Chapter 171
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 171
Chapter Title: Serbia's End (2)
"Dear German women workers. Even though the summer heat hasn't fully lifted, I am deeply grateful—truly grateful—for your tireless efforts day and night for the fatherland."
September 11, 1913.
I visited a munitions factory alongside cabinet officials, my hair wrapped under a hood, and addressed the women workers crafting the new steel helmets.
"Each helmet you make here will protect the lives of countless German sons and fathers on the front lines. So please, craft them with the care and sturdiness of a mother or wife."
"Yes, sir!"
"Fine speech, Marquis. As expected, a young, popular fellow like you is better suited for these occasions than an old codger like me. Look, even the factory girls are giving you adoring glances right away."
"Sigh, don't even joke about that, Deputy Chancellor."
Luise could be scary when angry.
"Tsk tsk, already under the thumb. Anyway, who could've imagined women working in factories back in the old days?"
"War changes the world in a hurry."
Bethmann Hollweg, the Deputy Chancellor handling domestic affairs in place of the ailing Chancellor von Bülow, nodded in agreement with my words.
Of course, a few elderly German Junkers still clung to outdated notions that women belonged at home raising children, not in factories.
'Unrealistic nonsense.'
With all the men heading to the front, how were they supposed to meet frontline demands without women in the factories?
We desperately needed our own Rosie the Riveter.
'It'll amplify women's political voice after the war, though.'
But it was an inevitable tide of history anyway.
In reality, Germany and Britain alike officially recognized women's suffrage in 1918 as a reward for their wartime contributions.
France, preaching progress outwardly while being deeply conservative, didn't grant it until 1946—after the second World War, no less.
"Minister Moltke, when can we supply these new helmets to the frontline troops?"
"Not this year, but from January next year, it should be feasible."
Moltke replied to Bethmann Hollweg's question.
Sigh, if things had gone smoothly, we could've issued them before the war. What a shame.
I knew full well how useful helmets were.
"Replace the Pickelhaube with some helmet? Ridiculous!"
"The Pickelhaube is the symbol of our German Imperial Army! Changing it is out of the question!"
"Tsk tsk, these young folks nowadays..."
But as always, the Junkers stood in my way.
No surprise there—the ones who clung to the Pickelhaube and delayed Stahlhelm distribution in our original history.
Still, growing complaints from the front had sped up helmet adoption compared to the original timeline. Silver lining.
Better than the French, still marching in red pants and kepis because early war delayed their new uniforms.
"By the way, the Austro-Hungarian, Bulgarian, and Greek armies have finally surrounded Belgrade?"
"Yes, Deputy Chancellor."
"Hope they take it soon. Ending one front saves a bundle."
Victory was certain, but contrary to the Deputy Chancellor's hopes, the battle wouldn't be easy.
As the final stand for their nation's fate, Serbian resistance would be fiercer than ever.
Vroooom—
"German planes are flying over Belgrade like it's their backyard."
"My apologies, Your Majesty. Shooting them all down would waste precious ammo we're already short on."
"I'm not blaming you, Radomir. It's just a shame this beautiful city will soon be sullied by enemy hands."
Peter I gazed mournfully at the sky lost to the enemy from what would later be called the Old Palace in Belgrade.
'Belgrade will fall like that sky soon enough.'
The Austro-Hungarian, Bulgarian, and Greek coalition had Belgrade encircled airtight.
Tomorrow, they'd launch a full assault on the capital.
Even optimistically, Belgrade couldn't hold out long.
War ran on bullets and men, and the Serbs lacked both.
"Can't recall the last time I saw combat."
Yet Peter I chose to fight rather than fear the grim reality.
He reminisced briefly about his youthful vigor.
"Leading guerrillas against the Turks in Bosnia in 1875... nearly forty years ago. But don't underestimate me—I haven't forgotten how to shoot."
"...Your Majesty, it's not too late. Shouldn't you at least escape Belgrade?"
"Ha ha ha, Radomir. How much longer do I have left? Am I to abandon my capital and people now and flee like a coward?"
Thus, despite Russia sending the world's first passenger plane—now a bomber—the Ilya Muromets to rescue the Serbian royals before the noose tightened, Peter I refused to leave.
He merely evacuated Prime Minister Pašić, key officials, and his family including Crown Prince Alexander I.
"This old man only wishes to fight the enemy and be buried in beloved Belgrade."
It had been a decade since he ascended the throne amid fervent Serbian cheers, after Alexander Obrenović— who tried living a shojo manga life ignoring reality— was hacked apart by the Black Hand with his commoner widow queen and dumped in manure.
He'd avenged the Karađorđević dynasty's losses in the royal rivalry. No regrets in dying here.
Romania's Carol I had mercifully opened borders to Serbian refugees. Now, he fought to buy them time.
"My only regret is failing to cast out those who deserved it. Just that."
"Your Majesty..."
"Time. Let's go, Radomir."
Peter I rose with his cane, joining Marshal Putnik—who'd chosen to stay till the end—and slowly walked to the palace balcony.
Below, Serbian soldiers and armed civilians of all ages gathered, awaiting their revered king's speech.
"Heroes of Serbia, you swore two oaths."
Peter I addressed his troops with affectionate eyes.
"One to me, your king, and one to the fatherland. But I am a sick old man awaiting the grave, so I release you from your oath to me."
Murmurs rippled through the soldiers at the king's sudden words.
But Peter I pressed on undeterred.
"No one can release you from your oath to the fatherland. If you can fight no more, go home now. I swear, even after victory pulls us from this peril, no harm will come to those who leave."
"What about you, Your Majesty?!"
Someone shouted as the king forgave deserters heading to waiting families.
Peter I smiled toward him.
"I stay and fight to the end. Like my ancestors for Serbia, I'll battle till this old body drops!"
I won't flee.
Even if enemy bullets fell me in Belgrade, as your king, I'll fight beside you.
The Serbs' faces hardened with resolve at Peter I's heartfelt cry.
Not one fled or left the king's side.
Watching this, Peter I lifted his gaze to Belgrade's cloudless sky.
The battle to decide Serbia's fate loomed.
He prayed for divine protection, like in 1456 when ancestors with Hunyadi János defended Belgrade from Mehmet II's Ottoman horde.
"Artillery, hurry and position the heavy guns. We'll take Belgrade this week and annihilate Serbia!"
Regrettably, János's nation now prepared to assault Belgrade.
September 12, 1913.
The night of tension and sleepless anxiety passed.
"Feuer!"
As the Serbs anticipated, at dawn, thunderous cannon fire heralded the coalition's all-out assault on Belgrade.
BOOM! KABOOM! CRASH!
"Pour it all out! No need to conserve shells. Keep firing with the sole intent to erase Belgrade from the map!"
With General Potiorek—nearly defeated again at Drina—barking orders, Austro-Hungarian Skoda 305mm howitzers spat fire at Belgrade.
"Incoming shells!"
"Take cover!!"
KABOOOOOM!!
The 305mm shells slammed into the earth with massive blasts, shredding Serbian soldiers and trenches alike.
Aided by Imperial German air reconnaissance, Austro-Hungarian artillery unleashed precise, merciless barrages to end the war today. Ammo-starved Serbs couldn't even counter-battery; they endured silently.
Tweeeee—!
"Chaaaarge—!!"
As artillery pounded Belgrade, shrill whistles signaled the slow advance of Austro-Hungarian infantry and massed Bulgarian troops toward Serbian trenches.
Austro-Hungarian and Bulgarian soldiers charged with bayonets fixed and submachine guns—the allies' new best friend—while Serbs desperately triggered their weapons to halt them.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat-tat!
"Machine guns ahead!"
"Cover... gahhh!"
Yet despite the massive barrage, Serbian lines held.
Serbs who dodged shells returned to trenches, mowing down advancing coalition troops with machine guns. Bulgarians learned trench warfare the hard way, like the others.
Bang! Bang! Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Hiding in trenches, Serbs poured lead at Bulgarians. Machine guns turned them to corpses; intact barbed wire impaled and entangled, dragging them to death.
"Forward! Forward! Bulgarian warriors never yield to cowardly Serbian bullets. We'll die standing!"
But Bulgarians were tougher and more tenacious than Austro-Hungarians, as Serbs knew from Balkan Wars.
Fueled by hatred for Serbia, they pressed on unbidden, again and again.
"Tch, casualties mounting too high."
"It's only day one; no rush. Pull back for today."
Yet Serbs held against the furious assault.
"Paraskevopoulos, ready the Greeks!"
"Understood."
But the battle was just beginning.
On day two, Potiorek committed the Greeks after the Bulgarians.
"All forces, advance!!!"
Greek commander Leonidas Paraskevopoulos bellowed, and waiting Greeks surged toward Belgrade's defenses.
Austro-Hungarians, Bulgarians, now Greeks.
Overwhelmed by endless waves, Serbs began to waver, tasting superiority in numbers.
Was this truly the end?
Would Serbia fall like this?
Despair gripped the exhausted troops.
Sensing the drop in morale, the coalition intensified the pressure.
"Don't retreat—your king fights with you. Hold, no matter the fatigue!"
Yet they failed to crack Belgrade again.
As morale faltered, Peter I defied Marshal Putnik and personally rallied the lines amid bullets and shells, steadying his shaken army once more.
"Hmph, Serbs are tough bastards."
"They're starting to crack, though. Keep attacking day and night in shifts."
The onslaught continued the next day, and the day after.
Coalition hammered Belgrade 24/7 with numerical superiority, bombed from Zeppelins, and shelled from Danube gunboats.
And on the seventh day of assault...
"Marshal Putnik, the line's breached! We can't hold!"
Belgrade began to crumble.