orders, you were swearing at Voroshilov under your breath. We didn’t quite hear, but it had something to do with a joke, laziness and panic in a burning building.”
Korothin’s answer was cut off as artillery fire suddenly roared, shaking the dugout they were in. Checking his timepiece, Korothin saw that the attack had begun as planned despite the lack of activity on the part of his fellow corps commanders, the worthless lot that he knew they were. Smiling at the man, he silently indicated that they should head back to their own command posts to take greater control of their parts of the battle. As everyone shuffled out, Korothin breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. He did not like Voroshilov, but he liked that man even less, whoever he was.
The Soviet attack against Tuvan defenses northeast of Kyzyl.
Feeling drained, Korothin sat down and simply contemplated the future. Voroshilov was canny enough politically to know that the conquest of Tannu Tuva would not impress Stalin and was planning that it would merely be a prelude to a more important conquest: Manchuria. Korothin wondered if Voroshilov would manage to invade that state by the end of the year, given that it would likely take a month to reach Kyzyl even after destroying the Tuvan army of one divisions. Korothin snorted again as he thought wryly, or was it one corps?
October 15, 1936
Lieutenant General Korothin, commander of the under-strength 65th Rifle Corps of the Manchurian Front, stared at the operational map on the table of the headquarters, surrounded by his staff and by three other Manchurian Front corps commanders and their own staffs. He did not particularly like any of them and never really bothered to even attempt to learn their names. His face was grim as he considered his situation; it was Voroshilov’s drunken idea of a joke to put Korothin in charge of the expedition rather than take command of it himself. Korothin’s lips became a thin line as his brain marched inexorably ahead, Voroshilov was also too lazy and he claimed to be organizing the invasion of Manchuria. Korothin snorted, too deep in his thoughts to notice the others in the room glance toward him curiously; Voroshilov was so incompetent he could not organize a panic from a burning apartment building.
Thus the responsibility for the operation devolved onto the person he liked least, or perhaps wished to jokingly torment most: Korothin. When he had learned that Voroshilov had chosen him, in late summer, he had stared at the telephone receiver in disbelief and exasperation before sighing resignedly. That same day, Voroshilov sent out the order for four corps, each of only one division, of the Manchurian Front to entrain for Irkutsk from the western and northern Manchurian border. The last of the four divisions—corps, Korothin thought to himself, they were corps, not divisions—had arrived in late September around Irkutsk and Korothin had begun organizing them for the future campaign.
He wondered how difficult it could be, given that the Tuvans had only one single division guarding their capital at Kyzyl. Korothin almost wanted to hide in shame; the greater part of an entire Front was dedicated to attacking Tannu Tuva. Four divisions—corps, rather—of six corps—really divisions—were going to essentially beat up a minor Stalinist state in the middle of nowhere right next to Mongolia. The war aims were ostensibly because Tannu Tuva had valuable industry and resources and its people were virtually Soviets anyway and would thus not know the difference between the native Tuvan regime and that of the Moscow Kremlin. However, Korothin thought, privately, that Voroshilov simply wanted to prove to an increasingly annoyed and skeptical Stalin that he was indeed a military man worthy of the post of Chief of the Army, not to mention the rank of field marshal. Thus, Voroshilov wanted to conquer Tannu Tuva, thinking it would appease Stalin.
The Soviet Union declared war on Tannu Tuva.
War was declared early in the morning on the 15th, which was the reason the corps commanders and their staffs were assembled in Korothin’s headquarters at that moment. Korothin froze, realizing that he was not alone. His eyes darted from the map, upon which his fingers were splayed, to his attentive audience. Korothin did his best not to flush, wondering if he had actually been talking and if so, what he had been saying. Taking a deep breath, he realized there was only one way to discover this. Straightening, he looked the three other corps commanders each in the eye, in sequence, and asked, “all right, are there any questions? Or is the operational plan clear?”
His audience stayed uncomfortably silent, with men darting glances to each other. Finally, one of the corps commanders spoke up. “Y-yes, General Korothin. Everything is quiet clear. Though I wonder, you don’t really like Field Marshal Voroshilov, do you?”
Korothin turned slowly to face the man, suppressing his Soviet instinct of denial in the face of any charge. “What makes you think that?”
“In between explaining your orders, you were swearing at Voroshilov under your breath. We didn’t quite hear, but it had something to do with a joke, laziness and panic in a burning building.”
Korothin’s answer was cut off as artillery fire suddenly roared, shaking the dugout they were in. Checking his timepiece, Korothin saw that the attack had begun as planned despite the lack of activity on the part of his fellow corps commanders, the worthless lot that he knew they were. Smiling at the man, he silently indicated that they should head back to their own command posts to take greater control of their parts of the battle. As everyone shuffled out, Korothin breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. He did not like Voroshilov, but he liked that man even less, whoever he was.
The Soviet attack against Tuvan defenses northeast of Kyzyl.
Feeling drained, Korothin sat down and simply contemplated the future. Voroshilov was canny enough politically to know that the conquest of Tannu Tuva would not impress Stalin and was planning that it would merely be a prelude to a more important conquest: Manchuria. Korothin wondered if Voroshilov would manage to invade that state by the end of the year, given that it would likely take a month to reach Kyzyl even after destroying the Tuvan army of one divisions. Korothin snorted again as he thought wryly, or was it one corps?
Oohhh Manchuria . I wonder just how involved the Japanese will be as well . This could get very interesting !! Going back to your Warlord Roots , eh ? XD
"The Soviet Union declared war on Tannu Tuva"....
You do what?????. Must be a mistake.
For God's sake man what do you do?
Tannu Tunna is your ally. What's next Moggolia? :rofl:
You do what?????. Must be a mistake.
For God's sake man what do you do?
Tannu Tunna is your ally. What's next Moggolia? :rofl:
Methinks some commanders are getting a little over confident. And I think I see your plan now...gobble up as much as you can while you wait for Germany to DoW you.
canonized: Maaaybe...
Mythos1978: They're not my allies, I dissolved all alliances for this game. The only existing alliance is between Germany and Britain
coz1: That might be my plan...but now you know too much! Damnit, where's the NKVD when you need them?!
ColossusCrusher: Yep
Comment day again!
Mythos1978: They're not my allies, I dissolved all alliances for this game. The only existing alliance is between Germany and Britain
coz1: That might be my plan...but now you know too much! Damnit, where's the NKVD when you need them?!
ColossusCrusher: Yep
Comment day again!
For his generals as a group. I couldn't decide which one to reward and then realized they were all rather interesting and unique.Discomb said:
canonized: Thanks
Discomb: What coz said
coz1: Yes, that's something I tried for
Update coming up!
Discomb: What coz said
coz1: Yes, that's something I tried for
Update coming up!
Vladivostok
November 9, 1936
Voroshilov yawned and stretched, loudly, before shrugging and resuming his nap in the very large, very comfortable chair he had brought with him all the way from Moscow on the railway that spanned across the Soviet Union from Moscow to Vladivostok. Voroshilov smiled, it had been a pleasant return as he had used his own personal train to make the return to the forsaken patch of land that comprised his backwater front in considerable comfort. At the moment, he was giving a briefing to his corps commanders for the invasion of Manchuria. Voroshilov smiled sleepily, he was not giving it, but rather his chief-of-staff was, Voroshilov could not remember the man’s name. This did not worry him, as he admitted to being somewhat poor with names, he could never remember them. Not that he actually tried, of course, he could not think of a single reason why he should try to do anything, other than remain in Stalin’s favor.
Voroshilov yawned again, failing to notice the looks cast in his direction, and scratched at his cheek drowsily. That was what the invasion of Manchuria was all about, after all: retaining Stalin’s favor. As a Field Marshal of the Soviet Union, as the commander of the Manchurian Front and as the Chief of the Soviet Army Staff, he had certain responsibilities. Of course, what man truly took care of his own responsibilities, especially a man in Voroshilov’s situation, he wondered. Rather, Voroshilov had two staffs working for him; one was his staff in Moscow to take care of business concerning the army as a whole and was authorized to countersign any STAVKA paper released by Tukhachevskij in his name. The other staff he kept isolated in Vladivostok, to take care of the particular needs of the Manchurian Front. The foremost of these needs at the moment was to plan the invasion of Tannu Tuva and Manchuria.
A thought crossed his mind, causing a strange sensation that made Voroshilov hiccup. He remembered that the Tannu Tuva operation had already occurred, and that the Tuvans should be annexed by the end of the month. Voroshilov was pleased with the victory, and was sure that Stalin would see it in a similarly optimistic light once Voroshilov—or rather, his staff—spun a sufficiently glorious account of it. This all left the invasion of Manchuria, and as he idly listened to his chief-of-staff’s droning, he realized that this was what the meeting was about. Voroshilov frowned, much like a boy who had seen something that intrigued and puzzled him. The invasion of Manchuria was to be beginning soon; the declaration of war had gone out from Moscow.
The Soviet Union declared war on Manchukuo early on November 9, 1936.
Voroshilov sighed, wishing that he had some good vodka, or wine. Looking at the ceiling thoughtfully, an expression that came difficultly to him, he mentally appended his wish and thought of wenches as well. He misses the parties of the good old days, before all the talk and fear of war with Germany. Back then, Budennij could organize a real social gathering. Voroshilov sighed again, lustily this time, as his mind wandered back to those days: an external pool, filled with good wine and naked women. Everyone had been drunk and some junior officer had had the brilliant idea of opening fire on the pool. Wine spurted out, and women and men screamed alike in drunken ecstasy and horror as blood mingled with the wine, though this did not stop those outside the pool from putting their mouths close to the puncture holes to lap at the fountains of wine. Three women had been injured, and one man as well, yet the party had continued on all night, ending with a fine alcohol-fueled orgy of released sexual desires.
Voroshilov’s eyes descended from the ceiling until they stared uncaring at the men surrounding the table. Voroshilov almost wondered whether their operational plans were as interesting as his memories of wild orgiastic parties but at the last moment easily decided that they were not and closed his eyes to sleep again. He was confident that all would go well, his staff had not yet failed him in peacetime, and it certainly felt like peacetime to him despite the declaration of war. He smiled knowing that he was one of those precious few souls that war could not ever touch no matter how deep he waded in. Voroshilov snuggled deeper into the comfortable chair, wishing that it was his warm bed. The wind howled outside, making him feel even drowsier yet also filling him with confidence regarding the campaign ahead. It would be another glorious victory for him, he just knew it.
The invasion plan for the conquest of Manchuria.
He must have drifted off again, lulled by thoughts of bed and victory as he idly wondered whether or not he could link those two concepts, when he was startled by a constant resounding rumble rolling into the city from a distance. Blinking rapidly, he realized that he was alone in the room, his command staff and the corps commanders had left. Upon this realization, Voroshilov understood that the far away growling was Soviet artillery battering the Manchurian positions. Smiling, he closed his eyes again and pushed himself deeper into the cushions of his chair. He barely noticed his chief-of-staff enter with other staff members, discussing how the attacks were panning out. They were quiet about it, of course, not wishing to disturb their great leader. Voroshilov was glad that he was surrounded by such considerate people; they made being such an unusually great politician and general as he was a much easier burden to bear.
The battle for Jiamusi, the beginning of the northern prong of the invasion of Manchuria.
Voroshilov came to again, to an incessant, but gentle, prodding of his shoulder. He sleepily opened his eyes to see his chief-of-staff and yawned right in his face before swirling his tongue around his mouth. “Chief-of-staff, is there any wine to drink? Or vodka? I have a terrible taste in my mouth.”
“I shall get you a glass of wine, Field Marshal. I wish, however, to inquire whether you would like to move to your chamber and continue sleeping in your bed? There is no need for you to remain in the staff room, after all, as the briefing is done and I can take care of the minutae of our battle myself.”
Voroshilov raised his eyebrows in surprise, shocked. “Why, chief-of-staff, how could you possibly think that? That would be greatly negligent of me! I will remain in the staff room until the battle is done and only then will I retire to my chambers to rest! Now, where is that wine you promised?”
“I will fetch it presently, Field Marshal.”
Voroshilov’s chief-of-staff strode away, leaving Voroshilov’s thoughts to linger on the man’s presumptuousness. Why should Voroshilov not involve himself in the minutae of the battle? After all, he had presented the operational plan, had he not? He wondered whether his chief-of-staff was becoming self-important. Frowning, he shrugged and awaited that wine; it would rid him of that awful taste in his mouth and send him back to sleep as well. He did have to admit, though, that the idea of retiring to his bed appealed to him.
The battle for Jilin, the first battle along the southern prong of the invasion.
November 9, 1936
Voroshilov yawned and stretched, loudly, before shrugging and resuming his nap in the very large, very comfortable chair he had brought with him all the way from Moscow on the railway that spanned across the Soviet Union from Moscow to Vladivostok. Voroshilov smiled, it had been a pleasant return as he had used his own personal train to make the return to the forsaken patch of land that comprised his backwater front in considerable comfort. At the moment, he was giving a briefing to his corps commanders for the invasion of Manchuria. Voroshilov smiled sleepily, he was not giving it, but rather his chief-of-staff was, Voroshilov could not remember the man’s name. This did not worry him, as he admitted to being somewhat poor with names, he could never remember them. Not that he actually tried, of course, he could not think of a single reason why he should try to do anything, other than remain in Stalin’s favor.
Voroshilov yawned again, failing to notice the looks cast in his direction, and scratched at his cheek drowsily. That was what the invasion of Manchuria was all about, after all: retaining Stalin’s favor. As a Field Marshal of the Soviet Union, as the commander of the Manchurian Front and as the Chief of the Soviet Army Staff, he had certain responsibilities. Of course, what man truly took care of his own responsibilities, especially a man in Voroshilov’s situation, he wondered. Rather, Voroshilov had two staffs working for him; one was his staff in Moscow to take care of business concerning the army as a whole and was authorized to countersign any STAVKA paper released by Tukhachevskij in his name. The other staff he kept isolated in Vladivostok, to take care of the particular needs of the Manchurian Front. The foremost of these needs at the moment was to plan the invasion of Tannu Tuva and Manchuria.
A thought crossed his mind, causing a strange sensation that made Voroshilov hiccup. He remembered that the Tannu Tuva operation had already occurred, and that the Tuvans should be annexed by the end of the month. Voroshilov was pleased with the victory, and was sure that Stalin would see it in a similarly optimistic light once Voroshilov—or rather, his staff—spun a sufficiently glorious account of it. This all left the invasion of Manchuria, and as he idly listened to his chief-of-staff’s droning, he realized that this was what the meeting was about. Voroshilov frowned, much like a boy who had seen something that intrigued and puzzled him. The invasion of Manchuria was to be beginning soon; the declaration of war had gone out from Moscow.
The Soviet Union declared war on Manchukuo early on November 9, 1936.
Voroshilov sighed, wishing that he had some good vodka, or wine. Looking at the ceiling thoughtfully, an expression that came difficultly to him, he mentally appended his wish and thought of wenches as well. He misses the parties of the good old days, before all the talk and fear of war with Germany. Back then, Budennij could organize a real social gathering. Voroshilov sighed again, lustily this time, as his mind wandered back to those days: an external pool, filled with good wine and naked women. Everyone had been drunk and some junior officer had had the brilliant idea of opening fire on the pool. Wine spurted out, and women and men screamed alike in drunken ecstasy and horror as blood mingled with the wine, though this did not stop those outside the pool from putting their mouths close to the puncture holes to lap at the fountains of wine. Three women had been injured, and one man as well, yet the party had continued on all night, ending with a fine alcohol-fueled orgy of released sexual desires.
Voroshilov’s eyes descended from the ceiling until they stared uncaring at the men surrounding the table. Voroshilov almost wondered whether their operational plans were as interesting as his memories of wild orgiastic parties but at the last moment easily decided that they were not and closed his eyes to sleep again. He was confident that all would go well, his staff had not yet failed him in peacetime, and it certainly felt like peacetime to him despite the declaration of war. He smiled knowing that he was one of those precious few souls that war could not ever touch no matter how deep he waded in. Voroshilov snuggled deeper into the comfortable chair, wishing that it was his warm bed. The wind howled outside, making him feel even drowsier yet also filling him with confidence regarding the campaign ahead. It would be another glorious victory for him, he just knew it.
The invasion plan for the conquest of Manchuria.
He must have drifted off again, lulled by thoughts of bed and victory as he idly wondered whether or not he could link those two concepts, when he was startled by a constant resounding rumble rolling into the city from a distance. Blinking rapidly, he realized that he was alone in the room, his command staff and the corps commanders had left. Upon this realization, Voroshilov understood that the far away growling was Soviet artillery battering the Manchurian positions. Smiling, he closed his eyes again and pushed himself deeper into the cushions of his chair. He barely noticed his chief-of-staff enter with other staff members, discussing how the attacks were panning out. They were quiet about it, of course, not wishing to disturb their great leader. Voroshilov was glad that he was surrounded by such considerate people; they made being such an unusually great politician and general as he was a much easier burden to bear.
The battle for Jiamusi, the beginning of the northern prong of the invasion of Manchuria.
Voroshilov came to again, to an incessant, but gentle, prodding of his shoulder. He sleepily opened his eyes to see his chief-of-staff and yawned right in his face before swirling his tongue around his mouth. “Chief-of-staff, is there any wine to drink? Or vodka? I have a terrible taste in my mouth.”
“I shall get you a glass of wine, Field Marshal. I wish, however, to inquire whether you would like to move to your chamber and continue sleeping in your bed? There is no need for you to remain in the staff room, after all, as the briefing is done and I can take care of the minutae of our battle myself.”
Voroshilov raised his eyebrows in surprise, shocked. “Why, chief-of-staff, how could you possibly think that? That would be greatly negligent of me! I will remain in the staff room until the battle is done and only then will I retire to my chambers to rest! Now, where is that wine you promised?”
“I will fetch it presently, Field Marshal.”
Voroshilov’s chief-of-staff strode away, leaving Voroshilov’s thoughts to linger on the man’s presumptuousness. Why should Voroshilov not involve himself in the minutae of the battle? After all, he had presented the operational plan, had he not? He wondered whether his chief-of-staff was becoming self-important. Frowning, he shrugged and awaited that wine; it would rid him of that awful taste in his mouth and send him back to sleep as well. He did have to admit, though, that the idea of retiring to his bed appealed to him.
The battle for Jilin, the first battle along the southern prong of the invasion.
I have to wonder - the war vs. Manchuria should be fairly easy. But doesn't that bring the USSR into conflict with Japan at a much earlier stage? I am assuming this is the puppet Manchukuo, of course. If so, Voroshilov may be resting when he should be planning the follow up battle.
Hmm that chief of staff does sound a bit self-important . Perhaps this is a setup for a fall or something is up with the chief of staff that won't go to the General's liking .
coz1: Remember, all alliances and other diplomatic bonds were cut for the game, so Manchuria is free of Japan. Saying that, Japan did declare war on me a bit later...
canonized: We'll see...
rcduggan: Haha, hopefully...
Comment day again!
canonized: We'll see...
rcduggan: Haha, hopefully...
Comment day again!