Југославија, Југославија! - A narrative YugoslAARv tale.

[James Beil]

Југославија, Југославија!

Chapter One - Albania
Chapter Two - Italy Expects, Yugoslavia Dissapoints
Chapter Three - Sucsess
Chapter Four - The Yugoslav-Hungarian War Begins
​

In 1936, the world stood on tenterhooks. The Treaty of Versailles was in tatters-German re-armament had turned the fates of the country around dramatically, from a weak, economically fractures nation into one of the great powers of the world again. While her neighbours trembled, further away from the centre of Europe things were changing. In Yugoslavia, a nation forged by the Treaty of Versailles, His Royal Highness Pavle Karadjordjevic sat at his bedside table, having earlier that day had a meeting with his council of advisors.

The Prince himself, in military dress.

Everybody could see war on the way-another great war was coming soon. Bordered by Hungary, Romania and Greece, Yugoslavs could have slept soundly. Even with the diminutive Albania so close, there was no reason to worry; there were more men in the Yugoslav army than in the entirety of Albania. No, it was another matter disturbing the sleep of the ruler tonight-the Italians. They had a strong army, a foolish leader, and a sense of militant pride that might very well see Yugoslavia come into her sights. Most of the Italian armies active were active in Ethiopia, far away from Yugoslavia, but they would soon be finished and looking for another victory.

Yugoslavia would have to prepare, and Pavle had heard the Minister of Technology beam with pride at the complex plans drawn up by Zaztava Arsenal to reform the infantry in line with modern standards. Machines were being outfitted by Memorandum to be more efficient, and in all Pavle could say that he was happy with the progress in science being made in his nation. Not all of the meeting was taken up with chattering and the salutation of science, however. Recognising the aggressive attitudes of the Italians, and their designs on Albania, plans were drawn up for a pre-emptive attack on Albania, to protect it from the Italians. As soon as the III.Army were ready, the move would be made and upon explanation to Emperor Zog, Pavle was sure that he would see sense in the plan.

As part of the ongoing changes in Yugoslavia, to celebrate, a new division of infantry were commissioned, as part of an examination of Yugoslavian industrial power. It would not be the only investigation of Yugoslavian power in those times.

Private Christian Imbrahimovic, Albania, 8th January

Left, right, left, right, the mental drums beat in Christian's head. He was marching, with 15,000 other Yugoslavs-specifically, Herzegovina, down the city of Vlore. The day before, at exactly zero hours and zero minutes, the act of annexation had been signed by Emperor Zog, and now Albania was part of Yugoslavia, recognised by all the be part of the greatest nation on earth. For the young private, it was a very happy day. He was a simple young man, no more than seventeen years of age, and he took great pride in his shining uniform and his clean boots.

It was an hour of marching up and down massive streets to waving Albanian and Yugoslav flags before the soldiers fired the final salute and were allowed to go about their business. Christian's platoon were ordered to headquarters, where their sergeant, a man only two years Christian's senior, was being spoken to by an officer hidden behind medals and a trenchcoat. “Sergeant Princillip, I personally asked that the first section to arrive in the capital would be brought to me. That is why you were here. The lieutenant here reports that you were in a civilian truck when you arrived, and that you managed to stuff all twenty men into your transport. Who came up with the idea?”
“Sir, it was Private Imbrahimovic, sir.” Princillip's response was quick and simple, looking through the tall man as he spoke. The Lieutenant-General did not look at the private, his round green helmet burnished like fine brass.
“Thank you. Lieutenant, see that this man becomes a sergeant, and give him-” Christian spoke, down the line away from the officer, against every fibre in his body screaming at him to just listen.
“Permission to speak, sir.” The officer raised an eyebrow.
“Granted. What is it, Private?”
“Sir, while I would be happy to accept any duties or commissions you grant me, I have one request.”
“Carry on,” said the officer.
“I wish to remain with my platoon, sir.” The officer sunk into thought, surprised by both the private's loyalty and his...stupidity. Anyone who refused their own platoon must be a moron, he thought, before replying.
“Very well. Lieutenant, make this man a sergeant. Princillip is to be raised to Sergeant-Major, and retain command of his platoon.” The lieutenant behind him spat out a 'yessir' before the platoon were dismissed. Amidst cheers and the night's wild celebrations, a new addition was to be found; the three echelons on the shoulder of Christian's new trenchcoat, the sign of a sergeant.

Sergeant Christian Imbrahimovic, Northern Yugoslavia, 25th March

Christian's men had been reassigned to the flagship of the army, as it were, the new Guards division. Stationed in the north of Yugoslavia, on the borders of Austria and Italy. Beyond that Nazi Germany stood, out of the mind of Christian at the present. It was a little after midday, and in a moment of quiet he was writing a letter to his mother in Livna, about his promotion and how he was in the finest division in the world, and how he hoped she was proud of him. He asked of his four little brothers, and everything else.

To his knowledge, all was well. Yugoslavia was building a stronger army, factories were being built not just in the cities but in the poor places, where the money they would bring in could do the most good. Nothing was wrong at all, and the future was a bright place. His birthday was next month, and there would be many more in a greater Yugoslavia for Christian, so said the men in government.

They could not have possibly been more wrong.

 

[James Beil]

Natalina Golovnin, April 21st, Sarajevo Broadcasting

“Good morning, Yugoslavia, and welcome to Sarajevo News. In the past week, our Prince, H.R.H. Pavle concluded talks with the Romanian government, and the Foreign Minister is said to be 'pleased with developments in our relationship with the Roma.' The Yugoslav stock market rose due to confidence in the industrial developments in the centre of the nation, promising to bring farmers out of poverty and into prosperity, with the extra production power being used to fund trade with Germany and the Soviet Union. The current factories are said to be 'no more than twelve months away from beginning production', said one analyst.” Natalina paused, curls of blond hair framing her neat head and thin neck, a large pair of headphones pressing the locks to her head while she spoke into the large, black, bushy microphone on the desk, sheets of paper neatly stacked. The manager's hand dropped and she started again. “In Africa, the Ethiopian government signed the declaration of surrender to the Italian armies, and have been annexed. As always, we will bring you news when we receive it. Now, 'I don't want to set the world on fire', by the Ink Spots. Sarajevo Broadcasting-when you need us, we're always here.” The red bulb in the room turned off and the floor team played the record while the short Russian stood up. Her shoes clacked on the concrete floor as she moved, opening the wooden door to the smoking area. Why the technicians insisted that no-one smoke in the rooms with the microphones and big machines, Natalina would never know.

Pevla Karadjordjevic, April 23rd, Sarajevo

The table was silent, waiting for the Prince to speak. He was in a finely-cut white suit, styled after those in Panama, although he was under no duress to ever wear a Panama hat-ridiculous things, more befitting Americans than anyone else. His moustache was untrimmed, and a hair out of place usually meant that the Prince had been thinking. Certainly, he must have been thinking if he called a meeting of his cabinet. There was only one item on the agenda; the consequences of the Ethiopian situation.

“Gentlemen,” started the Prince, “you all know why I have called you here. I am sure you all heart the reports from Sarajevo on the wireless. The Italians have claimed Ethiopia, and this puts us in a difficult position. If we were to fight a land war, what would we expect?” First to answer was Petar Kosic, a bald man who resembled Pevla, perhaps twenty years older, with the same moustache and a more portly build. The Chief of Staff spoke with relaxed assuredness, leaning back in his chair at the big, chestnut table.
“Your Highness, there is no question of our victory in a land war. The Italian army is simply smaller than ours, and while they may have more modern equipment and techniques unless they declare war within the month there will be no danger of their superior arms defeating us. Their navy is mostly irrelevant, since we have no overseas trade to blockade and they cannot transport men without risking losing ground in their own territory.” Petar leaned forward, his arms on the polished table. “This is not a question of our ability to conclude a war in Europe-it is a question of the Italian government. If they lose Rome, the Italians would flee to Ethiopia and continue to resist us through passive means such as naval interdiction-but most of all, they would not recognise our victory and as such we would be unable to form a peace resolution on our terms.” The Prince snorted.
“Surely no European country would run away to Africa rather than-” The Prince was interrupted, and not for the first time. Petar was a brave man, and he knew his own importance to the Prince. He would toe the line, but he was not abject to being...assertive with his voice. The rest of the table remained silent, taking notes or shuffling papers. One man supped his tea as Petar spoke.

“It is our knowledge that the Italian policy would not be one of honour, but rather to flee. Would could rule the occupied territories we claimed regardless of their recognition of our victory-the Italians are not known for their insistence upon logic.” Petar finished, sitting back in his leather-upholstered seat, a small smile on his face. He had done his job well.
“So,” insisted Pevla, searching for the truth, “The Italians would resist even when all they had was sand?” A slight chuckle rounded the table as another minister spoke.
“Exactly, Prince.”
“Thank you. Is there any other business?” It seemed improper to conclude a meeting after so short a time. One of the cabinet ministers raised his hand, tentatively. He was nervous, new to the cabinet, and did not feel that he was able to properly voice himself in the presence of the Prince himself. The Prince nodded, a humble smile on his face. He was always surprised when people reacted this way-he considered himself quite ordinary, although he knew that the airs and graces and the following servants intimidated almost everyone he met. Just once, it would have been easier to hear what his people thought without them thinking of his armies, and his titles rather than just their Prince, the man behind the pomp.

“I wish to table a motion,” said the man. He was from one of the agricultural reasons, and there was a barely disguised sneer from the man next to him, filled with disapproval at the idea of a commoner of farming stock talking to the ruler of a nation. “I propose economic shifts to a more centralized plan. By concentrating industrial developments in key areas, we can encourage migration, the growth of towns, and the enlargement of individual farms as lands are sold.” The Prince put a hand to his chin, scratching in thought.
“Please, go on,” said the Prince. The young minister, growing in the room slightly, did.

Guardiskja Pedaiskja Division, Italian-Yugoslav border, 16th May

The new division had not been as glamorous as Christian had hoped. His rank protected him most of the time, but the officers and other sergeants were certainly not adverse to questioning his sexuality and whether all Herzegovina got their ranks by stealing cars from little old women. The mostly Serbian Guards was not a happy place, but Christian was more than content knowing that it was his duty to Mother Yugoslavia to be here, a bulwark against the Italian and any others who would threaten the nation.

It was a little after five in the morning, and the Guards were acting as their name suggested; they had been posted closest to the border, some units actually taking command of border posts, but there was none of the usual joviality. Every weapon was loaded, and machine-guns had been ferried to the little wooden posts, sandbagged up and protected by a gun emplacement the other side of the road. To both sides of the road beyond the little fortifications were pine forests, and the Austrian Alps could be seen to the north when the sun rose. Christian had spent the morning reloading his weapon religiously and trying to warm himself up, the grey trenchcoat no protection against the freezing cold night up in the hills. His chest pocket was heavy, weighed down by a small, thick bible. For God's sake, his mother had said, keep this close to your heart. I want you home in one piece. So far, Christian's promise to do just that looked certain to come good.

“Post Four, come in!” Christian leapt out of his skin as the radio barked, crackling. “Post Four, come in!” Christian did not need telling a third time. The dark-haired young man grabbed the microphone and spoke.
“This is Post Four, responding,” said the young Herzegovina.
“Are there any units en route?” The voice was not that of normal relaxed curiosity but one of military concern. Christian grabbed his binoculars, staring into the distance.
“None visible, sir, and all three of us are fine.” The two machine-gunners were unmolested across the tarmac road.
“Do not stop to ask questions to any incoming traffic not pre-noted. Fire warning shots and then engage, understood?” Christian missed a beat-there was no reason for anything this extreme, surely? “Post Four, is that understood?”
“Yes sir.” Christian was slow, and quiet.

An example of a larger border post, circa 1933.

Doctor Miroslav Milicevic, Zastava Armaments, 7th June

It was a very important day. Boguljuv Jevtic was standing next to Miroslav, in the chief office of Zastava Armaments' research department. Inside the small room, a few weapons were displayed on a desk, with documents and diagrams in chaotic piles. Miroslav, the man in charge of the recent infantry developments, was not a well-ordered man. He was a doctor of engineering-twice, and a tall, clean-shaven figure, but most certainly not well-ordered, in any shape or form. His white hair was uncombed and almost comedic, but behind the less-than-lucid façade was a brilliant mind. He had been a corporal in the Serbian army in the Great War, and his experience was valuable.

The Minister looked pleased, reviewing the documents slowly and carefully, the hint of a smile hidden by his mouth but not his excited eyes. After an hour of occasional questions and reading, he stood up, his suit uncreased. “Doctor, is there anywhere we could test the new rifle and...submagun...sumbachine...” The Doctor corrected him.
“Submachinegun, Minister. And yes, there is. Please, follow me.” Miroslav carefully grabbed the long, wood-covered rifle and the submachinegun, one weapon in each hand, and walked briskly down the grey halls and past doors until a flight of stairs emerged, down which he moved quickly. Before long, the pair were standing in an indoor range, man-shaped targets downrange about 200 yards.

Miroslav loaded the rifle, bringing attention to the magazine loading mechanism and the self-bolting action. Staring down the iron sights with an eye closed, Miroslav's grip tightened as his breathing slowed. Mechanically, he fired five shots, emptying the magazine and filling the target with five holes. Jevtic couldn't help but wince as he imagined the effect of these new rifles on the Italians. When he was shown the effect of the submachine guns, he was more than convinced that Zastava were a team to continue working with. “Doctor Milicevic, I am more than satisfied. Begin mass production immediately-the Ministry of Armaments will subsidise any of your costs.” By the time the next war came around, Yugoslavia would be the world leader in military technology. It was a promise Jevtic made to himself, privately, and a lofty goal that Miroslav did not see as impossible.

OOC: I've entered this month's Writing With the StAARs, so any comments would be appreciated!

 

[unmerged(181599)]

Looks awesome so far. I propose your next conquest should be Bulgaria.

 

[James Beil]

Looks awesome so far. I propose your next conquest should be Bulgaria.

Tiny little Yugoslavia? Against the might of the Soviet Union? The moment the GoI expires, I'll grab it, but until then you'll have to wait.

Now Hungary, on the other hand...

 

[TekcoR]

Thank you for taking part in Writing with the StAARs Competition! I will be watching with interest.

 

[unmerged(181599)]

Tiny little Yugoslavia? Against the might of the Soviet Union? The moment the GoI expires, I'll grab it, but until then you'll have to wait.

Now Hungary, on the other hand...

Didn't realise that. Hungary does seem like a good idea though.

 

[James Beil]

Pevla Karadjordjevic, Sarajevo, 23rd June

The warm summer was a happy one. The Italians had backed down, or so it had seemed, and Pevla had privately entertained occasional thoughts of territorial expansion. Surely, if Yugoslavia was supposed to be the great Slavic nation, those Slavs beyond the borders needed to be brought into the fold? Despite his dreams of uniting the Balkans under the shield of Yugoslavia, Pevla was a realist and he was not going to spark a war without better justification than race or ethnicity-those were no reasons for men to die, surely? Modern intelligence and morals surely precluded armed conflict.

No, war was not on the agenda for today's meeting. Jevtic buzzed with visible eagerness, and Pevla had come to learn that when he was enthusiastic for something it was generally important. With an almost child-like demeanour, he spoke. “Ministers, Prince,” he began, “You are all aware that one of the key factors in ending the Great War was the introduction of armoured combat vehicles-I believe the British called them 'tanks', and the overly verbose Germans insist on calling them 'Panzerkampfwagenen', but I have an announcement more important than simple names.” Jevtic vanished into his briefcase, before returning with several piles of paper.

He handed out designs and blueprints, until every member of the cabinet was reading something or other. “ZMAJ say that they can produce armoured vehicles, or 'Ратаутомобили' before the end of the year. While they would not be as modern as those of, say, Germany, being able to feild an army of Ратаутомобили would place us in a special position in the Balkan area. No other nation in the area, except Romania, is able to feild combat vehicles in divisons, above a few hundred kilograms in weight. In this regard, we would become a local superpower-not to mention warning off the Italians.“ The armaments minister leant back into his seat, smiling. The rest of the cabinet looked excited, including the Prince himself. The cabinet all agreed to the measure, and the Prince's approval was the most empowered of all.
„If ZMAJ can get the project ready to start before the year is out, I will personally pay twice over their subsidies.“ With that, the meeting was settled. Satisfied with having gained the support of the cabinet, Pevla picked up the telefone in his home and asked for ZMAJ. They would never believe what he had to tell them.

'Nika', Somewhere in Bulgaria, 26th June

“Come on, let's go!“ In the dark, two figures moved, low under a hedge in a small farming village. They had been undetected so far, and they planned to remain that way. The house was unlocked, just as they had been told, and essentially a stone cottage. It fitted in with the rest of the village, and nobody would look for fugitives here. Their accents were practised and perfected, and now they sat down to a sleeping role, periodically sending letters back to Yugoslavia.

Their mission was clear; they would collect information on the deployment of Bulgarian border protection forces and distribute it, in disguise as harmless bits of mail, to Belgrade. From there it would be formed into a helpful series of reports and sent to the peacetime cabinet in Sarajevo. They were to operate until Spring 1940, two and a half years from the present time. Either they would come back in a truck, or they would come back as part of a military procession after victory, though Karl, although his companion, Nikita, was more sensible, sedate, quiet, and generally a more appropriate agent.

Karl was the muscle, she was the brains. The pair were one of the most sucsessful in Yugoslav history, the unknown heroes of the people. Currently, their efforts were coming good, having set up a decoy operation in the Bulgarian capital. They'd never be spotted here, they were sure. Absolutely sure, the young couple in the little stone cottage at the end of the street...

Sergeant Christian Princillip, Rijaka, 20th August

The Guardijska had been moved south, back to the coast, and while most of the regiment were enjoying themselves on the beach, the reliable Herzegovina were posted on the Istrian border. The platoon were in a single pillbox, enjoying themselves and singing in Bosnian, and every hour the guards changed while the unit relaxed. The Italian situation, it seemed, had calmed down, and the Guardijska were hoping for new weapons such as those designed by Zastava. Other divisions had been posted to the Hungarian and Bulgarian borders, to 'make room for future deployments'. Christian, the ever-loyal puppy of Yugoslavia, didn't even dream of questioning this.

His only dissapointment was that the Italians had backed down. He had never fought before, the closest to war being marching into Albania unnoposed. He imagined the Italian to be an arrogant, evil creatire who deserved death, and relished the chance to fill them with bullets and add more land to the Yugoslavian nation. It was no surprise that they lacked the courage to enforce their demands, being inferior in every way, but Christian couldn't imagine that at this rate he'd ever be able to prove to his family that he deserved the three striped on his tunic.

Autumn would be coming soon, followed by winter and a new year. Perhaps it would bring new victories?

Pevla Karadjordjevic, Urice, 21st December

The snows had fallen and almost everywhere Yugoslavia was a white wonderland. A crowd had assembled outside the new factory, wrapped in fur coats, most of them peasants. They had moved to the city, hearing the promises of wealth and a new way of life, and now that the manufactory had opened up perhaps those promises would come good. The factory was full of tools at the very cutting edge of technology, increasing the projected production limits of the factory by a factor of ten percent. The Prince himself was standing on a balcony with microphone and a detachment from the Guardijska division standing on guard.

“My people,” he said, exhorting himself to the crowd, speaking into the bushy microphone, “For long you have worked in the fields, breaking your backs for potatoes. No more! My people shall work in shining factories, manning machines and producing the wealth our mighty Yugoslav nation deserves! Soon, we shall be a shining light of industry, a true example to the world of what greatness Providence provides! I will not keep you from your families longer, for I know that all of you, be you Catholic, Orthodox, or even Moslem, this is an important time of year. Go home, and tell your children of the day that the new Yugoslavia was born!” He paused, bringing his final climax out. “To celebrate, I have commissioned the creation of the 1st Cerska Division, so that any Croatian who wishes to serve his country and his Prince can do so in the finest army in all of the world!” The crowd cheered and the benevolent Prince smiled, softly. “I love you, Yugoslavia!” I final cheer and waving of hands was the reply to his final comment, and he vanished from the balcony, through the factory and to his car, retreating to his home in Belgrade. He intended to enjoy his Christmas with his family this year, and no state business was going to pull him away from them.

Natalina Golovnin, Sarajevo Broadcasting, 25th December

The blond Russian was working her first Christmas for Sarajevo Broadcasting, having only been employed in February. She had enjoyed the first year of news-reading, and supposedly she was a popular voice amongst the listening public. She stacked her papers as neatly as ever, placed her large headphones on the side of her head, and waited for the floor manager's fingers to vanish, behind the glass screen. The first went, then the second, and finally the third as the signature tune played, a brass tune of a few seconds before she began her work. “Merry Christmas from Sarajevo Broadcasting, this is Natalina Golovnin, giving you the morning news. Today, no news has been reported, so instead we are taking this chance to thank you for listening, and we hope that the new year finds you better than the one just passed. As ever, be safe, be happy, and enjoy Christ's mass.” As an Orthodox Christian, Natalina actually celebrated when the new year began, but the sense of merriment throughout the country was more than enough to make her play along. “Now, we hand you over to the Belgrade Slavic Choir, celebrating the birth of our Lord through song.” Another perfectly executed item, and she stood up, and left the room. Ivan handed her an envelope, from Kondopoga, near Finland.

Mail, from the Soviet Union, from her brother living with her parents-and within a few days of being sent. Remembering how hard it had been to leave in the first place, the thought of getting mail within the same week of it being dispatched was an unusual one. As she read, leaning against a wall, she didn't care about the Soviet Union, or Yugoslavia, or any other country.

It was Christmas.

 

[Razgriz 2K9]

I have taken interest in this Yugoslav Campaign. I will follow

 

[James Beil]

Pevla Karadjordjevic, Sarajevo, April 19th

This was a very different cabinet to that of last year. Last year, the mood had been sedate, run-of-the-mill, and now it was very different indeed. The government were doing great things, the towns growing, factories springing up around the country and all was well. The most recent report from the Prime Minister, Milan Stojadonovic, was a summary of the developments until the present time, not accounting the second infantry division of the year commissioned to become active sometime around July.

The report went around the table, set in small typewriter face, responded to with warm smiles all around the table. Milan, at the Prince's side at the head of the new table, black marble atop a road oaken table akin to that of King Arthur, concluded his small presentation. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am sure that the reports are to your satisfaction. The key question is; how shall we continue to pursue further development in the future?” Jevtic, the armaments man, suggested a continuation of the policy of technological advancement, while Petar Kosic suggested that perhaps more men would be more useful than men with better equipment. After twenty minutes of quiet, cooperative consideration a compromise was endorsed by the Prince; every three months a new infantry or cavalry division would be constructed until January in 1940, after which more considerations would be taken. One exception would occur, specifically ratified by His Royal Highness, that an armoured division would be deployed formed from tanks built with more modern techniques. The current armoured vehicles closely resembled machines from the Great War, and the researchers at ZMAJ were requesting a grant to begin research on an improved model.

Pevla leant back, deep into his leather chair. Alexander I had left Pevla a nation shattered and without pride-no such description would fit Yugoslavia now. Her armies were growing, she had more territories, and with technological advancements she would soon be the mightiest nation in the Balkans. No-one would dare threaten Yugoslav sovereignty before long. The spies of Yugoslavia infiltrated her neighbours and reported back information of the highest quality, under the noses of their neighbours. Soon, all Slavs would come to Yugoslavia-and woe betide any nation who would trap Slavs behind borders and walls. As the meeting moved on to economic policy, Pevla pulled himself back up, to his full seated height.

He wasn't finished with today quite yet.

Zlatan Karejic, Belgrade, 5th August

Minister,

I am writing to you to announce that we have concluded research into industrial techniques and improving the industrial process. See attached our compiled and abbreviated research findings, as well as blueprints for modular machines. Any company needing specific tools for their factories unable to find appropriate substitutes from our existing range should contact us directly. Our subsidies have all been resolved, and on behalf of Memorandum Teleoptik, we hope that you work with us in the future. Zlatan pushed the typewriter away slightly, removing the paper from the reel and placing it inside the rest of the folder marked 'SECRET' in big, black, imposing letters. Removing the grey folder, he handed it to the secretary outside his office, and bade her goodnight. Compiling the final report had been twelve straight hours of work, and papers were not Zlatan's medium; he was an engineer, a problem-solver, not a pen-pusher. He left that to those more inclined or qualified for it.

He slipped on his trilby, nodded to the receptionist at the desk behind the main door. It was a warm night, and Sarajevo Broadcasting were having an interview between a film star and Natalina Golovnin tonight-more than enough reason to hurry up. ZMAJ were not the only sweethearts of the government; Zastava Arsenal were also designing equipment for the cavalry divisions, but right now he didn't care. That woman's voice could melt butter, and she could make all of his worries vanish with a single drawn-out vowel.

Организација​

Army Group 'Illyria'

1.Kraljevska Armije

-1.Konjicka Divisje
-3.Konjicka Divisje
-4.Konjicka Divisje

5. Kraljevska Armije

-20.Bregnalnicka Divisje
-22.Ibarska Divisje
-8.Kranjinska Divisje

Army Group 'Danube'

4. Kraljevska Armije

-7.Potiska Divisje
-3.Duravska Divisje
-Gardijska Divisje

7. Kraljevska Armije

-27.Savska Armije
-32.Triglavska Divisje
-13.Hercegovacka Divisje

8. Kraljevska Armije

-25.Vardarska Divisje
-30.Osjecke Divisje

2.Kraljevska Armije

-2.Konjicka Divisje
-10.Bosanska Divisje
-17.Vrbaska Divisje

Army Group 'Basil'

6. Kraljevska Armije

-1.Cerska Divisje
-12.Jadrasnka Divisje
-5.Sumadijanska Divisje

3.Kraljevska Armije

-15.Zetska Divisje
-9.Timocka Divisje
-Triglavski Odred

(That Order of Battle took fucking FOREVER!)

 

[4th Dimension]

Nice AAR. But please, don't mangle Serbian terms any more. Please!

It's not "young Herzegovina". But "young Herzegovian". NOt Pevla, but Pavle.
Also, Christian Ibrahimovic is a really strange name. Ibrahimovic, is mostly a muslim surname.
Also state sponsored festivities in YU would begin on 31st, and last untill somewhere around 10th January (7th is Christmass).
And so on.

 

[James Beil]

Nice AAR. But please, don't mangle Serbian terms any more. Please!

It's not "young Herzegovina". But "young Herzegovian". NOt Pevla, but Pavle.
Also, Christian Ibrahimovic is a really strange name. Ibrahimovic, is mostly a muslim surname.
Also state sponsored festivities in YU would begin on 31st, and last untill somewhere around 10th January (7th is Christmass).
And so on.

You'll have to blame HoI2 for Pevla. Imbrahimovic is actually a nordic name from the muslim 'Ibrahim'. Finally, as far as I was aware Yugoslavia was never officially Orthodox-then again, I'm not an expert.

Eh, doesn't matter, it's all filler until the war starts! Thanks for the corrections.

 

[James Beil]

Pevla Karajordjevic,Sarajevo, 8th January

It was very early in the morning-only just five o'clock, but the sound of his Home Secretary on the phone was one of utmost concern. He had been ferried here with a full military complement, cavalry marching through the streets by his car. The fact that there was this much security worried him slightly, as did the fact the the Home Secretary deemed it important enough not to tell him on the telephone. The ministry was silent as he came in, yawning. Their faces bore a look of worry, and even the presence of their Prince did not reassure them. Slowly, dragging his words, the Prince asked what was going on. “It cannot be so important that I have to be dragged out of my bed this early in the morning, surely?” Solemnly, the Home Secretary walked over to him, and handed him a folder marked 'TOP SECRET'. Inside was a transcript of a radio transmission which ended, it seemed, in the death of the broadcaster. The Prince did not go to pieces, but instead became furious, single-minded, and utterly bent on revenge. The Home Secretary almost ran back to his seat when Pevla's fist smashed down on the round table. “Rebels? REBELS? I bring the Albanians security and wealth, and they rebel? Damn them! Damn them all! Send in the...where is the nearest division?” The reply was almost mousy.
“...the 13.Hercegovacka, sir. Just a few miles away.”
“Then dammit, send them in! Kill every man found with a gun, and then hang anyone else found to have a hand in the revolt!” Pevla sat down, fists clenched and knuckles white. “Now,” he said, suddenly calm and quiet, a reasonable man springing from the psychotic rage before. “Since I'm here, do we have any other business?” The ministers looked down at their sections of table, perhaps cowed by fear. “No? Well then, I wish you good day.” With that, the Prince left, going home after issuing the orders that would lead him to become known as the Prince of Terror by the Albanian resistance.

Major Jens Lahm, Tirana, 16th January

The men were ready. The rebels had been forced back into the city, and now all that remained was for the division to utterly shatter them. They had taken two main strongholds; the Yugoslav Embassy, where they had killed the ambassador last week when the troubles began. The other was the national Albanian museum. Both would burn if he had his way, but the Austrian volunteer had his orders-no fire in the museum. Of course, the Colonel didn't actually mention what to do with the Embassy, so Jens decided that he would take the initiative. He grabbed the microphone for his radio, and spoke. “Group four, respond.”
“This is group four, here sir.”
“Are you within sight of the Embassy?”
“Yes, sir. They are waving a white flag, sir.”
“Ignore it,” growled the Major. “Set fire to the building. Let them burn.” His instructions, after all, were 'to be firm with them'. Setting fire to them and letting them blacken was surely firm-although fairness was somewhat lacking. Ten minutes passed as he waited, before smoke began to mix and dance with the clouds.
“I love the smell of burning in the morning. Smells like...victory.”

Private Bastian Verona, Tirana, 16th January

Bullets were flying, pinging and bouncing all around him. Trapped behind a concrete barrier, Bastian reloaded his rifle. His back was to the Museum, where the rebels had shut themselves inside with a large proportion of the city's armoury. Turning around, he leant his rifle on the barrier, firing five indiscriminate shots, popping rounds into the windows. The whirring scream of his sergeant's submachinegun filled the air as he let fly, struggling to keep the weapon down as bullets ripped through the air. The walls of the museum were filled with holes, pockmarks and craters that resembled the moon, and a few corpses hung out of windows still clutching their stolen rifles, or on the ground. Blood stained the earth as a peculiar hum reached Bastian's ears, distant at first, then louder.

He looked down the street, and a flag came out of the corner, followed by a man in a trenchcoat covered in gold embellishment. He ran like a demon, screaming, followed by soldiers in similar uniforms. The Colour Battalion. In each division, one battalion was charged with protecting the colours, the huge banners that signalled victory. It bore the Yugoslav Tricolour, with the Herzegovina Crest in the center, but mos importantly the man carrying it, possessed of a totally insane courage, had leapt over the barricades and still shouted, a banshee call as the waving flag fluttered in the street. Inspired by the following column of gold-covered men, Bastian raised his rifle in the air, joined the great call, and leapt over the concrete barrier, hopping over with a hand before breaking into a sprint. The bullets still flew and men still fall, but a superhuman desire for victory drove them on. No longer were they a sensible group of soldiers, but madmen intent on ripping their enemies into shreds of meat.

Rushing through the door opened by those ahead of him, Bastian kept running in his dark green jacket, following the colour-bearer. A round brought him down, mere feet away. As the bearer fell, Bastian dived forward, and before his dead hand let go of the bronze shaft Bastian took it up. Rushing up the stairs, past the opening chamber filled with fossils and models of animals, Bastian barged into a partisan woman, her face an image of terror as he pushed her over, at least a foot above her. As though the flag had possessed him, Bastian buried the pointed shaft into her face, collapsing her skull in a pool of blood.

The splatter did not phase him as he rushed onward, followed by the Colour Battallion. Running past falling bodies and collapsing rebels, bursting up through the door to the roof. He was alone, with his banner fluttering on the second-tallest building in the city. Moving to the edge, he put a foot on the Albanian Eagle that stood, forged of steel and painted black. Taking the pointed shaft still dripping with the blood of the dead woman, he rammed it into the head of the Eagle, letting the banner flutter in the wind, ignoring the bullet holes and splattered blood. He had reaffirmed the control of Yugoslavia over the city of Tirana, and as he shouted in victory bullets fired in the background, shots upward bringing down the hammer of Yugoslavia upon the Albanians once again.

A view of Tirana after the seige.​

Pavle Karajordjevic, 21st March, Sarajevo

The cabinet had calmed down since the January crisis. Pevla's outburst had been forgiven and forgotten, and the mundane business of state had returned. Half-way through the day's cabinet meeting, the doors opened and a rather dour-looking man with a stony expression and combed-over, black hair. “Prince,” he said, in a monotone voice, presenting a piece of paper to him by the black round table. As he took it, he vanished back into the coridoor, probably a very wise idea given the news he bore. As the prince opened the letter, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open. His ministers grew concerned-either their prince was mortified or experiencing a stroke.

After a minute, he let go of the sheet, and handed it to the Minister of Security to his right, a bearded, muscular man in a black suit with a red tie, dark eyes and tanned skin betraying his Iberian ancestry. His heavy accent was clear, rendering his Serbian difficult to understand. “Ministers, Prince, this is a clear threat. Germany is becoming aggressive, and the fact that they have outright annexed a country that served as a buffer is worrying. I believe it may be necessary to strengthen our position, either by establishing ties with Germany or by making a strategic decision to strengthen our frontier. I am afraid that in the event of an armed conflict, Yugoslavia on her own cannot defeat Germany.” The sense of concern was palpable; the thought of the might of the Deustche Heer crashing down upon Yugoslavia was a massive cause for concern-no longer was the chief worry in the cabinet economic or on some twist of policy; there was a very real danger that Yugoslavia would soon cease to exist.

The Prince took command. “We must strengthen our position. If Hitler thinks that invading will cost him many lives, he will think twice. A cordial relationship with a monarch will placate him. There is no German-speaking group here; we should be safe. Stovakovic, ensure that the army is expanded. You have free reign-and I want a full Ратаутомобили army of three divisions.” The Prince paused. Three tank divisions was a massive investment for a nation so primarily agricultural as Yugoslavia. Perhaps the nation would be unable to finish such an undertaking? He shook his head-this was the land of the Slavs, God's chosen people, and there was nothing that they could not do. “Now, we have to keep working. What is the next item on the agenda?”

Natalina Golovnin, Sarajevo Broadcasting, 6th May

Natalina was not as calm as normal, with good reason. Her hand shook and she had smoked her way through what must have been an entire tobacco harvest already this morning-the announcement she was about to make was one that would shake Yugoslavia. Going back to Kondopoga seemed like a sensible idea, right now. If the Yugoslavs failed, the Hungarians wouldn't be in a mood for mercy, not counting the likelihood that the rest of the world would come crashing down in order to 'correct' certain policies in Yugoslavia. If this went wrong, it could mean the end of a united Yugoslavia-and there was no way Natalina would stay in an impoverished, emaciated Bosnia. The summers were all too hot, for a start. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, speaking slowly into the microphone. The bushy black device seemed more frightening somehow. “Recently Sarajevo Broadcasting has received reports of atrocities against native Slavs in Hungary. This morning, we received a recording from the capital, of Prince Pevla Karajordjevic himself. It follows.” She paused as the reels switched or a new length of tape was inserted - Natalina had no understanding and less interest in the actual mechanisms that drove Sarajevo Broadcasting.

”People of Yugoslavia!

You have all heard of the crimes committed against our people in Hungary, and I will allow it no longer. Due to their refusal to bring those responsible to justice, we have had no choice but to liberate those Slavs trapped under Hungarian dictatorship. Since twenty-one hours on the fifth of May, nineteen-thirty eight, a state of war has existed between Yugoslavia and Hungary. Rest assured that we shall be victorious soon. Until we meet again, my beloved people, this is your Prince.

​

Good night.”

 

[4th Dimension]

Well, Yugoslavia, was aKingdom, and it's Monarch was Orthodox, thus it makes it an officially Orthodox country, alltough Moslems and Catholocs have their rights of worship.
Also, why are we hearing all news form Saraevan broadcasting station. The capital is in the Belgrade.
And, what's with all the non Slavic names, all over the place?!?

 

[James Beil]

AAR cancelled, due to a clear lack of research on my part.

 

[BigBadBob]

AAR cancelled, due to a clear lack of research on my part.

Are you serious?

It's your AAR. You shouldn't cancel it due to lack of research. Just because one readAAR is an apparent expert on Yugoslavia doesn't mean the rest of us can't have a good time reading it. After all, it's an AAR, not a documentary.

 

[James Beil]

I wouldn't be able to carry on with the constant worry of nagging and going back-and-forth to check whether or not I've done something properly, and all the inconsistencies that'd start appearing.Besides, I keep wanting to play more, and I can't keep up with my pace of play.

I'll be back!

 

[scholar]

AAR cancelled, due to a clear lack of research on my part.

It's a shame to hear that. I hope that, eventually, you'll return to it in the future.