OOC: God f'ing dammit, my computer mysteriously reset itself while I was finishing up...
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November 11, 1936
Faro, Occupied Portugal
VII Cuerpo HQ
"They what? They want to surrender?" Franco asked incredulously, the telephone held up to his ear.
"That is correct, Generalissimo. They are offering their territory here on the Iberian, and also their African colonies. It looks like Salazar badly wants to end this war." the Spanish Foreign Minister, Souza, replied, smiling on the other end. When the Caudillo Francisco had begun this war, he'd expected nowhere near this much in concessions. He figured this was a good deal, by his standards. But his leader had a much grander vision in store.
"Ahh, but, Souza, you know as well as I do that Portugal's colonies in Africa are as worthless as tits on a bull! They offer nothing except prestige, and I'd go as far as to say that he WANTS us to take them off his hands. No, Souza, I want you to reject this. Prepare one of our own, but we will not be sending it until we have the Portuguese at a disadvantage. Then, we will be dictating the terms to them! Am I understood?" Franco said, definately against the nearly insulting offer that Portugal had tendered to them. Granted, the land on the Iberian would quite neatly fit into Spain, but the rest of it was pure rubbish.
"Crystal clear, sir. I will await your order for the new treaty to be sent." Souza said. Then they both hung up their respective phones. Franco turned to the aide waiting at the flap of his tent.
"Send word to Generals Quipo Llano and Atienza. March on Lisbon."
The proposed (and rejected) treaty
Lisbon, Portugal
0800 Hours
The two divisions of Portuguese troops on the outskirts of Lisbon were fresh, having not shouldered the brunt of the Spanish assault. But they were afraid. They knew rumors of the Spanish having weapons they couldn't even dream of - Submachine guns issued en masse, machine guns issued in numbers to every platoon, enough new mortars to blacken the sky with shells. Whatever glorious victories there were to be had early on, against the Spaniard tanks, were felt to be flukes. The men defending Lisbon clutched rifles that their fathers had used in the Great War, and most of the artillery behind them had fired their last shells at Lys. And there were so many Spaniards coming for them!
Most of the rumors were true. The two leading divisions of the five marching in from Guarda were quite modern. The submachine gun that was so rightly feared was the 9mm Labora, a high-quality weapon that seemed indestructible to the strains of extended use. The new mortars were light enough to be man-portable, and quite quickly, as well, a far cry from the heavy trench mortars of the Great War. The remaining divisions were not as well equipped, being roughly on par with the Portuguese.
The only advantage ceded to the Portuguese troops was in artillery, with the lightning advance of the Spanish army not allowing time for very much in the way of it to be brought up. This was felt to be only a small matter, numbers and a rapid advance would quickly negate that advantage, it was felt.
As the sun rose, the first shells belched forth from the Portuguese artillery...
The opening hours of the battle for Lisbon
1600 Hours
Portuguese Army Command Post
General Mota shook his head in despair. Despite his best-laid plans, including extensive trenchworks, half of his men had already panicked and were fleeing into the city, decimated and terrified of the unstoppable Spanish juggernaut. The rest were barely hanging on, severely overwhelmed and almost constantly falling back.
His artillery had done little to stop the advance. The Spaniards didn't advance as though this were the Great War, in huge waves of bodies which machine guns and artillery could scythe through. If anything, it was more like the elite German Sturmtruppen, advancing in smaller groups to infiltrate forward before assaulting, forcing the defending firepower to be spread out at many smaller targets. So many of his problems were caused by the equipment of those two spearheading divisions! Already his men had learned to fear the submachine guns of the Spanish troops. All the training of a marksman that made a bolt-action rifle a deadly weapon was for naught, if a barely-trained man with a submachine gun could simply spray a storm of bullets through the rifleman's trench without aiming. And the damning thing was that the Spaniards were quite accurate with those guns.
They were leapfrogging forward, advance, secure the area, and lay in the mortars for a barrage to soften up the positions in front of them, and then advance again. Too often, his men couldn't even get their machinguns into the nests before they were being shelled, and had to take cover, and didn't even have a chance to heat the barrel with firing before having to pull back again. That was bad enough, but outnumbered as they were, and with the damned cavalry from the North coming in, too...!
Mota laughed in his black humor as he heard the already-familiar "Traaa-p-p-p-p-p-p" of a Spanish Labora, this time even closer. His men didn't have much further to fall back. Damn that Franco Francisco! There was no reason for this war at all... it was that damn fascism, he was sure of it. The same fascism of Germany and Italy.
He gasped as he had a sudden vision of the future. A vision of great armies marching, a vision of conquered countries, and a devastated world. A world overrun by the fascists---
Whatever musings General Mota had, it was all for naught, as a Spanish 50mm mortar shell came whistling down into his tent, blowing him and the tent into shreds.
Shortly after, the last vestiges of resistance from the Portuguese army gave up.
The last hours of the battle for Lisbon
November 14, 1936
Lisbon, Occupied Portugal
"... and the forfeiture of all the territory of Portugal on the Iberian peninsula for a period of not less than twenty years, excluding the established provincal boundaries of the city of Lisbon, which will be returned to Portuguese control; the ceding of the Cap Verde and Azore islands, and the Asian colony of Macao. On the behalf of Spain, we will withdraw all troops from the abovementioned Portuguese-controlled territory, and leave Portugal in peace hereafter. Sign along the line here at the bottom, Prime Minister Salazar." Souza said, a smug smile on the Spanish Foreign Minister's face. Franco had been right, a far more favorable set of terms was possible with Lisbon in the hands of the Spanish Army.
Photographers snapped pictures, flashbulbs lighting up the room as the defeated Prime Minister of Portugal slowly picked up the pen, and signed away the war, and any chance of his country ever being considered a great power again. He slowly looked up to Franco, standing slightly behind his Foreign Minister.
"I thought I trusted you." Salazar said, speaking in a sad, soft tone, with pleading, tired eyes.
"It was nothing personal, Antonio." Franco replied, taking the copy of the treaty and walking out of the building.
The Spanish Treaty
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November 11, 1936
Faro, Occupied Portugal
VII Cuerpo HQ
"They what? They want to surrender?" Franco asked incredulously, the telephone held up to his ear.
"That is correct, Generalissimo. They are offering their territory here on the Iberian, and also their African colonies. It looks like Salazar badly wants to end this war." the Spanish Foreign Minister, Souza, replied, smiling on the other end. When the Caudillo Francisco had begun this war, he'd expected nowhere near this much in concessions. He figured this was a good deal, by his standards. But his leader had a much grander vision in store.
"Ahh, but, Souza, you know as well as I do that Portugal's colonies in Africa are as worthless as tits on a bull! They offer nothing except prestige, and I'd go as far as to say that he WANTS us to take them off his hands. No, Souza, I want you to reject this. Prepare one of our own, but we will not be sending it until we have the Portuguese at a disadvantage. Then, we will be dictating the terms to them! Am I understood?" Franco said, definately against the nearly insulting offer that Portugal had tendered to them. Granted, the land on the Iberian would quite neatly fit into Spain, but the rest of it was pure rubbish.
"Crystal clear, sir. I will await your order for the new treaty to be sent." Souza said. Then they both hung up their respective phones. Franco turned to the aide waiting at the flap of his tent.
"Send word to Generals Quipo Llano and Atienza. March on Lisbon."
The proposed (and rejected) treaty
Lisbon, Portugal
0800 Hours
The two divisions of Portuguese troops on the outskirts of Lisbon were fresh, having not shouldered the brunt of the Spanish assault. But they were afraid. They knew rumors of the Spanish having weapons they couldn't even dream of - Submachine guns issued en masse, machine guns issued in numbers to every platoon, enough new mortars to blacken the sky with shells. Whatever glorious victories there were to be had early on, against the Spaniard tanks, were felt to be flukes. The men defending Lisbon clutched rifles that their fathers had used in the Great War, and most of the artillery behind them had fired their last shells at Lys. And there were so many Spaniards coming for them!
Most of the rumors were true. The two leading divisions of the five marching in from Guarda were quite modern. The submachine gun that was so rightly feared was the 9mm Labora, a high-quality weapon that seemed indestructible to the strains of extended use. The new mortars were light enough to be man-portable, and quite quickly, as well, a far cry from the heavy trench mortars of the Great War. The remaining divisions were not as well equipped, being roughly on par with the Portuguese.
The only advantage ceded to the Portuguese troops was in artillery, with the lightning advance of the Spanish army not allowing time for very much in the way of it to be brought up. This was felt to be only a small matter, numbers and a rapid advance would quickly negate that advantage, it was felt.
As the sun rose, the first shells belched forth from the Portuguese artillery...
The opening hours of the battle for Lisbon
1600 Hours
Portuguese Army Command Post
General Mota shook his head in despair. Despite his best-laid plans, including extensive trenchworks, half of his men had already panicked and were fleeing into the city, decimated and terrified of the unstoppable Spanish juggernaut. The rest were barely hanging on, severely overwhelmed and almost constantly falling back.
His artillery had done little to stop the advance. The Spaniards didn't advance as though this were the Great War, in huge waves of bodies which machine guns and artillery could scythe through. If anything, it was more like the elite German Sturmtruppen, advancing in smaller groups to infiltrate forward before assaulting, forcing the defending firepower to be spread out at many smaller targets. So many of his problems were caused by the equipment of those two spearheading divisions! Already his men had learned to fear the submachine guns of the Spanish troops. All the training of a marksman that made a bolt-action rifle a deadly weapon was for naught, if a barely-trained man with a submachine gun could simply spray a storm of bullets through the rifleman's trench without aiming. And the damning thing was that the Spaniards were quite accurate with those guns.
They were leapfrogging forward, advance, secure the area, and lay in the mortars for a barrage to soften up the positions in front of them, and then advance again. Too often, his men couldn't even get their machinguns into the nests before they were being shelled, and had to take cover, and didn't even have a chance to heat the barrel with firing before having to pull back again. That was bad enough, but outnumbered as they were, and with the damned cavalry from the North coming in, too...!
Mota laughed in his black humor as he heard the already-familiar "Traaa-p-p-p-p-p-p" of a Spanish Labora, this time even closer. His men didn't have much further to fall back. Damn that Franco Francisco! There was no reason for this war at all... it was that damn fascism, he was sure of it. The same fascism of Germany and Italy.
He gasped as he had a sudden vision of the future. A vision of great armies marching, a vision of conquered countries, and a devastated world. A world overrun by the fascists---
Whatever musings General Mota had, it was all for naught, as a Spanish 50mm mortar shell came whistling down into his tent, blowing him and the tent into shreds.
Shortly after, the last vestiges of resistance from the Portuguese army gave up.
The last hours of the battle for Lisbon
November 14, 1936
Lisbon, Occupied Portugal
"... and the forfeiture of all the territory of Portugal on the Iberian peninsula for a period of not less than twenty years, excluding the established provincal boundaries of the city of Lisbon, which will be returned to Portuguese control; the ceding of the Cap Verde and Azore islands, and the Asian colony of Macao. On the behalf of Spain, we will withdraw all troops from the abovementioned Portuguese-controlled territory, and leave Portugal in peace hereafter. Sign along the line here at the bottom, Prime Minister Salazar." Souza said, a smug smile on the Spanish Foreign Minister's face. Franco had been right, a far more favorable set of terms was possible with Lisbon in the hands of the Spanish Army.
Photographers snapped pictures, flashbulbs lighting up the room as the defeated Prime Minister of Portugal slowly picked up the pen, and signed away the war, and any chance of his country ever being considered a great power again. He slowly looked up to Franco, standing slightly behind his Foreign Minister.
"I thought I trusted you." Salazar said, speaking in a sad, soft tone, with pleading, tired eyes.
"It was nothing personal, Antonio." Franco replied, taking the copy of the treaty and walking out of the building.
The Spanish Treaty
