NationStates Jolt Archive

From: The United Kingdom of Bulgaria-Romania
To: The Kingdoms and Lands Represented in the Imperial Council and the
Lands of the Holy Hungarian Crown of St. Stephen

We know of your oppinion regarding the danger represented by a united
Romania and Bulgaria. However, we assure you that we have no expansionist
desires towards your lands, and even less the means. We would like to know
how - or if - can we abate your fears; if your request will prove to be
reasonable (such as joining the Grand Alliance you're part of), be sure we'll
comply.

Signed
King Carol I of Bulgaria-Romania

From: The United Kingdom of Bulgaria-Romania
To: The Kingdoms and Lands Represented in the Imperial Council and the
Lands of the Holy Hungarian Crown of St. Stephen

We know of your oppinion regarding the danger represented by a united
Romania and Bulgaria. However, we assure you that we have no expansionist
desires towards your lands, and even less the means. We would like to know
how - or if - can we abate your fears; if your request will prove to be
reasonable (such as joining the Grand Alliance you're part of), be sure we'll
comply.

Signed
King Carol I of Bulgaria-Romania“Let us wait a bit before we reply,” said Franz Josef I.

OOC: Let's move on, then..

IC: The army is ordered to dig-in in its current position. Defensive works must be started across the Maritsa valley, the northern reaches of the Sofia depression (OOC: I don't know if that's the name, but if you look on a physical map, it's obvious) and in the Balkan Mountains' passes.

Signed
Stambolisky, prime-minister of Bulgaria-RomaniaThe k.u.k. III.Korps and its attached Kavallerietruppendivision will push as far along the road to Sofia as it can manage, and then assume defencive positions.

Elements of the Waffen-SS kavallerie-division Das Reich, commanded by unteroffizer von Reichenau, was on a routine reconnaissance behind enemy lines. They weren't officialy enemies but they had been told to fire at any Roumanian soldier that got too close, if they could testify that he had acted ''in an aggressive maner''. The rain was pouring down and making the ground slippery, they had been forced to dismount a few hundred yards back where the terrain changed from stony mud to muddy stone.
''Walter!'' yelled one of the soldiers, Heinrich, to his CO.
''While on duty, I am unteroffizer von Reichenau to you! Don't ever forget that.'' reminded Reichenau, while moving closer to see what the man had spotted. The body of a young man, bleeding from a bullet wound in the shoulder, was lying behind some small bushes.
''Shall we shoot him?'' asked Heinrich, nodding towards the young man's uniform.
''No, he doesn't wear the Bulgarian uniform.'' answered the unteroffizer whilst giving the young man some water.

''What's your name, soldier?''
''Kliment.'' answered the wounded, while trying to focus his eyes on the shady figures standing above him. ''Germans?''
''Let's take him back to base. Dietrich, bandage his wounds.''

Behind them the hazy silhoutte of Plovdiv grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared.

At camp:

''Herr General, we found this man outside Plovdiv. The uniform and his wound suggests he's a deserter, he might have useful information for us.''
''Good, bring him in.''
Kliment Robert Mariya Piy Ludvik Stanislav Ksaver, son of Ferdinand I of Bulgaria and Maria Luisa of Bourbon-Parma, was brought in. The food and wine he had been provided with had restored the colour on his cheeks and his way to walk suggested that he was of noble birth, although not unaccustomed to physical labour.

RL: if you're in Plovdiv, you're not behind my lines; if you're behind my lines, you're not in Plovdiv. :p

OOC: It is on the map of Bulgaria you posted earlier.

OOC: It is on the map of Bulgaria you posted earlier.
OOC: Plovdiv is on the map, but not behind my lines.

RL: if you're in Plovdiv, you're not behind my lines; if you're behind my lines, you're not in Plovdiv. :pOOC: Last time I looked, Plovdiv was a No Man’s Land, where the remnants of the original Bulgarian army disintegrated, where the Communists still remain in force, where the Serbian Army would have had to pass on its way back home, etc.

That could be “enemy” lines, depending on who the enemy was...

OOC: He was talking about shooting Romanians, though. Which means they were the enemy.

ooc: Does it really matter?

ooc: Does it really matter?
OOC: It depends on what he wants to do next.

I think we all know what he plans to do next.

So let’s get our cards on the table. Bogie, if the recon was behind Romanian lines – real Romanian lines (say, near Sofia), what would you have to say about that?

OOC: It's in a way my mistake I didn't find until now the heir's remains buried in pit by the communists. If RL has found Boris III, he can keep him. :) Let's see how will he use him against me.

A telegram was sent to the Oberkommando, which was discussing matters of highest priority with Der Führer. It told the story of young unteroffizer von Reichenau who had found a wounded soldier near Plovdiv. The captive had turned out to be the son of Ferdinand I and the rightful heir to the Bulgarian throne, a most fortunate turn of events. To telegrams were sent, one to the soldiers in the Balkans and one to Franz Ferdinand of the Hapsburg empire. The soldiers were ordered to cease all other activities but those deemed absolutely necessary to protect their guest, Franz Ferdinand was informed of the situation and that Germany would be supporting the young man for the throne.

Back in the camp:
The former captive, now guest, had been given a tent of his own, larger than any of the officers', and the Waffen-SS units had been assigned to function as his personal bodyguard. One unit would stand guard in the camp, while the other performed recon mission over a large area.

Six Weeks EarlierOutside Adrianople, the Porte“Father, I beg of you...” began Boris

“No,” said Ferdinand I of Bulgaria sharply. “Your place is with your squadron.”

“But you are riding into danger...” protested the young prince.

“That,” said the Tsar, placing his hand upon his eldest son’s shoulder, “Is why you can not come. I do not trust these cowards who surround me, and I do not trust the Serbs. But I must go to Sofia to rally support for the nation in this hour of its peril, as well as to make arrangements for the safety of your brother and your sisters. If anything happens to me...”

“Father!” said the young man with horror, but Ferdinand cut him off.

“If anything happens to me,” he repeated, “The monarchy must endure – for the sake of the nation.”

“The monarchy,” he said once more, softly, as if to himself, “Must endure.”

A Week LaterSoutheast of Sofia, BulgariaGeneral Dimitriev shook his head sadly. “My orders are explicit. Yes, Serbian troops are entering the capitol - but my orders are clear. I am to march on Ruse and confront the Romanians. 1st and 2nd Armies are coming up from Adrianople, and will be here in just over a week. They are to deal with the Serbs.”

“But the Tsar himself is in Sofia! He could be captured!” protested the young major.

“These are the Tsar’s own orders! Did you ask him?” snapped Dimitriev. When the young officer shook his head, Dimitriev continued gruffly. “What would I tell the Tsar, were I to show up in Sofia? ‘Oh, I’m sorry your majesty, I chose to disobey your orders?’ He would be within his rights to have me shot! Let the city militia and the third line of reserves bar the gates. Surely they can hold out until reinforcements arrive.”

“Sir,” said the young major with considerable unease, “The militia have not heeded the call to arms. Many have refused to turn out, even in the face of the Tsar’s orders that they do so or be shot, and among the third line there is widespread desertion. Some people are even talking of taking up arms against the Tsar and establishing a Commune! The Prime Minister fears that if you do not come, all will be lost.”

The General pondered this news. Perhaps I should march to Sofia, he thought. But then he remembered the stories of officers being summarily executed for disobeying orders. Even a general can be taken out and shot, Dimitriev told himself.

“Go to the palace,” ordered Dimitriev. “I will give you an escort and a pair of remounts. If you hurry, you can arrive tonight. Ask the Tsar if he wants to change my orders. If he does, ride back as fast as you can. I am following the Ring Road around the city, and I will still be within a day’s march of the palace tomorrow.”

“Otherwise,” finished the general, “I will presume that I am to continue on to Ruse – and I will do so.”OOC: Obviously the young major never made it back – or was shot by the Tsar for suggesting a change of orders.

As for the timing of the revolt, I have taken some liberties. I assume the Tsar took a carriage back to Sofia on the 17th and arrived on the 20th (it's about 220 miles from Edirne to Sofia). I assumed the revolt broke out a couple of days after the Serbs entered the city - maybe even on the same day, since this would be taken as a sign of the collapse of the government. At about the same time as the Serb 2nd Army was arriving in Sofia from Nis (a distance of 96 miles, or about 6 days), the Bulgarian force that originally deployed at Dupnica in the Rhodope Mountains would be skirting the city to the south (Dupnica is just 47 miles from Sofia, or 3 days march; en route to Ruse, their line of march remains within a day's march of the city centre for another 50 miles [3 days’ march] before carrying them away to Pleven [46 more miles, or another 3 days’ march]). That puts these events sometime around the 21st (of May), a little earlier than Bogie estimated - but that's the only timing that makes any sense.

Thus, I'm rejecting Bogie's proposed date for the killing of the Tsar (June 10th), since that date is utterly unworkable: the Bulgarian Army would have already fought both the Serbs and Romanians by then, and obviously that didn't happen.

Three Days LaterNear Plovdiv, BulgariaPrince Boris awoke almost immediately as one of his lieutenants touched his arm. He sat bolt upright, having learned the habit of light sleep while on campaign. “What is it?”

The man was speechless, and even in the dark his face looked bloodless. “General Kutinchev wants to speak with you.”

The young major leapt out of bed and pulled himself together in a couple of minutes. Then he followed the lieutenant out of the tent, expecting a ride to Kutinchev’s tent. He was shocked to find the general waiting immediately outside by the fire, along with a host of officers.

“What has happened?” Boris asked. They would not be here to seem him unless…

“There appears to have been a revolt in Sofia,” said the general. “Communists have overthrown the government, possibly with Serb help.”

Boris felt sick. “My father?”

Kutinchev stepped forward and placed his hand on the prince’s shoulder. It was a fatherly gesture, and had it not come from an older and respected man who, at this particular moment in time, still happened to be Boris’ commander, it would have been an affront. But Boris understood what it meant, and welcomed it. God help me if I faint, he thought for an instant. But no, Kutinchev is too good a man to let that happen.

“Word has it that your father is dead,” the general said. “As is the rest of your family.”OOC: More modified timing. I assume the storming of the palace occured after dark on May 22nd, shortly after Serb troops marched into the city; the militia and the third line of reserves were ordered to stand down by treacherous commanders who hoped that the Serbs would place Ferdinand under arrest - or at the very least that King Nikola, who was expected that evening - could talk some sense into him.

But instead the arrival of Serb troops (hey, I have to blame Serbia for something) was taken as a sign that the government had collapsed. Communists flooded the square in front of the palace, stormed it, and hung the mutilated bodies of the royal family from the balcony where the Tsar traditionally addressed the crowd (along with those of his closest and most loyal servants, which led to confusing regarding the exact number of royals killed).

News didn't reach 1st Army for another two days (Plovdiv is 99 miles from Sofia, and on the 22nd the vanguard elements of Kutinchev's column were still about 20 miles southeast of Plovdiv; mostly it would have travelled by word of mouth, since no government was left to send messengers and - per Lachenburg's last post - most of the telegraph stations were siezed by the rebels). Thus, by my reckoning, the events in this post (IOW, Boris learning of his father’s death) occur on the May 24th.

(If you're interested, Dimitriev's army was camped about 15 miles east of Sofia when it got the news well after midnight on the 23rd; at that point, it began to disintegrate.)

OOC: Following the above logic, news reached Bucharest, Athens, and Vienna on the 24th as well, propagating by word-of-mouth to Nikopol, Serres, and Skopje as it did to Plovdiv, and then being telegraphed to each of the respective capitols. Thus Greek and Romanian forces began moving on Sofia on the 25th.

The Serbs would have known of what happened sooner, with news reaching King Nikola at 2nd Army headquarters on the 22nd; the Waffen-SS probably didn't recieve the news until the 26th or 27th, due their deliberate tactic of avoiding contact with the locals.

OOC: Comments on the changes in the OOC thread.

Five Weeks AgoNear Plovdiv, Bulgaria“I must go to Sofia immediately,” said Prince Boris.

“Your Highness,” pleaded General Kutinchev, “It is not safe. The army will be at the gates of Sofia in six days.”

“But Dimitriev’s army should be just a day or two north of the city,” replied the prince curtly. “I will send messengers to him – they can arrive in two days – ordering him to march south to secure your line of advance, as well as to send troops back into the capitol.”

“Will a week’s time make that much difference?” offered the general. “The risk is great.”

“Yes, a week could make all the difference in the world. We should not give the Serbs or the Communists time to prepare the city’s defences,” the young man said defiantly. “I intend to crush this rebellion, and then see what we can do about our enemies.”

Headstrong, thought Kutinchev. Just like his father.

“Then take the whole of your squadron with you,” he said. “We can not afford to have you killed or captured.”

“I intended to,” said the Prince. And with that, he turned to his First Lieutenant. “Order the men to saddle up.”OOC: These events occur within the same hour as the previous post.

The Previous MorningSofia, BulgariaVicktor Kurchanev glowered at the men before him with barely concealed rage. “You did not think it necessary to take the time to figure out who it was you had killed before you burned their bodies?”

“We ... we wanted to show the people they were free,” protested one of the men.

“So now which one of you will tell me if all four of the children were killed?” the Colonel snapped. “Or didn’t you think we would need to know that?”

“I know that both the girls and one of the boys is dead,” said another of the men, “Because I saw them die myself. I’d assume the older boy was with the guards, as he is a major. We did find a couple of dead majors...”

Kurchanev cut him off angrily. “There are more majors in the palace guards than your mother’s _ss has pimples!” he shouted. “One major is not as good as another. We need to know if Boris is dead, and we need to know now!”

“Vicktor,” said another man, another leader among the Communists, “Let us not make this worse than it is. What’s done is done. So now,” the man said, drawing in his breath, “We use our heads. If you were Boris, what would you do?”

Kurchanev reflected. “I would make for the capitol as fast as possible.”

“With 1st Army,” added another man, glumly.

“Maybe not...” began the Colonel. “Where is 3rd Army? Is it still near town?”

“It was supposed to march on Pleven this morning, but it has halted. There seems to be an argument among its officers,” said the second man, who was also a soldier.

“Then that is where young Boris will go,” said Kurchanev, nodding his head. “That army is the closest to the city, and he will want to bring it under his command.”

“Should we strike at it?” asked the second man.

“No,” said Kurchanev sharply. “Get some loyal soldiers and set up an ambush between Kutchinev’s army and Sofia. And get some men out to 3rd Army to see if we can recruit its members to our cause.”

The men to whom he had given orders turned to go, but they were stopped by the Colonel’s voice.

“Wait,” he barked. “There is one more thing. Announce to everyone that the entire Royal Family is dead - including Prince Boris.”

“But that's not true,” said one of the men.

“If you do your jobs,” replied Kurchanev with an evil smile, “It will be.”OOC: This takes place around the 23rd.

Four Days LaterNear Sofia, BulgariaAs the 1st Squadron, 1st Regiment, Guards Cavalry Division rode along the post road from Plovdiv to Sofia, Prince Boris became increasingly apprehensive.

His scouts had reported nothing – except the destruction of telegraph lines and offices all along the road, from Plovdiv on to the west – and that boded well, suggesting that the revolution had not spread to the countryside. Yet no messengers had returned from Dimitriev, which was all wrong; one should have arrived yesterday or today at the absolute latest. Had the Serbs engaged 3rd Army? Were the Serbs between him and Dimitriev? Last night his officers had urged him to agree to withdraw to the east if they ran into any kind of trouble. Kutinchev, after all, was only a couple of days behind him.

But concern for his family drove him forward. Some villagers they had questioned yesterday had told him that the rumours of his fathers’s death were false, or that his brothers and sisters had escaped to Dimitriev’s army, or … well, there were too many rumours to follow.

And so he pressed on.

Then it happened. They came upon a brace of overturned waggons, broken in the middle of the road. Prince Boris had just given the order to spread out and scout both sides of the road when the first shots rang out.

And suddenly, gunfire was crackling everywhere.

Boris felt his stallion stagger before it began to rear. With practised skill he rolled backward out of the saddle rather than allow himself to be crushed under the animal as it came down, screaming horribly. In a minute he had rolled back up, drawn his pistol and sabre, and was looking around.

It was a slaughter. His men were trying to take cover behind anything they could – even fallen horses – but they were doomed. And he probably was as well.

Then he saw one of his subalterns, a man named Grigor, riding hard for him. Grigor’s hand was down to scoop him up, and he was yelling, “To me! To me!”

He saw the bullet tear into Grigor’s side, felt his pain, but the lowered hand did not waver. With a heroic effort, Grigor’s arm met that of the Prince, and in one smooth motion Boris swung up and into the saddle, behind the subaltern.

Looping his army around Grigor’s waist, Boris grabbed the reins. “Hang on!” he yelled. Grigor did not answer, but Boris felt Grigor’s hand tighten on his forearm.

He looked back over his shoulder. Others had seen Grigor’s charge and understood instantly his intention. Many had been gunned down, but half a dozen were in hot pursuit, yelling, “Here! Here!” With the stallion bearing the two of them slowed by the weight, a number of them quickly overtook the duo, forming a dense knot – a shield of flesh – around their commander and presumptive King.

Some fell, but the rest pressed on. The next few minutes were a blur as they turned off the road and crashed into the brush, but they kept riding until the horses could ride no more. Then they dismounted, except for the Prince, who held the unconscious Grigor in the saddle.

“That farmhouse!” shouted one, and they made for it quickly, but with weapons drawn, not to be taken off guard again.

Boris had time to count the men who accompanied him. There were only five of them. That was all that was left of his command.OOC: This takes place around the 27th.

That NightNorth of the Sofia-Plovdiv Post Road, Near Sofia, BulgariaAll agreed that Prince Boris must not be seen by the inhabitants of the farm; they smuggled him into the hayloft and brought him food from the farmer’s wife. Grigor, on the other hand, they took into the house, where the farmer and his daughters could help him. The bullet was extracted and his wound was bandaged, but his condition was grave indeed.

Aside from Grigor and the Prince, there was one other officer, a lieutenant named Kyril. Kyril volunteered to go back to the road on foot with another trooper. They would see if anyone had survived the ambush and also see if the road was clear. The hope was that they could travel southeast in the morning to rejoin General Kutinchev and 1st Army.

Kyril and his companion were back by morning. They could not tell if anyone else had survived; the bodies had been rolled off the road – along with the waggons and dumped unceremoniously in the ditch. But more ominously, there were soldiers marching along the road toward Plovdiv.

“Serbs,” asked Boris.

“No,” said Kyril. “Communists, I think. They had no standard uniform, just a red arm band.”

The Prince understood their danger. “We must leave before dawn and avoid the road. The Communists will realise that I survived and search the area.”

Kyril looked at him quizzically. “How will they know that you are here?”

“Because I’m sure they took someone prisoner, and will find out who we are and figure out who the squadron’s commander is,” Boris said sourly. “I have been a fool, and now my men have paid for it. I should have listen to Kutinchev.”

“You took a gamble, and it may or may not have been the right one,” offered the lieutenant. “But now we need to get you back to 1st Army.”

They made a show of leaving before dawn and heading north – without Boris, who remained in the hayloft. An hour later, as dawn was breaking over the horizon, two of the troopers crept back into the barn with a brace of horses, aiming to escort the Prince eastward, over the empty fields. As they did so, they were careful to keep the barn between themselves and the farmhouse. Soon the three joined up with Kyril, Grigor, and the other trooper. Because the entire band had only five horses, however, they had to double up on one. Thus they switched off constantly to keep from wearing any one of the beasts down.

The going was difficult, though, because the ground was quite broken to the north of the post road and because they did not want to move too quickly, lest they split Grigor’s wounds open. Given that Kutinchev was thought to be 40 miles back and advancing at a speed of 15 miles a day, the group figured that they could reach him in two days, even if they could only make 10 miles a day off road.

On the morning of the second day out from the farmhouse, they heard rumbling to the south.

“Thunder?” asked one of the troopers.

“No, artillery,” replied Prince Boris glumly. “The Communists must be fighting Kutinchev.”

My own countrymen killing each other, he thought, instead of fighting off the invaders!OOC: The battle between Kutinchev and the Communists takes place around the 29th.

The Next NightNorth of the Plovdiv-Sofia Post Road, BulgariaThe thunder continued throughout the day until – late in the afternoon – Nature decided to remind the puny mortals of their place in the universe and opened with a barrage of thunder all its own. The company took shelter from the thunderstorm in a deserted herder’s hovel, where they spent the night hearing rumblings of various kinds, some from the sky and some man-made.

By then they had a greater concern: Grigor had developed a fever, and was burning up. Worse, his wound looked terrible.

“He needs a doctor,” said Todor, one of the troopers.

“There will be doctors with Kutinchev’s army,” replied the Prince, sick with the thought that this would not be close enough. “I can’t think of one closer.”

“I can,” said another of the troopers, Stefan. “This is close to my home. There is a monastery near here – in Panagjuriste,” he continued. “We are perhaps a day’s ride from there.”

Boris sat in quiet thought. I need to get back to 1st Army, but this man saved my life!

Kyril spared him the agony. He spoke softly, but everyone could hear.

“All day, we have heard guns to the south. I would not have expected that the Communists could put up such a fight; a couple of hours, and they should have been routed. But even now,” he said with a pause, and almost as if on cue some man-made thunder echoed faintly at the edge of hearing, “Even now I hear battle.”

“Worse, if you haven’t noticed, the cannon are receding. The battle is moving south, back toward Plovdiv. Kutinchev ... Kutinchev is retreating,” he said, not wanting to say the words.

Boris had heard the guns, too, and had feared drawing the same conclusion. But he had no choice.

“We could follow the battle for days. That won’t help us – or Grigor. I say we go to Panagjuriste. The monks will give him better care than our army hospitals can. Moreover, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a road there,” at this he looked to Stefan, who nodded. “We will leave Grigor there – it will be the best thing for him – and we will ride at full speed to Plovdiv. There we can surely rejoin Kutinchev.”

“Can they be trusted?” asked Todor.

Kryil laughed. “The brothers? They’re hardly going to turn us in to the Communists.”

The following day the rain was gone, but the thunder continued, rolling up from the south. It was very clearly farther away now; they had made the right choice.

They pushed on through the rest of the day, following winding trails that led them further and further from the post road. Finally, after dark, following Stefan’s instructions, they arrived at the monastery.

There were lights, but the isolated building was shut up tight. Kyril went ahead, leaving the others hiding close by. He pounded on the door.

After a moment, a shutter opened, and a voice said loudly, “Who is it?”

“Travellers who need assistance. One of us is hurt,” replied the lieutenant.

The man on the inside peered through the shutter, looked at the uniform, and said, “You’re soldiers. Whose side are you on?”

Kyril took a deep breath. If the monastery had been taken over...

He banished the thought from his head. “We serve Prince Boris, heir to the throne.”

“If so, then you serve a dead man,” said the voice from within.

“Not so,” replied Kyril. “He is very much alive, and right here on your doorstep.”

The monk threw the door open in haste and stared in amazement at the Prince, who now emerged from the gloom. “Come in!” he exclaimed. “Hurry! Hurry!”OOC: The group reaches the monastery around the 30th.

The Following DayPanagjuriste, Bulgaria“The wound has gone septic. It doesn’t look good, but maybe...” the older monk trailed off. He looked Prince Boris in the eye. “We will do the best we can, and with God’s help...”

“I understand,” said the Prince.

They conferred over breakfast. It was decided that Kyril would go down to Panagjuriste with Todor and a couple of the monks, wearing civilian garb. The two men would find out what they could about events to the south. In the meantime, Boris wrote letters to be carried by the brothers to a trusted priest, who would carry them to Istanbul. He needed for the world to know that he was alive, and he hoped this would help get the word out.

That afternoon Kyril and Todor returned. “It's chaos,” he said. “There are deserters everywhere. It’s like the whole army has just packed up and gone home.”

Asked to continue, Kyril said, “Everybody thinks that you’re dead. The story is that you were in the palace with your father. Some people insist that you and Ferdinand got away, but very few believe that. Most believe that the throne is vacant.”

“As for the Communists, well, they’ve abolished the monarchy and private property. Some people like that – especially the idea of free land for everyone,” he said, shaking his head.

“What about Kutinchev?” asked Boris.

“There was a battle south of here, and word has it that Kutinchev retreated – although the Communists took heavy losses. I also heard that Roumania has sent an army to take Sofia, and there’s even talk of Germans crossing over from Albania,” the lieutenant offered. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

“And the Serbs?” pressed the Prince.

“They’ve left the capitol, I hear,” replied Kyril. “Evidently they were not behind the revolt, and decided to leave Sofia the minute the Communists took to the streets. They’re lurking in the hills west of the city, but they’re not really doing anything. At least that’s one less enemy we face.”

Yet Boris wondered about Roumania. What are they here for? To put down the Communists or conquer the country?

The Next DayPanagjuriste, BulgariaIn the morning, they left, but heading north toward Zlatica instead of south toward Pazardzik. There were too many stories of fighting around the road junction there for that route to be safe. If Kutinchev was falling back, he would probably fall back to Plovdiv, in which case the fastest route – though not the shortest – was to travel north to the Sofia-Kazenlak Post Road, follow that road west to Karlovo, and then turn south for Plovdiv. It was just over 90 miles, but – no longer limited to 10 miles a day – with luck the band of cavalrymen could make it in three or four days.

Unfortunately, it ended up taking a week.

The first problem came when they reached Zlatica late that afternoon. As they approached the town – warily, because they were not at all sure who held it – they saw a troop of cavalrymen halted just outside town.

By sneaking closer on foot, they were able to identify the soldiers as Romanians. It had been just six days since the Romanians had sent troops toward Sofia, but Zlatica was close enough to their line of march to be within their cavalry screen. The company worked their way around the town, seeking to return to the Post Road about five miles east of town, but that took the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, things didn’t get any better. The following day several Romanian patrols trooped up and down the Post Road, forcing the band into hiding. By afternoon they admitted to themselves that the road was simply too dangerous, and worked their way through the hills to the south. Instead of reaching Karlovo on their second day out, it took two more days.

Karlovo was worse than Zlatica. There appeared to be a large infantry encampment there, complete with roadblocks and patrols, and the Romanians appeared to be detaining every male traveller who appeared to them to be a likely deserter – which was just about every male of military age. An enclosure had been created out of barbed wire north of town, and a huge number of men were there – at least 2,000, maybe more.

“Why are they holding deserters?” wondered Todor aloud.

“Who knows?” asked Stefan. “To keep them from joining the Communists maybe?”

“Maybe,” murmured Boris. And maybe they are looking for us, he thought – although he immediately dismissed the idea. They all think I’m dead.

The Romanian patrols dropped off just over a days’ walk south of Karlovo – and given the terrain off the road, they were walking most of the time. They watched the Pleven-Plovdiv Post Road most of the morning and saw nobody, which suggested that Karlovo was the Romanians’ forward position.

“Good,” suggested Simeon, a quiet trooper who’d said little thus far in the journey. “That means that Kutinchev is likely still in Plovdiv.”

That afternoon, they ventured out onto the road, and made good time. By nightfall they were approaching Plovdiv. That was when they saw the barricade.

“At last!” said Todor. “This must be 1st Army’s northern picket.”

Todor was about to ride forward, but Kyril stopped him. As they looked on in puzzlement, Kyril dismounted, handed them his weapons, took a pack the monks had given them, emptying it of most of its food, which he stuffed into their saddlebags, and then said to them. “Take cover and watch me. If I shake my head, then you must assume that the roadblock is Communist. If I nod, then it is safe and you can come down. If you can’t tell, wait the night...” he paused, and then pointed, “On that hill, and keep a lookout for me. If it is Kutinchev, I will have a patrol sent out to bring you back in – but I will insist on being with that patrol. If I don’t show up, or a patrol comes out without me, you must assume that it is not safe.”

“And then what?” asked Boris. He had relied on the lieutenant, in spite of his junior rank, but the man was 25 while Boris was only 18, and had much more experience.

“Then go back to Hisarja,” he said, referring to a town halfway between Karlovo and Plovdiv, but 10 miles off the Post Road, in a hilly, wooded district dotted with lakes. “And try to find out where Kutinchev is, or else figure out how to get out of the country.”

Abandon my country? thought Prince Boris with horror.

But almost as if he read his sovereign’s mind, Kyril said simply, “Your Highness, you are everything. You are our hope of national salvation. Some foreign government will want you back on the throne. Maybe in Vienna, maybe in Petrograd, maybe in Berlin, maybe in Paris – somewhere you will find a sponsor. If Kutinchev has been defeated, that may be our last chance.” And with that the lieutenant got up and walked toward the barricade, assuming the gait of a tired traveller nearing his destination.

They watched in the fading light, but it was hard to see. The soldiers challenged Kyril, pointing rifles at him. He dropped his bag and raised his hands. They approached, searched him, questioned him. They tried to see his head movements, but there were nods and shakes of the head intermingled as he answered their questions. Finally, they marched him back toward their lines, and a moment later he was gone.

“What now?” asked Todor, clearly worried.

“We go up on that hill,” said Boris softly. “And there we watch and wait.”OOC: These events occur roughly between July 1st and 7th.

Next MorningNear Plovdiv, BulgariaThey waited until well after sunrise, but Kyril never returned. As mid-morning approached, Prince Boris finally gave the order: “Saddle up. We ride for Hisarja.”

From a distance, they took one last look at the guards on the barricade, and under the bright sunlight they saw the red armbands that they had failed to spot on the previous evening.

“Communists,” said Todor sadly.

“Will the lieutenant be all right?” asked Simeon.

“I hope so,” said Boris. “With luck, he should be.”

They rode quickly, making up for lost time. Late in the afternoon they reached the road to Hisarja. They were very near Karlovo, so they had to watch the junction carefully until they were sure they could pass unnoticed. Finally, they slipped by, and shortly after dark reached their destination.

The monks had given them a small amount of money, so Todor and Stefan went into town in search of news. In the meantime, Simeon and Boris made camp on a hill overlooking the town. It was late in the evening – almost midnight – before the other two returned.

“Well, we know what happened to Kutinchev,” said Todor.

He recounted the story: as news spread of the death of Tsar Ferdinand and his family, most of the Bulgarian army simply quit and went home. A number joined up with the Communists, lured by promises of free land; among these were some of Dimitriev’s 3rd Army and quite a few of the Sofia militia. It was these who had fought Kutinchev’s army around Kostenec.

“The problem is that 2nd Army rebelled as well,” Todor continued. “General Ivanov tried to rally them, but they shot him. The traitors then marched up on Kutinchev’s rear, so he had to break off the battle and withdraw.”

“It must have been 2nd Army who we saw in Plovdiv,” added Stefan.

“So where is Kutinchev?” asked the Prince, concerned by this development.

“He fell back into the mountains, toward Velingrad,” answered Stefan. “To join the Greeks and Germans.”

“The Greeks and Germans?” Boris asked, taken aback.

“Yes,” said Todor. “The Greeks marched for Sofia on the same day the Romanians did, vowing to restore the monarchy. Those rumours about the Germans were true; apparently the Austrians asked them to ride into Bulgaria and look for members of your family. When they heard that you were dead, they joined up with the Greeks.”

“So where is this Greek army now?” wondered the Prince aloud.

“Supposedly somewhere around Dupnica. They’ve had a tough time in the mountains with partisans,” answered Stefan.

Boris thought for a minute. Dupnica was a long way off. But did they have any choice?

“Get some sleep,” he ordered. “Tomorrow we set off cross-country.”OOC: These events occur around the 8th.

Later That NightOutside Hisarja, BulgariaBoris awaken to shouts from the village. He scrambled to his feet, as did his companions.

“What’s happening?” he whispered.

“Romanians,” whispered Todor. “There’s a platoon of them down in the village.”

Boris saw men moving around in the streets below. The soldiers were going into houses and dragging men out to join a crowd forming in the town square.

“Looking for deserters?” the Prince whispered. It looked like they were rounding up every man in the village.

A twig snapped.

One of the horses made a snuffling sound.

From nearby a man shouted something. More men answered, and suddenly there was a great deal of crashing coming toward them.

Stefan had grabbed the lead of one of the horses. “Sir!” he said.

Their eyes met.

I’m not leaving you, Boris thought.

But Stefan’s eyes answered him. You must, Your Highness. For Bulgaria.

Shots rang out as Todor, on one knee, opened fire at the onrushing soldiers. He heard a cry. Simeon was firing as well. “Get a horse!” he shouted to Stefan, over his shoulder, but at that moment he heard Stefan cry out. He saw Stefan fall, his eyes still imploring him.

Ride, Your Highness! Ride!

Boris turned in time to see Todor rise to run for the horses, and then fall as a bullet struck his leg. He fell, cursing, and then, raising himself halfway, fired a few more shots before falling on his back grimacing as he tried to extract another clip.

Simeon was still firing. The Prince rode toward him. “Simeon!” he hissed.

The young trooper understood. Firing one more shot, he turned and grabbed the Prince’s hand. In a minute they were both riding hard, crashing through the thicket.

From behind, there was more crashing, then silence.

And then he heard two isolated shots.OOC: These events occur around the wee hours of the 9th.

Two Days LaterThe Balkan Mountains, BulgariaThey had been crossing broken ground, moving in and out of the southern foothills of the Balkan Mountains, travelling to the southwest. Ten miles out of Hisarja, they came to a region of lakes, where they were able to refill their canteens. But they had lost most of their food with the horses.

At least, thought Boris, we’re not being pursued.

Late in the day they came across a isolated shack, obviously used by a herder. Smoke curled from the chimney.

“Shall we risk it?” asked the Prince.

“We have to eat,” replied Simeon grimly.

They approached the home cautiously, but something alerted its resident. A moment later he was standing in front of his hovel, rifle in hand.

“Who’s that?” barked the old man.

“Travellers,” said Boris.

The old man eyed them. “Deserters, more likely. Go away.”

“We need food and blankets,” pleaded Simeon. “Any generosity will be repaid.” Before he could say more, Boris shot him a glance.

The old man didn’t seem to understand the meaning of Boris’ gaze. He simply continued berating them. “How? How will the likes of you repay me? In lead?” laughed the herder bitterly. “No, thank you. Now go away!”

Reluctantly, Boris considered his options. Finally, he said, “We have a horse.”

The man eyed them, and then the beast. “So you do.”OOC: These events occur around the 11th.

Five Days LaterAlong the Maritsa River, BulgariaThey had travelled straight south, making for a point midway between Plovdiv and Pazardzik. Their thought was that they would run the least risk of encountering Communist patrols by passing directly between the two towns. Ironically, this would take them very close to the place where he had been awakened over three weeks earlier and told of his father’s death.

I’m traveling in circles, he thought. It seemed an apt metaphor.

But it was not just a desire to give the surrounding towns as much leeway as possible that led the Prince and his companion to this point. Boris recalled from their earlier passage that the banks of the Maritsa in this area were covered in scrub and not too steep; they were going to have to swim the river, since it was too broad to ford between the two towns, or at least it was in mid-June. That meant swimming across at a place that was more or less isolated. Since there were wetlands on either side of the river here, it seemed the ideal place for their swim.

As they neared the river – and the Post Road that ran along it – they had to worry about being seen. Consequently, Boris decided to have them spend a day resting at the edge of the foothills and then resume their journeys by night. Unfortunately, this made sleep difficult – it was hot and uncomfortable lying under thickets during the day, and that slowed them further. Thus, a trip that should have been accomplished in two or three days, even on foot, took twice as long.

But at last, shortly after midnight on the fifth day from the lakes, they arrived at the banks of the Maritsa. Carefully they stripped, rolled their clothes into a bundle, and slipped down to the river.

The brush was thick on either side, and both the insects and frogs sang loudly. Birds rested all around them, and as they moved they startled a few. Nonetheless, they were not seen as they swam out from the bank and began to cross the wide, lazy river.

Boris was a strong swimmer, but he was worried about Simeon, who was not. He had Simeon set out in front of him and continually whispered to him to float as much as possible, paddling lightly to propel himself across the water. Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, they pulled themselves up the opposite embankment.

Then their luck ran out.

On the opposite bank, a voice rang out. Boris and Simeon both looked up and saw a man with a rifle on the opposite bank. They quickly scrambled out of sight, relieved that the man had not fired; but relief gave way to concern as they heard several more voices join the first. Peering out, they were alarmed to see an entire patrol.

Quickly, they finished pulling their soaked clothes on and continued hurriedly across the road on the opposite bank, looking both ways to make sure that no one was coming. Then they set out an a jog across the nearest field, keeping as close to cover as possible. Fortunately, there were hills nearby. But would the Communists follow?OOC: These events occur around the 16th.

The Following DaySouth of the Maritsa River, BulgariaBy dawn, they were exhausted. Crawling under a thicket, they both slept. It was afternoon when they awakened – to the sound of men talking nearby.

“Cavalry uniforms, that’s what it looked like,” said one. “We followed the prints to a few miles from here, but then they slipped down a lane and we lost them.”

“Why are we bothering?” griped another. “Just some more deserters.”

“No, you idiot! We’re supposed to look for cavalrymen,” said yet another. “Most of them – the officers, anyway – are landowners’ sons. They’re wanted for crimes against the People.”

“I heard a rumour that HQ wants us to chase down cavalrymen because one of them may the Tsar’s brat Boris,” said a fourth.

The man who had spoken immediately before him exploded. “Boris Saxe-Coburg-Gotha is dead! These rumours must stop!”

There was silence, and then the first man said, “Well, those cavalrymen obviously aren’t here.”

The others grumbled in agreement as the patrol moved off.OOC: These event also occur around the 16th.

That NightSouth of the Maritsa River, BulgariaThey waited until it was well after dark before moving again. Velingrad – their next destination – was about 40 miles away. Unfortunately, the ground was quite broken, as they would be entering the foothills of the Rhodope Mountains, and – as had been the case for the last few days – they would have to move carefully to avoid Communist patrols.

It might be another week before we get there, Prince Boris thought.

To avoid getting lost, the pair elected to follow the line of the Maritsa, but at a distance. Eventually they would cross the road to Velingrad, which they would then skirt at a safe distance – if they could.

But the going was difficult, and the area was thick with patrols. The conversation they had overheard bothered Boris. The Communists must know that I’m alive – or suspect it. They certainly haven’t found my body. They can lie all they want about their motives, but that must be the reason they look so hard.

They travelled all that night and the next two straight , guessing that they had covered most of the distance to the southbound road. At dawn, they came upon a farmhouse.

“No smoke from the chimney,” said Simeon. “It looks deserted. Let me check it out.”

Boris gripped Simeon’s hand. “No matter what, steal nothing. Just see if it’s safe.”

Simeon flashed a grin, and then slipped off, making his way to the back door. Meanwhile, Prince Boris hid behind an outbuilding, keeping low to avoid being seen.

Then he heard the voice behind him. “Stand up, raise your hands, and turn around.”OOC: These events occur around the 19th.

Outside Pazardzik, BulgariaPrince Boris rose, raised his hands, and turned very slowly to see a man with a rifle pointed at him. It was a hunting rifle, not military issue. But it was a gun all the same.

The man peered at him a minute, and then a broad grin broke across his face. “Well, well. Look at what I’ve found - the dead Tsar’s son. So you really are alive!” he said, but the look in his eyes did not reassure Boris one bit.

Nor did the next words he said, as he raised his rifle. “Not for long, though.”

Then two things happened in quick succession. A pistol crack came from behind him, drowned out by the loud bang of the rifle aiming at his heart.

But the slug didn’t hit him in the heart. The man began to fall back even before his finger exerted sufficient pull on the trigger to fire the rifle. Instead of being instantly killed, be felt a stabbing pain in his left shoulder . Dazed from the impact, he fell and blacked out.

A moment later – was it a moment? He couldn’t tell – he felt hands lifting him and then a shoulder underneath his arm. Dazed, he barely registered being pulled up a short flight of stairs and into the house. A minute later, he was on his back.

He faded in and out. He heard clattering, heard Simeon’s voice, as though far away. “The bullet went clean through your shoulder – it missed the bone, thank God! In a way, you’re lucky he was so close – it’s not a big wound on either side.”

Then he felt a hot, searing pain as Simeon poured iodine over both wounds. He blacked out, came back, blacked out again. He felt Simeon’s hands probing the wound.

“Where did you learn to treat wounds like that?” he asked.

“The same place I learned to ride,” said the trooper with pride. “My father was a stable hand. You learn a lot of medicine caring for animals - especially landowners’ favourite animals.”

Simeon worked quickly, dressing the wound, and making a sling of out of some dark fabric he’d scrounged. “The colour won’t be so visible.” Then he pulled out Boris’ pistol, checked it, and handed it to him.

“I’m going out to check and see if there’s a horse in the barn – and get his rifle. I may get some food, as well,” he said. “Since he tried to kill you, do you still mind if I steal his things?”

Half aware, Prince Boris shook his head no.

Fifteen minutes later, Simeon was back. “No horse – at least worth riding.” He rummaged through the cupboards, and then called out, “Found some shells. That’ll help.” Then he came back to Boris’ side.

“I’m taking you upstairs,” he said. “I’m going to give you some brandy so you can sleep.”

No, thought Boris, we have to move on. Someone will hear the shots!

As if reading his mind, Simeon continued on calmly, as though nothing had happened. “I went up into the loft and looked out. Quite a view! I don’t see another house for miles, so probably nobody heard the shot. I’ll put on some of his clothes and move around in the yard like I’m him, but I’ll be in every so often to check on you and change the dressing. My hope is that if anyone does come looking, they’ll think everything is fine. He seems to have lived alone here – probably a widower.”

Then Boris felt the brandy glass, tasted the warm liquid on his tongue, and was soon sound asleep.OOC: Still around the 19th.

That Same DayVienna, AustriaCount Bertchold looked at the telegram he’d just been given. He could barely believe it.

Yesterday, a Bulgarian priest had delivered a letter to the k.u.k. Embassy in Istanbul. It had been written by Bulgaria’s Crown Prince Boris on May 31st, nine days after the Bulgarian Royal Family was supposed to have been killed in Sofia.

The boy said that he and some companions had been ambushed en route to Sofia, but had escaped. They were going to try to rejoin Kutinchev’s 1st Army, but they weren’t sure when. The letter pleaded for assistance in putting down the Communist revolt and restoring Bulgaria’s monarchy.

It was an opportunity that could not be allowed to pass. Behind Communist lines, the boy might not make it, but it was worth a try, and Count Bertchold knew exactly who to call for assistance.

“Send a telegram to Generalmajor Pomiankowski immediately!” the Foreign Minister snapped.OOC: This takes place around the 19th.

The Next AfternoonOutside Pazardzik, BulgariaThey stayed in the farmhouse all that day, and most of the next. Simeon insisted that Prince Boris rest, kept changing his dressing, cleaned the wound frequently with iodine, and fed him three meals each day. There was plenty of food in the farmhouse, and the trooper intended to take advantage of it.

On their second afternoon in the farmhouse, Boris was awake enough to talk. Simeon explained his rescue.

“I got inside the house and saw a stack of handbills on the kitchen table. This fellow was a Communist – and not a recent convert, either,” he said. “I backed right out and headed for where I’d left you. That’s when I saw him with the rifle, but he didn’t see me. I aimed and fired.”

“Good shot,” said the Prince weakly.

“Thank you,” beamed the trooper. “Now, as far as his hospitality goes, I figure we could safely stay the night – everything about the place says this fellow lived alone – but he’ll be missed all the same. I buried him out back, but someone who pokes around is going to see that someone else has been here. Well, that and the blood,” he offered. “So I think we should leave tonight.”

“We’re maybe two days from the road to Velingrad, cutting cross-country,” Simeon said. “Well, three days with your wound.”

They set out that night shortly after dark, cutting across the fields in a westerly direction. Simeon was good to his word, and took a couple of long breaks than evening before finding a thicket where they could hide. He had stolen a tarp from the farmer, and used it to make some shade.

But Boris noticed by morning's light that he looked worried, and also noticed that he slept little.

On the second night out – which started a little earlier – and during a rest break – all of which were shorter than those the night before – the Prince asked Boris why he was nervous.

“They tracked us up from the river, and I’m guessing they’ll track us from the farmhouse, too,” he said. “I can’t imagine they won’t find the body, and they’ll see that he was shot with a service revolver.” Simeon shook his head sadly. “Once they start chasing us, they’ll be on our trail hard. We’ve only gotten half as far as we might have, and even if we’re lucky and they don’t find out we’ve been there until morning, we’ll be hard pressed to stay ahead of them past tomorrow night.”

He looked the Prince in the eye. “If you can carry on without me, and I think they’re getting too close, I’ll lead them off your scent. They don’t know how many of us there are, so maybe they’ll be content catching just me.”

Boris was horrified, but Simeon would hear none of his objections. “Your Highness, every one of us has been willing to die for you since the ambush. Don’t let the sacrifices we’ve made be in vain.”OOC: This takes place around the 21st

The Following AfternoonNear Pazardzik, BulgariaIt was not at all near dark when Prince Boris was awakened by Simeon.

“We must move,” he said, deeply worried. “We are being pursued.”

They had slept without a fire, and so there was little to do to clear the campsite. In minutes Simeon was helping Boris along at the fastest pace possible, looking behind, at the hills, at the sun, and then at some clouds hanging on the horizon. “Maybe it will rain.”

Dusk came, and with it noises from behind. Quite a large party of men was following them. Simeon tried to lead Boris over bare rock and hard ground, avoiding soft spots. “Hurry!” he hissed, betraying his concern.

In the distance, there was a flash of lighting and the rumble of thunder. Simeon stopped, looked at the clouds, felt the wind, and made a fateful decision.

He found a gully that was likely to fill with water in a torrential rain and virtually dragged Prince Boris downhill, toward some brambles. “If we get separated, head downhill. Go all the way to the road if you have to, but head downhill. And stay in the gullies as long as you can.”

More lightning, more cries from behind. The pursuers were closer.

The wind picked up, and then the first raindrops began splattering down on them. Simeon moved like a man possessed, urging Prince Boris along as fast as he could go.

There were thickets around now, cover – but they could not travel far in them, because it would leave signs. “Don’t enter the brush until it gets dark,” he snapped. The rain was now pelting down, the wind rising hard. Yet they could still hear voices behind.

Simeon glanced around, saw a hovel with a small shed. “Come on!” he cried, dragging the Prince behind him.

Darkness was still gathering, made deeper by the rain. Simeon crossed a stream, and then made a desperate decision. “Hold still while I carry you,” he said, and then, before Boris could object, he had slung the Prince over his shoulder.

Simeon staggered forward about 20 feet, and then threw his weight against the door of the shed. It gave easily. He unceremoniously dropped Boris on the floor of the shed.

“Hide!” he whispered, and looking around in the last fading light, began pulling things down on the floor. “Climb in among those,” he said. “And crawl under this.” With that he threw the rolled tarp in on top of Boris. “Latch the door behind me!”

Prince Boris barely had time to protest before Simeon was off, running as fast as he could. Then, realising that he really had no choice, he did as the trooper had instructed him to.

Several minutes passed. The rain drummed on the roof of the shed, and the voices grew louder. Then he heard splashing outside, coming from the same direction they had.

“Remember,” whispered a familiar voice – Simeon’s. “Stay hidden. Wait an half an hour, and then follow the runoff down to the road.”

Then, at the top of his lungs, he heard Simeon shout: “Run! I’m slowing you down! Run, damn it!”

Then he heard a shot and a groan.

Voices cried out. They grew louder. After a minute, there was another shot. It was the rifle. Simeon was shooting at the pursuers. But certainly he couldn’t hold them all off! thought Boris. What was he thinking?

A fusillade of shots erupted. Some were the rifle, some were other arms – military issue, Boris thought. Then he heard several pistol shots, a cry, and silence.

He waited.

He heard men approach.

“There he is!” said one, and a cluster of men splashed in to some common spot. Boris felt sick. That would be where Simeon has fallen, he thought.

He heard a kick, a groan. “You!” said a man. “Where’s the other one?”

“I told him to run,” came Simeon’s voice, weakly.

“Tracks!” cried another, closer. “Going that way.”

“What about this one?” asked yet another.

“Finish him,” said the first.

A shot rang out. Boris clenched his teeth.

“Is he in that shed?” said one of the men.

“Take a look,” said the first – their commander.

A moment later someone kicked the shed door in. “It’s dark in here. Has someone got a match?”

A flare of light, a moment, a small cry of pain, a curse, then darkness. Another flare of light.

“Don’t waste your time. Look here! Tracks!” said one of the men.

“It’s like he said,” another offered. “The other one ran off this way.”

He then heard a number of men run off, following the tracks. One – their leader – stood next to the open shed door.

The Communist leader lit a cigarette and smoked the whole thing. Boris held his teeth as hard as he could to avoid making any sound.

Then he heard the man toss the cigarette on the ground, grind it out, and trudge off after his men.

He waited several more minutes. The sounds of pursuit dwindled, but did not entirely disappear.

Boris threw off the tarp, staggered to his feet, and left the shed.

It was dark, but he saw a splotch of white that he knew – with sickening realisation – was the trooper who had saved his life.

He ran as best he could to Simeon’s side and knelt down.

Simeon had been hit with two or three bullets. He had a bandage wrapped around his left arm, red with blood.

They had finished him with a shot through his head.

Follow the runoff down to the road.

Boris ran, making sure he kept to the water, even when it made him slip.OOC: This takes place around the 22nd.

Near Pazardzik, BulgariaBoris slipped repeatedly as he ran down the hillside, following the rainwater as it sluiced down the slope.

Follow the runoff down to the road.

He ran until he could run no more, and then, looking up, saw the road before him. Exhausted, he pulled himself up under a bush and hunched down to keep the water off his head. He did not intend to sit for long, just enough to regain his strength. Far away, he still heard the sounds of his pursuers, but they appeared to be moving off to his left,

Head in his arms, his mind caught up with him.

And, like a hammer blow, the full extent of Simeon’s ruse struck him.

The young trooper had carried the prince to the shed so that there would be but one set of tracks leading up to it. He then ran off in the fashion of a man who, in desperate flight, had careened off the structure in haste and kept moving. He had gone some distance, doubled back, and used a rivulet or a gully to hide his tracks before returning to the shed, making sure his last several paces were also concealed by the runoff.

Then he feigned remaining behind to hold off the pursuers while his comrade ran.

But Simeon had taken it for granted that the Communists would know that there were two of them and that one was wounded. He also wanted them to believe that the man, unable to continue, had sacrificed himself for his abler companion. But such a ruse would only be convincing if Simeon looked like [I]he was that injured man.

And so he had shot himself.

The wound on his arm had been bandaged, but was bleeding. It would be easy for such a wound to break open, so the presence of fresh blood on the cloth would arouse no suspicion. It had probably only been a grazing wound, but nonetheless the fact remained: Simeon had shot himself and then bandaged the wound.

Moreover, he had used the rifle – which they knew he had – rather than his automatic. The rifle’s report would be different, and so the pursuers could easily think they were being shot at; had Simeon used the pistol first, the men might have been suspicious. As they took cover and began to advance, he must have bandaged his wound, taking a moment to discharge the rifle again – it didn’t matter if the shot was aimed, for it was the sound Simeon sought, consistent with the illusion of desperate defence. It kept the pursuers from rushing him – if only for a moment – and gave him time to finish his bandage, raise the rifle, and give a last convincing account of himself before going down.

After which the Communists, seeing a scene consistent with their expectations, had continued on – and in doing so given Boris a chance to escape.

The Crown Prince sat, drenched with rain, but more in shock from the extent of his companions sacrifice. It was an unparalleled act of heroism, and Boris was not at all sure that he could make it worthwhile.

Near Pazardzik, BulgariaUnteroffizer Walter von Reichenau and his men froze when they heard the shots.

The flurry of shots didn’t last long, but it was clearly the sound of some kind of gunfight, and not just some poacher taking advantage of the rain to keep from being tracked.

“It was from over there,” whispered one of the soldiers, “Up that embankment.”

“Spread out,” said von Reichenau. “Remember that we want prisoners.”

The men had not been told their real mission. They didn’t need to know, and it would avoid complications if one were captured. Taking people alive and asking them questions was exactly what their mission called for, and since this was indistinguishable from a normal reconnaissance, keeping the rest of the mission from the men presented no problem.

They continued forward quite some distance, following the stony embankment that ran just above the road.

One of the men – it was Heinrich - called out. “Walter!”

Damn him, thought the Unteroffizer. That’s what comes of whiling away the hours playing cards for pocket change.

He reached the trooper’s position. “While on duty,” he hissed, “I am Unteroffizer von Reichenau to you. Never forget that!”

Heinrich was pointing his carbine toward a young man in what looked like some kind of uniform, but not one he recognised, who had slumped over on his side, apparently while curled up under some small bushes. He had a bullet wound in his shoulder – it had once been dressed, but had since broken open.

“Shall we shoot him?” asked Heinrich, nodding towards the young man's uniform.

Heinrich, you idiot, he thought. “No, he doesn't wear the Bulgarian uniform.” answered the Unteroffizer, pulling out his canteen. At least I don’t think it is, although there’s something about it that seems familiar, he thought.

He took the man’s pistol – a Bulgarian service revolver – and handed it to Heinrich. Then he gave the man a swallow of water. He suppressed his shock when he realised that, while this was just a boy of 18, he had apparently ripped off the rank insignia of a Bulgarian major. His heart raced.

The boy came around. “What’s your name, soldier?” asked von Reichenau.

“Kliment,” answered the wounded man, while trying to focus his eyes on the shady figures standing above him. “Germans?”

“Let's take him back to base. Dietrich, bandage his wounds.'”

“But the reconnaissance...?” began Heinrich.

“...Is over,” said von Reichenau curtly.

By dawn they were well up into the Rhodope Mountains. Behind them, far off in the distance, as the sky began to glow heralding the coming day, the hazy silhouette of Plovdiv – or Pazardzik, or some infernal town whose name began with a “P” - grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared.OOC: This occurs around the morning of the 23rd. A Bulgarian cavalry uniform doesn't quite look like their infantry uniform... (http://vicmart.com/ext/items/ec9505e0_milPC4.jpg)

July 31st, 1912Outside Sofia, BulgariaPrime Minister Stambolisky and General Averescu entered the tent where the negotiations were going to occur. They were lead to a set of tables arrayed in a square with one end open. There were two seats on one side, four on the other, and one between them.

A few minutes later, Crown Prince Alexander of Serbia appeared. He greeted his Bulgarian and Romanian counterparts and took the lone seat. At about the same time, a German officer – an SS Gruppenführer - and Crown Prince Constantine of Greece arrived and stood next to two seats opposite the pair. Strangely, they did not sit.

Then Generalmajor Joseph Pomiankowski entered, taking the seat closest to Crown Prince Alexander. He did not sit either. Suddenly, a thought entered Stambolisky’s head, and he rose, pointing sharply at the empty seat between Pomiankowski and Crown Prince Constantine.

“I will not meet with that pig of a traitor Kutinchev!” he said heatedly.

“General Kutinchev will not be here today,” said Pomiankowski, with a slight smile. And with that, he turned to the door.

A young man of eighteen, wearing the uniform of a Bulgarian major of the Guards Cavalry Regiment, along with several medals – including, noticed Stambolsky, one for having been wounded in combat – entered the room and took the middle seat. With that, the four of them all sat.

Stambolisky recognised the young man; he was white. Averescu, who didn’t, looked at his comrade with concern.

Pomiankowski noticed the non-verbal exchange. “General Averescu, I believe that you have never met Clemens Robert Maria Pius Ludwig Stanislaus Xaver, Prince Boris of Tirnovo, Crown Prince of Bulgaria.”

Averescu straightened. “What sort of trick is this?!?” he said loudly.

“It is no trick,” replied Boris. “The reports of my demise, as they say, were greatly exaggerated.”

“You are an imposter! You must be!” spat the General.

“He is not, my friend,” said Stambolisky weakly. “He is indeed the son of Tsar Ferdinand.”

“Indeed,” said Prince Boris, smiling. “General Averescu, all of Bulgaria wishes to thank the brave Romanian soldiers for helping us to get rid of the communist scum. Now, however, the danger is over and the Romanian armies have no reason to stay. We request that the Romanian army retreat from Bulgaria.”

The irony of the young Prince’s choice of words was not lost on either General nor Prime Minister.

Early August, 1912Outside Sofia, BulgariaThe negotiations that followed took quite some time; there were many arguments, many threatened walkout, but at last, finally, painfully, a settlement of sorts was reached.

All Serbian forces would withdraw from Bulgaria, and no one would impede their withdrawal; this happened almost immediately. The same would hold true for all k.u.k. and German forces, although their withdrawal would be timed to occur at the same time as the other powers. The Dual Monarchy would prevail upon the the Porte to remove any of its forces that might have strayed into Bulgaria.

That left Roumania, Greece, and the final status of Bulgaria to settle...OOC: New Dracora, once Roumania withdraws from Bulgarian soil (keeping the two northeastern provinces, of course), will Greece remove its forces? I would strongly recommend this for the sake of good relations with Bulgaria.

Four people sat at the negotiating table: general Averescu, representing Romania; Stambolisky, the still prime-minister of the Bulgarian-Romanian kingdom, now little more than a figure-head; prince Boris of Bulgaria; and Kutinchev, appointed by Boris as prime-minister of Bulgaria. Stambolisky and Kutinchev could barely hide their distrust for one another, as the two eyed eachother from across the table.

"Sire, Gentlemen", began Averescu preemptively, "let us forget for the moment our personal animosities. Our purpose today is to forge a lasting agreement between Romania and Bulgaria, not to quarrel like a group of old ladies."

Everybody could see that Averescu's mentioning of Bulgaria and Romania as separate entities did not sit well with Stambolisky, but the introduction served its purpose well enough, as Boris and Kutinchev relaxed visibly. Kutinchev opened the discutions for the Bulgarian side:

"I have to say I'm happy to see you have abandoned that nonsense about a united Bulgaria and Romania."

"But of course", intervened Averescu smoothly. "Once the true heir appeared, that was the only proper thing to do. Please believe us that our only concern has been to offer your country a strong monarch, as it diserves. After all, Your Highness", he said turning toward Boris, "can you not see the many simmilarities between Prince Carol and yourself? You are both young, vigurous, you both come from distinguished European families, you even have the same age, 18."

"Yeah, right", muttered Boris under his breath. Pretending not to hear the comment, Averescu continued:

"I'm sure you know Romania entered the war for the two provinces of Varna and Ruse. Since then, however, we have performed many other services to your country, eliminating the Communist threat from your lands. For these reasons, we feel Romania should be entitled to more than our original demands."

"What?" Kutinchev was outraged. "What gives you the right to make such demands?"

"The fact that we control three quarters of your country, maybe" answered Averescu coldly. "While you controll less than a quarter, provided the Greeks are nice and you don't do anything to upset them."

"Let's see what are they proposing, mr. prime-minister", said Boris to Kutinchev. "I believe our priority is to see the Bulgarian soil free of all the foreign armies, as soon as possible."

"Your Highness, we propose the following: Varna and Ruse will be immediately annexed to Romania; the other two provinces north of the Balkan Mountains (Lovech and Montana) will remain under Romanian administration; the other teritories currently occupied by Romania will be given to your administration; in exchange for Lovech and Montana, the Romanian army will help the Bulgarians conquer the Adrianople vilayet from Turkey; after the conquest is completed, Lovech and Montana will be annexed to Romania; if, for any reason, Bulgaria doesn't get Adrianople, the two north-western provinces will be given back to Bulgaria."

"No way! You can't be serious! Are you asking me to abandon half of my country?"

"But Your Highness, your gains will more than compensate for your losses. Sure you can see that."

"I only see you're asking me to abandon half of my subjects; my honour prevents me from accepting such a deal."

Averescu sighed. "In that case, we can just apply the final point of my proposal. You don't get Adrianople, so we abandon Lovech and Montana. Is this proposal satisfactory?"

"No, it's not, but we have no choice but to accept it", replied Boris with a bitter tone. "Is that all?"

"I'm afraid it's not, Your Highness. Like I said, we have also performed certain services to the Bulgarian state, services that must be rewarded. Your very survival could be due to the fact that the Communists were too busy fighting us to bother looking for you. Our expenses must be repaid."

"So you're not only asking for land, but also for money?' exploded Kutinchev. We'll never accept these outrageous terms.

"Suit yourself, but be aware that right now we're in the middle of a land reform in all the teritories we control. If you support it, feel free to prolong the negotiations; if you don't, remember the more we talk, the more land will be given away."

"Let's say we agree to the compensations. Are they your last demans?" asked Prince Boris.

"Yes, Your Highness. We only want your guarantess that you won't outlaw Mr. Stambolisky's Agrarian Party and that you won't threaten his life."

"This traitor, this boot-licking swine, this Romanian lackey, you want us to let him be? Why, I longed for the day when-"

"Mr. Kutinchev, please control yourself." Prince Boris continued: "It is not a big price to pay. Of course, this doesn't mean I'll ever appoint him as prime-minister or that I'll maintain his reforms."

"Of course", agreed Averescu. "But please remember that a right once given is hard to withdraw. The peasants in three quarters of your country have seen the posibility of receiving land. Also, all the people in Bulgaria have been promissed universal suffrage. We'll not interfere in your internal affaires, but I advise you to be carefull. And any move against Mr. Stambolisky and his party will be considered an act of war against Romania. We don't abandon our friends."

"Agreed, then." said Boris without commenting Averescu's words. He got up from the table. "Good by, gentlemen, and may I never see you again."

Sofiia, BulgariaLate August, 1912"Agreed, then." said Boris without commenting Averescu's words. He got up from the table. "Good bye, gentlemen, and may I never see you again."Or that was how General Averescu imagined the meeting would go in his mind, when he prepared himself for it that morning. But imaginings are not reality...

“Your Highness,” began the General, “We propose the following: Varna and Ruse will be immediately annexed to Romania; the other two provinces north of the Balkan Mountains - Lovech and Montana - will remain under Romanian administration; the other teritories currently occupied by Romania will be given to your administration; in exchange for Lovech and Montana, the Romanian army will help the Bulgarians conquer the Adrianople vilayet from Turkey; after the conquest is completed, Lovech and Montana will be annexed to Romania; if, for any reason, Bulgaria doesn't get Adrianople, the two north-western provinces will be given back to Bulgaria.”

Boris simply sat there, reflecting on something no one else could see.

They waited.

My squadron.

Grigor.

Kyril.

Stefan.

Todor.

Simeon.

Kutinchev’s whole army, who could have just gone home, but stayed and fought, because their General insisted that I might be alive, that there might be hope.

“Your Highness?” asked Averescu, wondering if the boy had suffered some kind of wound to the head.

“No,” said Boris, simply. “No.”

Silence filled the room. Averescu had not expected this. In his mind’s eye, he had anticipated ranting, raving, threats, but not a simple, soft, refusal.

Pulling himself back into composure, he continued from where his script had left off.

“Your Highness, your gains will more than compensate for your losses, making this a fair deal. Surely you can see that,” began Averescu.

Boris’ eyes drilled straight into the General’s. “No,” he repeated, as if that were all that he needed to say.

“My I ask why not?” said Averescu, regaining his composure.

“Because I will not disgrace the memory of the men who gave their lives to save mine,” said the Crown Prince softly, with an expression of calm certainty. Next to him Kutinchev allowed his lips to gather into a slight smile of both pride and approval. “Nor will I ask the people of Bulgaria, who have suffered enough already, to fight yet another war just so that you can be permitted to take even more of their homeland – even if you generously offer to assist us in wresting compensation for our losses from somebody else.”

The implicit sarcasm of the last phrase was not lost on the Romanian general.

“Well, then,” he said, with feigned nonchalance, “In that case, we can just apply the final point of my proposal. You don't get Adrianople, so we abandon Lovech and Montana. Is this proposal satisfactory?”

Boris looked Averescu in the eye again. “No, but I’m sure my disapproval doesn’t really matter. You will not let go of Ruse or Varna without a fight, and so for now they will remain in your hands.”

“Very good, I’m glad we agree on that point, then,” smiled Averescu, happy to be back on familiar ground. “Now there is the matter of our compensation. We have also performed certain services to the Bulgarian state, services that must be rewarded. Your very survival could be due to the fact that the Communists were too busy fighting us to bother looking for you. Our expenses must be repaid.”

Kutinchev erupted, as Averescu had known he would. “So you're not only asking for land, but also for money?' he growled. “We'll never accept these outrageous terms.”

“Suit yourself,” smiled Averescu, sure that he held the upper hand, “But be aware that right now we're in the middle of a land reform in all the teritories we control. If you support it, feel free to prolong the negotiations; if you don't, remember the more we talk, the more land will be given away.”

“There will be land reform anyway,” said Boris, surprising everyone. “But on an equitable basis, not just as a reward for service to a foreign invader. I’m sure that loyal Bulgarians will both wait for the program that has been legally enacted by their government rather than partaking of the theft undertaken by yours – and show the proper degree of disdain for those traitors who decided to take land from you and now insist on keeping it.”

Averescu blanched, but quickly regained his composure. I’ll have to go off script for a moment. “Then consider the compensation we demand the price of our evacuation from Lovech and Montana,” he said with a cold smile.

Boris eyed him coolly. “That’s exactly what it is. Just keep in mind that the people of Bulgaria will remember whatever ‘reparations’” you impose on them. What’s next on your agenda?”

Averescu had to remind himself that, even in Boris was proving to be a more unsettling opponent than he had imagined, Roumania was still getting what it wanted – more or less. Still, it would have been enjoyable to smash those d_mn_d treacherous Turks, he thought.

“We only want your guarantees that you won't outlaw Mr. Stambolisky's Agrarian Party and that you won't threaten his life,” continued the General calmly.

Predictably, Kutinchev began to speak, but Prince Boris stilled him by placing a hand on his. Averescu was startled. It was almost as though Boris had adopted the old warrior as a surrogate father.

“There will be a general amnesty for all who took up arms against us,” said Boris. “Both Communists…” - Kutinchev drew in his breath sharply – “… And those who betrayed us to Roumania. Of course, those who committed unconscionable acts in the course of their treason – such as murdering prisoners or political enemies – will be punished. The rest...” – here Boris looked at Stambolisky, who had been silent – “… Will merely be remembered for what they did and who they did it for. But they will not be harmed, if that is what you are asking.”

Averescu was glad to be back on script. “I am sure that Mr. Stambolisky’s actions will be seen by the people of Bulgaria in their proper light, and that in time he will be viewed as a visionary,” he crooned. Kutinchev glowered. “We'll not interfere in your internal affairs,” persisted the General, “But I advise you to be careful. Any move against Mr. Stambolisky and his party will be considered an act of war against Romania. We don't abandon our friends.”

“Of course not,” said Boris softly. “But we Bulgarians don’t forget our enemies, either.”OOC: Bogie, I just had to adjust the RP and embellish it a bit. You got what you wanted, along with a few surprises (amnesty and continuing land reform). But at this point, I’m going to consider Bulgaria to be an uncontrolled state, leaning toward Greece and the Dual Monarchy. Stambolisky’s Agrarian Party will be your cat’s paw, but its popularity may be a bit less than you imagine, what with a Communist Party cutting into its base and a lot of Bulgarians remembering Stambolisky’s “treason”.

That left Roumania, Greece, and the final status of Bulgaria to settle...[/INDENT][/INDENT]OOC: New Dracora, once Roumania withdraws from Bulgarian soil (keeping the two northeastern provinces, of course), will Greece remove its forces? I would strongly recommend this for the sake of good relations with Bulgaria.

ooc: We will yes, and will even go further and offer assistance in both reconstruction efforts and security (if Bulgaria so desires).

We'll be keeping our commie POW's however...

ooc: We'll be keeping our commie POW's however...POW's? What POW's? ;)

August 21st, 1912

The soldiers were parading on Calea Victoriei as the crowd on either side of the boulevard was cheering them. Although some people claimed the war hadn't been quite victorious, the papers had mostly insisted on Romania's gains and the low casualty figure.

The recently reinstated Bogmih governement was still enjoing a large degree of popularity, due to the announced land and electoral reforms. The only bleamish on their record was the failed attempt of a Bulgarian-Romanian kingdom, but that failure was justified by all the party newspapers through the unexpected apparition of Boris, now Tsar of Bulgaria. Some of them even claimed that "the brave Romanian soldiers had saved the Bulgarian monarchy".

All the troops were happy knowing that, after the end of the festivities, they'll be demobilized and they'll finally be able to see again their wives or mothers.

OOC: So the demobilisation begins on August 21st.

Der Ballplatz, Vienna“It’s over in the Balkans at last,” said Count Bertchold with relief, although his voice was tinged with sadness. He laughed bitterly. “Now we only have the rest of the world to deal with.”

Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf nodded. “At least this frees up forces for use elsewhere, especially with the Serb and Montenegrin demobilisations,” he observed.

“Or we could begin sending people home,” remarked the Foreign Minister. “That’s a welcome prospect.”

‘We should wait and see on that,” replied the Chief of Staff. “Things are still too unsettled for that move yet.”

“You will be moving them back from the border, though?” asked Bertchold with concerne.

“Absolutely,” replied Conrad. “That would be proper and expected, given Roumania’s latest move - just as it was with Russia. We’ll keep some troops near Sarajevo and some near Budapest, to be sure. And the Albanian garrison will remain in place, although we’ll finally be able to reduce it to 50,000, as we had originally planed. That will be partially offset by the increased deployment to the Near East – which is going quite well, I might add. The Arab forces that we’re training are coming along nicely. We may yet make our December deadline.”

“Well, at least that’s another piece of good news. I’ll pass that along to the Porte,” said the Foreign Minister. “Now if we can only get a break everywhere else.”OOC: The withdrawals will begin on August 21st as well (asuming your demobilisation is announced early enough in the day). The construction of permanent fortifications in Transylvania, the Sanjak, and Albania will (of course) continue, as will the establishment and training of an Albanian army.