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War Without End

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May 3rd 1919
Smederova
09:00 Hours

“I thought I had your very enlightened word that we would not run into these problems Minister.” Pašic stared irately at the assembled ministers. Josef Marovic scratched at his forehead. He did not enjoy being the target of this much attention. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and a few of the ministers had to stop themselves from smiling at his discomfort.

“Yes Prime Minister, that is what we believed. However, my sources were incorrect. The risk of revolt has decreased due to neither do to our quick countering of the terrorists in Nis nor the victories over the Austrians. Despite all of that we must take more actions, there is no other choice.”

“Fine.” Pašic shook his head and turned to the other ministers. “Vlada, what options do we have?”

“Well Prime Minister, I will be frank, few. Social reform would prove to be the best, but also the most expensive.” Minister Rugova mopped his brow. Spring was coming, and the heat was coming with it. Whereas most of the ministers were lean and hungry, he and Cubrilovic were far less comfortable in the spring weather.

“To what are you referring?” Pašic had done his best to keep up with the increasing business of the ministries, he missed things often, especially in recent months.

“Well, the frustration mainly comes from the factories, perhaps increasing the regulations put on business would appease them? It would cost a deal of money, but not as much as a revolt in our industrial center would.”

“Give me specifics.”

“I am afraid I do not have them with me.” The Minister said, unbuttoning the top of his shirt to cool down, it was getting hotter, or at least more uncomfortable in the room. At this point the conversation was broken by Kasza.

“Excuse me, ministers, but are you sure we want to do this? Increasing restrictions on industry will slow down our production, can we afford this?” Kasza felt uneasy about change, especially with so much on the line, but Pašic had made up his mind.

“You heard Vlada, we have no choice. We must appease the crowds, for now, it is our only choice. We can deal with the cost later, but for now we must do what we can to get by.”

---

July 29th 1919
Skopje
19:00 Hours

The shift change whistle blew a high note through the night sky. It was finally time to close. Boris laid down the heavy torch he had been using, smoke still poured from its nozzle, and would till the next shift turned it off he imagined. He brought his hand across his mask, and laid it down beside the torch. It was part of the new government regulations on safety. It had also cost him a week’s salary. This was too much.

He slowly made his way out of the dimly lit factory. They were still doing reconstruction on its massive frame. The bomb had done a good deal of damage, but not enough to close it, or to halt production. Now the government was butting in too, setting restrictions on hours, and on equipment. It was costing them money, and time.

“You coming Boris?”

“You know I am Georgi, your speeches are getting better every night.”

“Thanks.”

The two men walked the rest of the way to town in silence. But, instead of walking to their homes, they turned to the old warehouse they had been seeing a great deal of lately. Already a number of men were inside, a large number.

Georgi followed Boris as he pushed his way to the front of the room. They had been there for a long time, and that seniority gave them a leg up. Boris was often seen as the leading muscle, especially since he had stood up to General Mijatovic. Georgi on the other hand was the mouthpiece of their revolution.

Viktor, who had taken over, by sheer might, after Brane had died, stood up behind a podium.

“My comrades! Tonight is the night you have been waiting for. We are here tonight to choose our new leader. My time as interim party head has come to a close, and we have to choose. All of you who wish may come forward at this time.” Viktor paused to let anyone approach. No one did, he had made sure of that before hand.

Boris grumbled and looked around. Did no one have the guts? Well, he would have to act himself then. He gave Georgi a quick shove.

“I say we elect Georgi!” He shouted. His call was followed by a round of cheers. Viktor looked suddenly worried, and rightfully so. It was quickly determined that Georgi would be the new chairman. After a brief speech of acceptance, Georgi called the meeting to a close, but was interrupted. The doors swung open suddenly.

“Halt, all of you.” General Mijatovic walked through the now open doors, his soldiers walked alongside. “You are all under arrest; I have men outside who will take you into custody for plotting against the government.” Sergeant Nikoli stepped forward and pulled his pistol from its holster. Boris was quick to act. He pushed his way to the door and stepped in front of the uneasy officer.

“You want me in custody, you take me.” Nikoli looked quickly to Mijatovic who nodded. He brought his pistol down and reached for Boris’ outstretched arms. Before he could react, Boris brought both arms into the side of the officer, and tackled him. A gunshot went off, and things spiraled out of control. Georgi’s shouting was drowned out by the shouts of the warehouse. Some of the workers pulled out weapons, and more than a few of the militiamen outside the building joined in the fight on the side of the workers.

In the end, what stood as Serbia’s control of Skpoje was defeated, and a red flag would fly from the capital steps.
 
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Suvorov is right. Things look rather messy right now. Very nice atmosphere in that second half with the meeting. It appears the regulations only furthered the trouble rather than help. :(
 
July 30th 1919
Skopje
09:00 Hours

Viktor had been brutal, but then again they had all been. As he reflected on last night’s brutalities, Georgi wondered what was to come. Here they were, at the head of the great Communist Revolution, but something was not right. Instead of being overjoyed at their chance for freedom, many of the citizens had rejected it, and some fought against the tides of change.

How could this be? Were they not ready to be free? But, as Georgi thought, that was the least of their worries. He did not want to end up as the next Eleutherios Metaxis. And Georgi was no fool, he knew no one would come to his aid, just like no one came for the Greeks. His only hope would be that workers elsewhere take up arms. It had been a day, and there had been no news.

Mostly the damage had been dealt to the upper class of the city. A few of the more wealthy families had been butchered, he could not help that. A revolution without violence would not be a true revolution, Georgi understood this. America had not overthrown the burden of the English crown without a war, and so too must he fight against the crown of Serbia. But there had to be a way, history proved it, something would come and end the rule of the elites.

Already Boris and Viktor were establishing defenses in the city. Men from all nationalities, all languages and religions gathered in front of the mostly intact capital steps in lines. They were from other parts of the area, from towns outside Skopje. Men, and women, from Gostivar, Tetovo and Kumanov were arriving daily. It would be a glorious revolution, if only the rest of the world would act.

Georgi leaned back away from the window of the office, it had once belonged to General Mijatovic, but the general would need no office now. Neither would his henchmen, that seargent Nikoli and his goon Feodor. They had been the first to fall to the Revolutionary justice. Feodor had fought the most of the lot. Nikoli died on that factory floor, and Feodor outside. They had been lucky enough to take Mijatovic alive, and had tried and sentenced him this morning.

Things were going well. But Georgi knew it would only be a matter of time. A knock at his door brought him back to the matter at hand. He had to feed over 4 thousand men, and still the number rose. Boris and Viktor had been convincing others to join. He called for the intruder to enter, and so he did. It was his messenger.

“What news?”

“Well Comrade Georgi, bad news. We have word that a General, they called him Jivanovic, is marching south with the Royal Guard to destroy us.”

“Jivanovic? The hero of Orsova? This is not good, ignorant men are often drawn to those who claim to be heroes. We can not let that happen, if Jivanovic arrives, I do not think we will have 4 thousand, or even 2… Send for Comrades Boris and Viktor, we need to talk.”

They had a great deal to discuss, and not the least of which was Jivanovic.

---
July 30th 1919
Skopje
10:00 Hours

“Yes Comrade, a month.” Boris was, of the three, the least worried. Even with the Royal Guard, the elite of the Serbian army, coming from Orsova, he was not worried. He put uncommon faith in the power of their cause. Viktor was not quite as optimistic.

“We can not defeat Jivanovic. Perhaps one of their lesser men, but not him. He defeated the Austrians, in their own lands! And here we are, less then 5 thousand men strong, and think to stand up to a division of Royal Guard? Impossible, we must flee.”

Boris bit his tounge in an effort not to shout at the fool, he knew that Georgi could not stand rivalry amoung his subordinates. But these Serbs did not understand what was at stake. They thought that this revolution was a game, Boris knew better. It was the march of history, not some passing trend. And Boris would not let this idiot Serb mess things up.

“We can not leave Comrade Viktor, we have no where to go. We must wait.” Georgi responded, knowing that his words were true, but wishing that they were not. Viktor sighed and left the room without another word. Boris remained, staring angrily at the window.

“Boris, your men await.”

“Yes, they do… those damned Serbs, who do they think we are? They have stood over us long enough, I tell you, if Viktor was not a communist, he would be up against the wall with that foreman Petar right now!”

“Ah, the court has found him guilty?”

“Was their any doubt”

“No, I suppose not, I often thought he would do well, if he were not what he was.” Georgi turned his chair to look across the court. A wall stood, marked with red. A man knelt, begging with his captors, but it would do no good. The nearest soldier pulled a gun, and fired.

“Well, what can you expect from Serbs?” Boris said, leaving Georgi to scowl at his words.
 
October 12th 1919
Skopje
20:35 Hours

Jivanovic was on his way. Time was running short. The People’s City of Skopje did not have much time. The defenses were built on either side of the city. The plan, as Viktor had described to him, would work in the following way. Jivanovic would assault the city at first. That is when they would hold one side of the outer defenses. The attack would fail. Then the troops would move around and attempt an attack on the other side, but the Revolutionary Guard would be there. Then the siege would begin. If they brought more troops and attacked both sides, then the second ring of defenses would be their stand.

If that failed, it would be a house by house fight to the capital, where it would all be put on the line. Now they just had to wait. Georgi had been having problems with the men lately. The Serbs and Bulgars had been rather difficult to keep apart. A few fistfights had developed. One man had pulled a knife. He now hung from the capital wall. Besides their flag, all that hung from the wall were bodies. The bodies of traitors to the cause.

Viktor and Boris had been the most agitating. They refused to cooperate at all. But Georgi had talked to them, and they would stop it. At least he hoped. If the two factions kept separate, they would fall. Did they forget that Marx saw no difference in nationality? Communism destroyed the nation, and gave birth to the world revolution. Suddenly Georgi heard a pop in the distance. He gave it no mind, but then he heard more, and then a louder one, closer to the capital.

It was happening, Jivanovic must have arrived early. Georgi grabbed the gun from his desk and burst out of the door and ran onto the capital steps. There was no Serbian army, it was his men. Two sides shot from two small barricades. A few bodies lay in between. He could see it. Bulgarians on one side, Serbs on the other.

“No…” Georgi said to himself, because no one else was listening. He ducked behind a column on the steps to avoid a stray bullet. From his hiding spot he saw Boris fall, clutching his neck. The Serbs outnumbered the Bulgarians easily. Within a few minutes Viktor led his Serbs over the barricade and had won the skirmish. He approached the crouching Georgi.

“Get up, Comrade Georgi. I did what I had to do, the Bulgarians have done too much.”

“There is no Bulgaria, there is no Serbia. Don’t you understand?! We are workers first and foremost!.”

“And Boris forgot that. He was a traitor, and so he has been put to death, just like Mijatovic.”

Georgi felt his lunch turn. The revolver felt heavy in his hand. He looked up at Viktor, whose arm seemed red with blood. He stood their, smiling. It was too much to take. Georgi lifted the revolver.

“You are the traitor Viktor! You have betrayed the cause to petty nationalism. For this you die!” Georgi pulled the trigger once, and then twice. Viktor collapsed backwards onto the ground. A third shot sounded. And then another. It was artillery fire.

“No… Jivanovic has arrived!”

--

October 14th 1919
Skopje
12:00 Hours

“One hundred and thirty, sir.”

“Excelent, and the rebels?”

“Over six thousand captured our killed. Including one Georgi, who is said to have been the leader.”

“Oh? Captured?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent, excellent. This will work well for us. And damage to the city?”

“Minimal, the barricades they made were taken from some houses, so they are destroyed. The fought hard on the capital steps as well, and much of that building has been destroyed.”

“I see.” Jivanovic stood up from his chair. The large tent he used as his command center for the last two days. It had been easy. The first strike had pushed the rebels back into the city, with few casualties. After this, a few rounds from artillery had pushed them back farther. Then a final assault took the city. The rebels had not even cooporated against the Royal Guard. Jivanovic had to admit, these men fought brilliantly. Six thousand dead, and only one hundred and three dead.

“Well, I will write the report shortly. First, I want the troops to find those who ran, I want no rebel to escape. Any who turn themselves in will be given pity.”

“You will let them go free?”

“No, I will have them shot instead of hung.”
 
April 1st, 1920
Smederova
14:42 Hours

Shouts arose outside the windows. All across the city things had changed. Women cried openly, children wondered why. Men, old and young, were shocked, surprised and without words. Soldiers were pleased, it was as though a heavy burden had been lifted from the city. It would soon be like this all over Serbia, and all over the other allied nations as well. With the joyous celebration outside, the government sat in disbelief.

“Read it again Pesic.”

“Yes Prime Minister.” Pesic lifted the paper. It was a transcript of a speech, given by Woodrow Wilson. “I will just read the part which deals with our problem. ‘We are provincials no longer. The tragic events of theses five years of vital turmoil through which we have just passed have made us citizens of the world. There can be no turning back. Our own fortunes as a nation are involved whether we would have it so or not.’” Pesic looked around the room. Some men sat in thought, others smiled with the obvious pleasure of those who thought they were on the right side.

“Does this mean that the Americans will join us?” Pašic was not optimistic anymore. Wilson was a fine man for speeches, but in action the Americans had been obviously vacant. If this most recent speech would actually change the tides, then perhaps this war could be won. If not…

“Well Prime Minister, I do not know.” Pesic said shaking his head. His office had received the speech shortly after it reached the English and Russians. But he had not received any information from either of those nations. The ambassadors were also rather quiet on the issue. Either they did not know, or would not tell.

“What about you Marovic?”

“We have nothing. I have received no information in regards to this, and no hint that a decleration of war has been issued. However, it has come to my attention that President Wilson has called an emergency session of their parliament… I’m sorry, Congress.” The room fell silent for a moment, and then a polite knock came from the door.

“Enter.” Pašic said. He hoped for good news. The doors slowly opened and Crown Prince Alexander entered. “Your Majesty, you need not knock, we serve you.” Pašic said, rising.

“No please, stay seated. I have just received word from President Wilson. If you will listen…” Alexander motioned, a servant of his strode into the room with a paper in his hand. “Read.” The prince commanded. The messenger cleared his throat and began.

“’Your quest against the oppression of the Empire of Austria-Hungary and her allies in the Kingdom of Italy and in the German Empire has been a beacon of light across the oceans which separate our two continents. God has seen fit to bless your men with victory upon victory, in this war without end. The German Empire has thrown to the winds all scruples of humanity or of respect for the understandings that were supposed to underlie the intercourse of the world. This great conflict is a war against all nations.

The time of inactivity has come to its end. There is one choice we cannot make, we are incapable of making: we will not choose the path of submission and suffer the most sacred rights of our Nation and our people to be ignored or violated. The wrongs against which we now array ourselves are no common wrongs; they cut to the very roots of human life. Our object now, as then, is to vindicate the principles of peace and justice in the life of the world as against selfish and autocratic power and to set up amongst the really free and self-governed peoples of the world such a concert of purpose and of action as will henceforth insure the observance of those principles.

We write you to tell you that you are no longer alone. Your stand against the darkness of oppression comes to an end today. I go now to gain the declaration of war against the German Empire, one which I hope will end the oppression and liberate the peoples of Europe from the chains if imperialism. Good luck, and my God be with you.’”

The Prince Regent looked around at the ministers and nodded to his messenger who then withdrew. The room was in shock, but no longer the surprise which put them on the edge of their seats, now it was relief, and near bliss in the victory they felt they had won. America was coming.

“Ministers, I hope you all understand what this means. Not only does this mean the United States, with her industrial strength, will join our effort against the Hun, but also by the conditions of the Parisian pact of 1919, the Republic of France will be responsible for returning herself to war. Two superpowers have re-entered our struggle. Germany is surrounded, and victory will be ours.”
 
Victory does seem at hand, if they actually commit troops to battle. Let's hope so!
 
May 19th 1920
Foca
17.00 Hours

The shell smashed harmlessly into the defenses. They were not taking their time like they normally did. Now it was just showering shells to keep the Serbs down. Both sides had given up on that long ago, it just wasted too much. The Austrians were getting supplied by Germany, and Serbia by the Allies, through Russia or illegally over the Bulgarian border. And even the Turks found themselves compliant with Allied demands. The presence of American and British warships off her sea coast was enough to keep Turkey neutral. But then again all Alexi knew was what the military told him. Moral boosting papers were common, and now used for other paper products in short supply.

Anton snuck up behind Alexi underneath the reinforced roof which kept the shells harmless. The Serbs had been in Foca for a long time. And the fact that both sides had been unusually bad at aiming (not by accident, or so Alexi wondered) had given them time to construct stronger defenses.

“What do you think this is about Alexi?” His fellow soldier asked. Anton had lost his once crazed attitude, now he was far more lethargic. Battle disgusted him; Alexi was beginning to worry about desertion. But Gregor had kept the group in good order. Most of the men followed him without question. He had stayed alive this long, so why not longer?

“I don’t know Anton, it could be any number of things. Perhaps some commander is making them get up and move. Anyway it happens we will hold them off, this position is too strong.” Alexi was right, the position was strong. So far three Austrian attacks had been pushed off. But this continual firing was nerve-racking. The American entry into the war had been a great boost in the spirits of the men, but when the French bowed out yet again, everyone got back to worrying. It would be a while before America made a difference, and if Britain or Russia followed France’s lead…

The shells continued for some time, Alexi could not tell how long. It was obvious that this was to cover an advance. So he sat, gun loaded and ready. Anton beside him. They were positioned inside one of the nests for machine guns. They were there to protect it, and keep Austrians at bay while it did the killing. That was how they had held back the Austrians so many times already, and how the Austrians had held them back just as often. The fields were so strewn with blood that nothing would ever grow here again.

But just as suddenly as the artillery had begun, it stopped. Anton and Alexi knew what to do, and so leapt to their assigned points and took aim. Nothing came. The machine guns remained silent, and no enemy was seen trekking across the dangerous no-man’s land. Something wasn’t right. After a few moments of eerie calm, Alexi heard Anton shout. He turned to the sound of engines in the distance. Armored shapes seemed to be pushing themselves through the mud and craters, and towards the Serbian line. Tanks.

This was the first time that Anton had ever seen one of these metallic monsters. He had heard rumors from other men about them, but never seen them. The rumbling creatures pushed effortlessly through the mud and death of so many men on foot. Barbed wire collapsed before them, and the Serbs were beginning to get frightened. The tanks were obviously German, but even so, the Austrians were using them effectively. They would break through with armor, and then flood the lines with men.

A machine gun down the line opened up on a vehicle. The bullets fell to the earth simply scratching the beast’s hull. It turned itself slowly to face the rapidly firing gun. Alexi watched as it swung its large cannon forward and took aim. What followed was amazing. It shot a shell, which found its target. The tank, however, had malfunctioned. A second later the vehicle spouted flames, and shortly thereafter exploded. A cheer went down the line, they weren’t afraid anymore. But then, the rest of the tanks opened up.

Machine guns sprayed from the vehicles across the Serbian lines. Some men, who had been careless in their celebration, fell to the shot. The tanks moved slowly forward, spraying bullets as it moved. Already the lines began to crumble, and soldiers tried to flee. It didn’t work. The guns mowed them down just the same. Anton and Alexi dropped to the dirt as one of the guns covered their position. The men on their machine gun were not fast enough.

He heard the engine getting louder, the tank meant to push its way over the trenches, and into the Serbian rear. There was nothing they could do. If the artillery started up it would end up destroying Serbian men, which Alexi believed would be the plan. Men were in greater supply than artillery, and would cost less to replace. Alexi was correct, even as the tank grew closer; artillery began shelling around the lines. But something was different. These shells were not coming from his lines.

He hard an explosion and crawled back to the lip of the trench. Anton still remained inside the damaged defenses. The tank was destroyed. A shell had come down on it. Two others lay burning as well. The attempt at breakthrough had been stopped. A few guns still went off, but it was all passed. Unfortunately whoever was firing the artillery did not know, and the shells kept coming. Alexi felt himself lifted off the ground by an ear deafening roar. He hit the dirt hard, and felt the wind fly from him. As he lay in the mud, with the sound of battle gone from his ears he saw a sight he never believed he would.

A plane, its bi-wings sputtering in the air, flew above him. As he watched it he could see the arms on its side. It was an observation plane, spotting for artillery. It had seen the tanks and pinpointed the shots which had taken them down. It was guiding the guns, it was guiding Russian guns.
 
It took me a long time to read all those writings you've made, Estonianzulu. And I can honestly say that you beat my AAR by 50 to 1.
But hey, we are in completely different series anyway! :D
Not so much insane stuff on your pages of Glory, but you couldn't compete with my twisted mind on that anyway.

PS: Honestly, compose all this into a novel and send it to some major publisher. I wouldn't buy it though, seems like you spoiled 99% of it already. :D
 
Tanks and planes enter the battle. It's getting tough on the old boys, but that was a nice entry and a bit longer than your usual one in this AAR - had some inspiration, eh? Fantastic stuff, and good to know the Americans are at least lending naval support and the Russians getting their asses in gear. Any chance you can get Tanks at this point? Might not have enough time left.
 
Thanks Aldous, you have now contributed to the growing ego of Estonianzulu :)

Now, to coz1: I was looking at tanks, but I didn't get them. Two reasons. One, I had only ever played the game twice, so I was simply making things up as I went along and just got lucky a few times so as not to be overrun. Second, at this time in the game I was dirt poor. Im sure you are well aware how difficult learning the economy can be in this game. Add on to that my lack of skill (I really can't play complicated games!) and the fact that I was in a war which had lasted 6 years... Well you get the picture.
 
July 26th 1920
Belgrade
09:00 Hours


A requiem sang in the distance. It came from St. Mark’s he was sure. And he knew who it was for. The millions who had died and the graves which now stretch as far as the eye could see. The sights of unburied bodies in the streets of the city brought a sharp reminder to Pašic what this war had meant so far. The blood on his hands, and the hands of those across the world was so deep; the history of mankind had changed, and before anyone could stop it.

So here he was. The return to Belgrade had not been a triumphant march, but a slow push back and forth, until Brusilov had arrived and broken through. The hordes of Russian men had been enough to throw what little remained of Austrian troops back into the Hun’s land. It had been a hard road, but they had made it. Much of the city was in ruin. The only reminder of what Serbia had once been was St. Mark’s, but its holy halls were filled with the morning, and the survivors.

The wounded, the gassed and the mad. That seemed to be what was left of a once strong race of Serbs. But it was not just Serbs. Millions of Englishmen, Germans, Russians, Austrians, and the like had fallen to the bark of rifle, or the braying of artillery. Pašic was painfully aware of the price this war was still costing, and wondered if the world would survive. Already those more religious saw this conflict as God’s retribution on man, he did not believe them. But there was some dark force leading the world now, for no man could unleash this hell willingly.

His pondering was interrupted. A door swung open to his small office. His original now lay in the ruins of the parliament building not far from where they now stood. He could barely remember those days, when the war was new and victory seemed at their door. 6 years, that was all that had passed. Yet it felt a lifetime.

“Prime Minister.” It was General Misic. Or Field Marshal, Pašic thought. Misic was now the Chief of Staff, the position that Putnik had held before his untimely demise. This war aged men, even those who did not stand on the front lines.

“Yes Field Marshal?” Misic stood straight backed as Pašic turned from the open window. The military had been feeling far more successful lately, and the Spartan attitudes had returned.

“You asked to be told when General Brusilov had arrived? He has.” Misic said his piece and left. Pašic was ambivalent in regards to Brusilov. Brusilov was a hero to Serbia; in fact, they would not be in Belgrade without him. But the Russian was overbearing. He dominated every meeting. The greatest General in the war, and many said in history, had an uncanny ability to control.

Pašic walked into the central meeting room. A few ministers sat in their seats, talking rapidly. The victories of late had given the government new life it seems. Only Pašic seemed to remember that this war was not yet won. Brusilov sat in the seat next to Pašic, in full uniform. The man was a symbol of Russian pride. He had used the problems of the war to his advantage, where others had failed. His planning had been the reason the allies survived, the constant flow of Russian troops across Germany’s boarder kept the war going, and Serbia alive.

The discussion was not one of importance. Congratulations and celebrations mostly. Pašic found himself dozing off often. General Misic and Jivanovic discussed tactics with him for a while, and lunch was served. All talk of politics was ignored immediately. Brusilov mentioned constantly that he was a military man, not a politician. Pašic found this humorous. It was blatant that if Brusilov wanted a part of political power, he would have no problem in achieving it.

The lunch was interrupted by a messenger. His announcement sparked the interest of many in the room. Within minutes Jozsef Rigova entered the room. Pašic wondered why his ambassador to Bulgaria had returned, something was not right. But before the Prime Minister could speak the ambassador handed him a letter. Wordlessly Pašic opened it. He read quickly over the page, and then stared up at the silent ambassador.

“Is this accurate?”

“I received it from Aleksander Manilov’s hand.” The mention of the Bulgarian Prime Minister’s name sent the room into a deeper confusion. Whispers began to grow, but Pašic silenced them by clearing his throat.

“I have here in my hands a correspondence, signed by the hand of Tsar Ferdinand I, detailing the future campaign of General Zhekov, chief of the Bulgarian army and his Turkish counterpart.” Suddenly the room went dead quiet. Even Brusilov looked worried. His plan relied on the Serbian front, if now he had to turn to face the Bulgarians…

“They march to open a third front against Vienna even as we speak.”
 
And it started so positive, that post. It does seem like an eternity, but a wonderful one at that. I really felt a mood in that update and the ending jarred me back to reality that the war still goes on. Nice. :cool:
 
December 25th 1920
Belgrade
23:40 Hours


“What a Christmas eh Dimitar?” Cubrilovic said jovially, patting the minister of the economy on the back. Cubrilovic had reason to celebrate. Trade was booming, and money was coming in from the Americans by the boatload. It wouldn’t be much longer to that money would be put to work rebuilding damage done to the factories, and reconstructing the cities destroyed by the rebels in Nis and Skopje.

“Yes, a most happy day.” Kasza said unenthusiastically. Ever since Brusilov had left the atmosphere of the capital had lost much of its enthusiasm. A gloom had come over some of the ministers, Kasza included. Only Cubrilovic and Nikolik remained upbeat. But Kasza had the suspicion that the Minister of War’s happiness was coming from a bottle. The most sullen of their lot was Pašic. The Prime Minister had never succumbed to the joyful expressions of victory that the other ministers had given. Even when the Bulgarians sent troops to bolster the Russian lines, Pašic was unmoved.

Kasza glanced towards the door to the Prime Minister’s office. Inside he was talking with Marovic and Pesic in private. Kasza vaguely wondered about what. But his thought was interrupted by the arrival of more drinks, and the sounding of the clock. It was quarter till already.

“My, how the time does fly!” Cubrilovic barked as the bells began to ring.

---


December 25th 1920
Belgrade
23:45 Hours

“Yes Nikola.” The foreign minister responded. The Prime Minister had asked him the same question twice, and Pesic did not think he realized. But he was sure that Marovic did. The intelligence minister’s lips curled up in the smile. He was enjoying this, and Pesic had the sneaking suspicion that Marovic desired Pašic’s spot. If he got it, this war would change drastically.

“Good, good… And what about the Romanians?” Pašic asked again, absentmindedly.

“Nothing, unless Marovic has hidden something from us. The Romanians seem intent on sitting this war out. Neutrality, in their eyes, is the best course of action.” Pesic replied. By Marovic’s silence, he assumed that the intelligence minister was hiding nothing.

“Excellent.” The Prime Minister turned his chair and looked out into the darkness of the night. The stars remained hidden from view in the Christmas sky. Pašic had been more and more distracted since Brusilov had gone South with nearly the entire Serbian army. The prescience of over one million Austrian troops was a reasonable cause for distraction, or so Pesic thought. He still worried that the Serbs would be overwhelmed. They could only must 60 thousand, with another 10 thousand Russians and less Bulgarians. It would be a hard fight.

“Is there anything else Prime Minister?” Marovic asked, rising. Pesic quickly rose as well.

“No, nothing, you may go.” And with that, the two ministers left the room, eyeing each other warily.

---


December 25th 1920
Skopje
23:50 Hours


A young boy ran down the abandoned road. Most roads were abandoned now, especially here. Cars had gone within a year, horses in 5, and now even walkers were rare. The occasional housewife, or more likely widow, wandered the road. Even a veteran or two still roamed, but very few. Skopje was a ghost town. The retribution of the Serbian army had been ultimate. The bodies had hung for a month, and now they lied in graves. That’s where the man now walked, as the child ran past him.

The grave stones were nothing fancy, why would they be? It was a surprise to see any recognition at all. But even Jivanovic gave dead men their due. The captured rebels had been the ones who dug the pits, and who threw in the bodies. He didn’t know where the stones had come from, but they were there as well. Each one marked with notches. One notch for each body in the pit.

On the occasional stone, an etching of some sort or another could be made out. Messages from loved ones or children. Saying goodbye, wishing luck, or promising revenge. It had been a brutal fight, the man remembered. He had hid, like so many others. But it had kept him alive. To this day he wondered, perhaps he should have been down on that street, with a gun in his hand. Perhaps he should have died. But then he realizes something. All that these men stood for, all that they fought and died to make. All of their dreams and ideals, all of their lives… All of that had been for nothing. They had died fools’ deaths, and now their homeland was in ruin.

---


December 25th 1920
Foca
23:55 Hours


Alexi propped himself up on the crutches. It was easier than it had been at first. Over time the strangeness was leaving him. Soon enough he would be going home. The doctor had said his pain would stop, and it had. But the feeling would never leave. Nor would his longing for those days when he was younger, and stronger. When he could run and jump, and swim. Now he moved, crutch to crutch. The stump of his shattered leg clothed up to hide from others.

That blast had done him more harm then good. It sent him home, but now it would see him crippled. A trade he found unfair. For 6 years he had survived, 6 long bloody years. Now it was all over, just at the point of victory. And he had spent the last months in this horrible place. He knew what hell was. Hell was a trench. It was the brutal fear of battle and the uncertainty of death. But now he knew there was something worse than hell, a hospital.

When he was first here, although he did not know it, the doctors chose to keep him alive. He had since then seen what they did. When a new group of wounded would arrive they would be lined up. The doctor, with two nurses, would walk down the line, and decide who would stay, and who would die. Anton had not been chosen. Alexi cursed those dealers of death every night he went to sleep. As a soldier he killed because he had to do it to survive. These men, who had the power to heal, gave up on so many who could have lived. It made him sick.

As Alexi wandered he could see the uniforms of so many. Serbs, the uniform he had worn, dominated the room. But he had heard the accent of a Russian, or a Bulgarian more than once. Lately more and more foreign men came in. The battle was not going well he imagined. The guns had been firing for week straight, with no pause. Alexi sighed and struggled to the window. The distant lights of artillery and explosions lit up the Christmas sky. He had forgotten about the holiday until he stumbled upon the doctor’s celebration.

For a moment Alexi became dazed by the lights outside, but just as soon as he did they stopped. Suddenly the booming sounds of guns outside stopped. The lights which brought death to so many, halted. Alexi wondered was it over? He realized it was not. They were halting for one moment, one brief relax in the chaos. To celebrate Christmas. In the eerie quiet of peace Alexi wondered. Would the war ever end? Many people had asked him that question; most of them were dead or invalid. He had never had an answer. He did now. The war would end the day no one could fight anymore, and they all became as he was now. A half man, destroyed by war and forgotten by history.
 
Bravo, Estonianzulu. Now I understand the name of the AAR. The last bit was rather haunting at the prospect of never-ending war. Though the Serbs have out up a brave front, how will they recover once it is all over.

This has been a pleasure to read for some time and I am sad to see it end, but all things must at some point. I hope you will give us one last post, giving us some idea as to how the state of the world looked at the time and such. But it was a nice touch to use a Christmas cease-fire as the ending point. Congrats on finishing and I look forward to seeing where your Colombian tale goes now.
 
Excellent tale. The imagery is astounding. Especially how you have portrayed the aftermath of destruction, bitterness, and pain that war has left in its passing. It seemed as if the higher ups cared nothing for peace, but perhaps that was just my take.

He knew what hell was. Hell was a trench. It was the brutal fear of battle and the uncertainty of death. But now he knew there was something worse than hell, a hospital.
Click to expand...

Great line by the way, one of my favorites.
 
Thanks Machiavellian. After I posted the ending I felt I didn't like it, but I will let it stay.

To reply to you Coz1, I will post some pictures. Really nothing has changed. I played this with Vicky right out of the box, and on normal. In the end it was just a horrendous stalemate. I was only amazed at how well the Russians did (And that the French refused to fight at all!)
 
Very nice ending. I don't know why i was hoping for a victory in the last few posts considering everything that had happend. I guess i was hoping something like...

December 25th 1920
Foca
23:55 Hours


Alexi looked out the hospital window and God flew down smote all the germans and Austrians, repaired all the damage to Serbia, and healed is leg. Finally the war came to an end.

*happy music plays and confetti falls from nowhere*

THE END
 
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