Chapter 172
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 172
Chapter Title: Serbia's End (3)
Boom! Kaboom!
"Is this the end...?"
Peter I stared at the crumbling defensive line amid the gray smoke, his face heavy with the knowledge that the inevitable had arrived.
It was the moment when the coalition forces' seven-day assault had finally breached the steadfast Belgrade.
"Retreat! Fall back to the city streets!"
With Field Marshal Putnik's urgent command, the Serbian soldiers abandoned the outer defenses and began withdrawing to the secondary lines within the urban areas.
"The Serbs are retreating into the city!"
"I told you I'd take Belgrade within a week. Today is that day! All forces, advance into Belgrade!"
"Yes, sir!"
Potiorek and the coalition forces seized the golden opportunity to capture Belgrade.
They poured into the city like a tidal wave, determined this time to bring it down once and for all.
Bang! Bang bang!
"Hold them! Hold them as long as we can!"
"Grab anything we can stack and bring it here. We need to reinforce the barricades!"
Soon, desperate Serbian resistance erupted throughout the city streets.
The Serbs fought on as if death were preferable to surrender, hurling themselves against the coalition soldiers trampling their beloved capital with filthy boots.
They hunkered behind barricades of piled furniture, buildings, and sandbags, pulling triggers without cease.
Those out of ammo summoned their last strength to hurl stones at the advancing enemy, swinging entrenching tools and daggers.
Rumble rumble!! Rumble rumble!!
"Storm the buildings! Wipe out every last Serbian hiding inside!"
But the Serbian soldiers' resistance proved futile and was crushed with ease.
The coalition was prepared for street fighting.
Submachine guns, devastating in trenches, shone just as brightly in urban combat. The Austro-Hungarian, Bulgarian, and Greek troops showed no mercy, methodically turning hidden Serbs into minced meat.
"Flamethrowers forward!"
Whoosh───!
"Arghhh!!"
"My body! My body!"
It wasn't just submachine guns.
The Austro-Hungarians deployed the latest weapon from the Western Front trenches: flamethrowers.
Of course, they had a range under 20 meters, lasted barely two minutes, and were so heavy they required three men to operate—complaints abounded on the Western Front about their impracticality.
But they were more than enough to give a taste of fire to Serbs charging with bayonets, shovels, or even bricks.
"Die! Die!"
"Kill every Serbian you see!"
The one-sided, overwhelming battle soon devolved into a massacre.
Coalition soldiers, regardless of nationality, unleashed their pent-up rage against the Serbs who had hounded them relentlessly throughout the campaign.
No prisoners needed.
All you get is death.
They screamed it silently in their minds, pulling triggers without hesitation and stabbing chests with bayonets.
"All forces, retreat to the palace!"
The surviving Serbs fled to the royal palace amid the hellish streets, under Field Marshal Putnik's orders.
Their numbers barely reached a thousand.
"Commander Potiorek, the remaining enemy is gathering at the Belgrade Royal Palace!"
"Surround the palace first."
Potiorek frowned and clicked his tongue at the news of the Serbian leadership and survivors retreating to the palace, but he issued the order anyway.
He itched to obliterate the whole place with 305mm howitzers right then.
But Peter I, the king who had rallied Serbian troops across the front for seven days, was surely inside.
Franz Ferdinand had instructed Potiorek to capture him alive if possible, sparing his life.
Killing the revered Peter I at Austro-Hungarian hands would complicate postwar occupation.
Potiorek personally wanted the Serbian king—who had let the Black Hand run wild—to meet a miserable end.
But he couldn't defy the emperor.
Soon, coalition troops encircled the palace without gaps. Potiorek bellowed toward it.
"Victory is already decided. We have no desire for more pointless bloodshed. Lay down your arms and surrender now! His Majesty the Emperor's gracious command guarantees your safety!"
Murmurs spread.
"Your Majesty, what should we do?"
"......"
As soldiers wavered at Potiorek's call to surrender, Peter I pondered darkly.
Pathetically, the enemy commander was right.
The battle was effectively over.
But as Serbia's king, he had no wish to live and witness his beloved homeland subjugated by foreigners again.
"Putnik, leave me alone for a moment?"
"Your Majesty?"
With resolve, Peter I left the hall and entered his chamber.
The king's room, emptied of servants, looked more desolate than ever, as if foretelling Serbia's fate.
"I endured endless humiliations to claim this room, only for it to end like this."
Perhaps this was karma.
Peter I had ascended the throne thanks to the Black Hand's assassination of Alexander Obrenović.
Afterward, he and the Serbian royals secretly backed the Black Hand.
A foolish mistake.
He knew their radicalism poisoned Serbia and should have eliminated them, but he didn't.
Despite Prime Minister Pašić's warnings, he let their power grow unchecked.
The king crowned by the Black Hand fell to them.
Too late for regrets now.
Scratch scratch──
Peter I took paper and wrote a will.
Ordering survivors to surrender upon his death.
"What happy dreams I had."
He set down the pen and drew his pistol from his belt.
Serbia's last king closed his eyes and slowly pressed the barrel to his temple.
"Farewell, my beloved Serbia."
As Peter I pulled the trigger for his final farewell,
"No, Your Majesty!"
Field Marshal Putnik, sensing danger, intervened to stop the king's suicide.
"Step aside, Radomir."
"I cannot. Who will protect our poor people left in enemy hands if Your Majesty dies?!"
Without Peter I, Serbs would be defenseless against the barbarous Entente soldiers.
Only he, respected even by foes for his resolve, could beg mercy from Emperor Franz Ferdinand and negotiate.
"Your Majesty's life is not yours alone."
At Putnik's plea, Peter I lowered his pistol arm limply.
"How pathetic. What a pathetic era."
Not even allowed to die on his terms.
Soon, a white flag rose over the palace.
The end of Belgrade's seven-day siege—and the Serbian front.
"That was close."
Franz Ferdinand sighed in relief upon hearing Peter I had nearly taken his own life.
Had the king stubbornly suicided instead of surrendering, enraged Serbs would have been unmanageable.
"Treat King Peter with utmost respect. Though an enemy monarch, he deserves it."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The attendant bowed. Franz Ferdinand turned to the map.
With Serbia fallen, it was time for postwar arrangements.
"Serbia's surrender means Montenegro will follow soon."
Discussions were already underway.
Montenegro, Serbia's blood ally that joined immediately, had no hope left as a minnow state.
"Better to make Montenegro a protectorate under our empire's influence than annex or destroy it."
Even partial Serbian annexation stirred controversy; swallowing tiny Montenegro whole strained multiethnic Austria-Hungary.
Besides, Montenegro contributed only 50,000 militia-level troops to Serbia—negligible in the war.
Franz Ferdinand saw no value in crushing them.
Austria-Hungary needed focus on Russia and watchful Italy in the Triple Alliance.
If Montenegrins surrendered meekly, no need for harshness.
In original history, postwar Serbia backstabbed Montenegro, absorbing it into Yugoslavia. This was arguably better—they'd keep independence under Austria-Hungary.
"Serbian front troops to Galicia as planned with Germany..."
"Your Majesty, urgent news from Serbia."
"Urgent?"
Franz Ferdinand's brow furrowed at the attendant's whisper.
Bad omens from Serbia lately.
"Our forces captured Apis, Dragutin Dimitrijević, and Black Hand leaders."
"Oh."
Good news, fortunately.
Very good.
"Where?"
"Near the Romanian border. They hid among refugees trying to flee. A Serb recognized him and nearly got killed pulling him out."
"Hah."
Franz Ferdinand scoffed in disbelief.
The old king defended the capital to the end, yet the war's instigator fled to save his skin?
"Disgusting coward. Handle him roughly, but keep him alive and bring to Vienna. I'll personally hang him and the Black Hand with pleasure."
No soldierly execution for such a coward.
Hanging like a thief suited him.
"Attention! Salute His Majesty the Emperor!!"
Snap!
Meanwhile, as Apis was dragged weeping to the gallows, Berlin hosted a medal ceremony amid fervent cheers.
"Captain Oswald Boelcke."
"Yes, sir!"
"For 26 kills and major contributions to aviation, I award you the Pour le Mérite."
"Thank you, Your Majesty!"
"Lieutenant Max Immelmann!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Max Immelmann responded tensely to Wilhelm II's command.
"27 kills—a remarkable feat. The Belgians call you the Eagle of Brussels, yes?"
"Yes!"
"Hahaha! Fine voice. Keep it up."
Wilhelm II pinned the Pour le Mérite on Immelmann's neck, then turned to the final honoree, the star of the day.
"Finally, our Red Baron, Lieutenant Manfred von Richthofen!"
"Yes!"
"30 kills! It's an honor the world's top ace is my soldier. Know your uncle brags about you daily?"
"Haha, really?"
Richthofen blushed slightly at his boastful uncle.
"Here. You're most worthy of Prussia's proudest Pour le Mérite!"
Clap clap clap clap clap!
Applause erupted as Wilhelm II draped the medal on Richthofen.
Later, at the celebration banquet, generals and officials mobbed Germany's hottest stars—the ace pilots—for autographs. Richthofen pushed through to me, proudly flashing his Pour le Mérite.
"You don't have one yet?"
"Damn it."
I have medals!
From the crown prince and my wedding—the Black Eagle and more!
"Any higher than Pour le Mérite?"
"Urk!"
Never thought being a civilian bureaucrat would sting like this.
It's fine. I'll get one post-war. Probably.
"Jokes aside, how's it lately?"
"Tougher than before. More antiaircraft fire, and the Frogs now fly sync-gear fighters."
France had Raymond Saulnier, who perfected sync gears faster than Fokker.
"Still, our Adler outclasses their newbies. Eastern Front pilots joined too—Werner Voss and Ernst Udet? Solid skills. But the Royal Flying Corps gave hell."
"Not just them."
The British Expeditionary Force fared poorly too.
"Western Front's stuck as ever."
No man's land.
That famous phrase held true here too.