Date: March 7th, 1905 – Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia
The morning of March 7th dawned with a crispness that hinted at the lingering Serbian winter. Petar had spent a good portion of the night staring at the ceiling of his grand bedchamber, his mind replaying conversations, sifting through data from maps and financial reports, and now, anticipating his first direct engagement with the rank and file of his army. He felt a nervous energy, the kind Alex Volkov used to get before a major engineering exam, but magnified a hundredfold by the stakes involved. This wasn't about a grade; it was about the foundations of an empire.
Colonel Mišić, his aide-de-camp, arrived as Petar was finishing a spartan breakfast. The Colonel's face was, as usual, composed, but Petar thought he detected a flicker of anticipation in the older man's eyes. "The 7th Infantry Regiment is prepared for Your Majesty's visit," Mišić reported. "General Putnik will meet us there. He has informed the regimental commander, Colonel Jovanović, that Your Majesty wishes for an informal observation, not a full ceremonial review."
"Excellent, Colonel," Petar said, rising. "That is precisely what I intend. I want to see the army as it is, not as it presents itself for a parade." He adjusted the simple, dark green service uniform he had chosen for the occasion, devoid of excessive gold braid or medals he hadn't earned in this lifetime. He wanted to appear as a soldier among soldiers, albeit their King.
The journey to the Topčider barracks, where the 7th Regiment was garrisoned on the outskirts of Belgrade, was short. The royal carriage, though modest by imperial standards, still drew curious gazes from the early morning citizens. Petar watched them, his people, their faces etched with the daily concerns of life in a small, often struggling kingdom. It was for them, ultimately, that he was undertaking this monumental task – or so he told himself. Their security, their prosperity, under the banner of a new, stronger order.
The barracks themselves were a collection of sturdy but aged stone and brick buildings, arranged around a large, windswept parade ground. Soldiers, alerted to the King's arrival, were already formed up, not in rigid parade lines, but in their company groups, a ripple of activity ceasing as the carriage drew to a halt. General Putnik was there, alongside a portly, moustachioed officer whom Petar assumed was Colonel Stevan Jovanović, the regimental commander.
As Petar alighted, Jovanović barked a command, and the soldiers snapped to attention with a collective stamp of boots that echoed across the square. The Colonel bustled forward, his face flushed, and delivered a somewhat breathless salute. "Your Majesty! Welcome to the barracks of the 7th Infantry Regiment! It is a great honor!"
"Thank you, Colonel Jovanović, General Putnik," Petar said, returning the salute with a crispness that felt surprisingly natural. "I appreciate you accommodating my request for a less formal visit. I am here to observe, to learn, and to see the men who form the backbone of Serbia's defense."
He began his inspection not with the formed troops, but with a request that seemed to take Colonel Jovanović by surprise. "Colonel, before anything else, I should like to see the men's living quarters and their kitchens."
A flicker of consternation crossed Jovanović's face before he masked it. "Of course, Your Majesty! This way, please!"
The barracks were clean, but spartan to an extreme. Long dormitories were filled with tightly packed iron cots, each with a neatly folded blanket and a small personal kit. The air was thick with the smell of old wood, disinfectant, and lingering human habitation. Petar walked slowly down the aisles, occasionally stopping to run a hand over a cot or peer into a locker. Alex Volkov's practical mind noted the worn floorboards, the drafty windows, the general lack of amenities that would be considered basic in his own time.
In the kitchens, large cauldrons steamed with what smelled like a simple bean stew. Loaves of dark bread were stacked nearby. Petar picked up a piece of the bread, examined its texture, and even took a small bite, much to the surprise of the onlooking cooks and Colonel Jovanović. It was coarse, but wholesome. "The rations seem adequate, if basic," Petar commented. "Are there provisions for fresh vegetables and meat regularly?" "We do our best with the budget allocated, Your Majesty," Jovanović replied, a little defensively.
Next, Petar asked to see the regimental armory and equipment stores. Here, his scrutiny became more intense. He picked up Mauser-Koka rifles, testing their bolts, peering down their barrels. He had Alex's memory of firearms, though no practical experience until now. He noted some rifles with worn stocks, others with hints of rust that indicated less-than-perfect maintenance. "These are good weapons," he observed, "but they require constant care. Are the men well-drilled in their maintenance?"
He then moved to the ammunition stores. Crates of cartridges were neatly stacked. "What is our standard combat load per soldier, Colonel? And what are the regimental reserves like?" Jovanović provided figures, which Petar mentally cross-referenced with what Putnik had told him about national reserves.
He spent some time looking at the other equipment: haversacks, canteens, entrenching tools, and most importantly to him, boots. He picked up a pair of soldier's boots from a rack. The leather was thick but worn; the soles on some were clearly thinning. "A soldier fights on his feet, Colonel," Petar said, his voice serious. "The quality and condition of his boots are paramount. Are these the standard issue? What is their expected lifespan under field conditions?" This line of questioning was clearly unexpected. Colonel Jovanović stammered slightly before assuring the King that boot quality was a constant concern and that replacements were issued as regularly as supplies allowed.
After the stores, Petar finally turned his attention to the men themselves, who were now engaged in various training drills on the parade ground. He watched a company practicing close-order drill, their movements precise, if a little mechanical. He observed another group engaged in bayonet practice against straw dummies, their shouts fierce. "Discipline seems good," he remarked to Putnik, who had been observing him quietly. "But modern warfare is more than just parade ground maneuvers and bayonet charges."
He then walked over to a platoon that was being instructed on setting up a defensive position. He listened as a young lieutenant explained the principles of creating firing steps and providing interlocking fields of fire. Petar, drawing on Alex's knowledge of 20th-century warfare, interjected. "Lieutenant," he said, his tone inquisitive rather than critical, "that is well explained. But how would you incorporate machine gun emplacements into this defensive scheme to cover your flanks and create killing zones? And how do your men practice fire-and-maneuver tactics when advancing, to minimize exposure to enemy fire?"
The young officer, startled by the King's direct and knowledgeable questions, managed a reasonably coherent answer, but it was clear that these were areas where training was perhaps more theoretical than practical. Petar saw Putnik make a subtle note in a small pad.
It was during this part of the visit that Petar did something truly unconventional. He approached a group of soldiers who were taking a brief rest after a particularly strenuous drill. Their faces were sweaty, their uniforms dusty. "Soldiers," he said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet that fell. "Your King thanks you for your hard work and dedication." He then began to ask them questions directly, bypassing the officers for a moment. "Where are you from? How long have you served? Is the food adequate? Are your officers treating you fairly?"
The men were initially struck dumb, looking nervously towards their NCOs and Colonel Jovanović, who hovered anxiously nearby. But Petar's demeanor was open, his gaze direct and seemingly genuinely interested. Slowly, a few of them began to speak, their answers initially hesitant, then more forthcoming. They spoke of pride in their service, but also of homesickness, of worn-out uniforms, of the monotony of some aspects of their training. One young private from a village in Šumadija, his face earnest, even complained about the quality of the thread they were given to mend their clothes.
Petar listened patiently to each one, nodding, occasionally asking a follow-up question. He didn't make any grand promises, but his willingness to listen clearly had an impact. Alex knew that connecting with the common man, or in this case, the common soldier, was a powerful tool of leadership, one often neglected by distant rulers.
He also made a point of speaking with several non-commissioned officers, the sergeants and corporals who were the true conduits between officers and enlisted men. He asked about their challenges in training and leading their squads and platoons. He was looking for sparks of initiative, for men who thought beyond the regulations. He found a few, including a tough-looking sergeant whose squad seemed particularly sharp and whose answers were clear and insightful. Petar made a mental note of his name.
The visit lasted for over three hours. By the time Petar was ready to depart, he had a much more visceral understanding of the 7th Infantry Regiment – its strengths, which lay in the resilience and basic discipline of its men, and its weaknesses, which were rooted in resource constraints, outdated equipment in some areas, and perhaps a training doctrine that hadn't fully caught up with the evolving nature of warfare.
"Colonel Jovanović," Petar said as he prepared to leave, "thank you for your candor and for allowing me such open access to your regiment. You have good men here. They are the strength of Serbia. We, in turn, must ensure they have the best possible leadership, equipment, and training to do their duty effectively." He turned to General Putnik. "General, this visit has been most illuminating. It has given me much to consider."
"Your Majesty's interest is a great encouragement to the army," Putnik replied, his expression still hard to read, but Petar sensed a grudging approval.
On the carriage ride back to the Stari Dvor, Petar was largely silent, his mind processing the myriad impressions from the morning. Colonel Mišić, respecting the King's contemplative mood, did not intrude.
The boots. The worn boots kept coming back to him. It was such a small thing, yet so symbolic. An army that couldn't keep its soldiers properly shod was an army with fundamental problems. And the machine guns – or the lack thereof, and the lack of deep tactical integration. That was a far larger, more pressing concern.
He had seen the raw material – the tough, stoic Serbian peasant soldier. Brave, yes. Enduring, certainly. But bravery and endurance alone wouldn't be enough against the industrialized armies of major powers, or even well-equipped regional rivals. They needed better tools, better training, and leadership that could harness their potential effectively.
Back in his study, he immediately began to write. Not a decree, but a series of notes for himself, points to raise with Putnik and Pašić, and eventually Paču.
Immediate review of boot procurement and quality.
Feasibility study for increased domestic production of basic uniform items – even thread.
Accelerated program for machine gun acquisition and training – this is non-negotiable.
Review of officer training, with an emphasis on initiative and modern combined-arms tactics.
Identify and promote promising NCOs – the backbone needs strengthening.
He felt a surge of determination. These were concrete, actionable items. They weren't the grand strategy of empire-building, not yet. But they were the essential first steps in sharpening the spear that Serbia would undoubtedly need. He, Petar, with Alex's intrusive, invaluable knowledge, would see to it.