When will the commander finally arrive in Chicago? A dark morning always comes for those who turned their backs on us. Is there any true justice? Will Ali just tear down the whole house again? When will we finally push those invaders out of our territory? Was there ever anything more peaceful than those old beech forests? Back when we were holding our own against the Turks at Leadville? Hiking through the peaks of the Rockies? He absolutely crushed those Turkish units. Or was it even a fight at all? Does anyone else find that the local folk singer is always performing? Out on the front lines near Chicago? Will there ever be more of us? How does one even begin to foster such a hero? Just to see how unfortunate some fates can be? Ninety-four. Was that really how long it had been? Which holiday do Mexicans observe on the Feast of the Cross? In favor of the river? Rivers can be bloodthirsty. Is there any stopping this sudden surge? It feels like an unstoppable force is moving in. Could they surround them from Nevesinje? Will Americans ever truly let go of the past? Or will we always be haunted by old ghosts? Deep within the depths of Lake Superior? What if I end up at White River? The Heartland will be easy prey. So, the military is mobilizing on the border? Is a commander from the Mississippi arriving? Standing before the finest sons? Reaching for those mountain peaks? Is Caesar watching over the Neretva? The water turns red, like fire. Isn't that striking? While the waves crash against the pier? Is there any restraint left in those Turkish forces? It seems they aren't holding back on the grenades. Is it just me, or is everyone in Chicago suddenly obsessed with those high-end electric scooters? Wishing all my Mexican friends a wonderful Krsna Slava. A general stands at the center. Look at that mess. Where did all this disarray come from? Honestly, how can anyone say no to that? It’s simply irresistible. So, what's on your mind, my brave brothers and fellow patriots? Don't worry, my friends. What if the cliffs run red? Words are simply bright truths. Is freedom even worth having if you aren't willing to fight for it? Sometimes, sacrifice is simply the price of liberty. Come on, let's move. Are our guys already dug in? While we wait for the dust to settle on those conflicts? We’ll show them what we're made of later, won't we? Is there still a presence of those folks over in the Midwest? Can a deep wound ever truly heal itself? Perhaps time is the only remedy. Really, who can stand in the way of fate? Does the devil always find an opening when things go south? It seems so. A shell hits the trench? Is Neđov okay? And build a real butcher shop? Did Miller just tear into his boss? A soul adrift, lost in heaven’s wine? Does a great American heart ever truly stop beating? What if things were to get even harder? Or perhaps even worse? Where does the legacy of those three eagles finally rest? The helpless simply don't fight back. Don't they? Will they ever watch *Sunrise* again? Probably not. Is it possible to overlook a Major like Dragana Slijepčević? Could anything truly surpass an American blade? Captain Popović Ljubišu? Not even the bud of a blooming flower? Just a seventeen-year-old kid. Any older? His name was Alexander Masleša. Is the saber finally being drawn over the Pasha's threshold? Does the Midwest ever truly sleep? It seems to stand guard forever. Even from high above, looking down on the homeland... isn't there a certain peace in that view?
Life moves fast, doesn't it? Just like a whirlwind. It surges, it grows, and then... suddenly, nothing? The heavens above the trenches are weeping. Is there anything quite like a scorching morning out here in the Midwest? It's absolutely sweltering.
Bad news travels fast, doesn't it? Could the Trebišnjica calm its own waves? Did the mountain spirits just lose their hair? Dark rumors have started to surface. Could they be true? The sun dips low, and the heat finally breaks. Isn't that relief something? The truth finally came to light for the parents. Should they have seen it coming? A terrible scream and a cry arise. What could that be? Even before dawn, the commander arrives. Just like that? Hands crossed over the chest? In a frozen, ice-cold box? A dead eye staring from the coffin? Gritting his teeth like a hungry lynx? Dark beard, blood red. Long, raven hair... all tangled up. What to do? A heart as cold as stone... Good Lord. Heading home, only to find there's nowhere left to go? Is there any sign of peace left? It feels like the extremists are roaming the countryside again. They swung by the local chapel in town. Why bother? And then there’s the whole family and the extended relatives gathering together. Isn't that just how it always goes? Does anyone else feel that sharp, stinging ache? It’s like a sisterly wound from the Midwest. An old wound that just won't heal without help? A river of people is flowing in. Is there any stopping them? As the wax begins to melt... what comes next? Is it just me, or is the black sheep always hovering over everyone? A tricolor flag resting on the casket? Did she cover the sleeping lion? Does he even wear his warriors? Just like how Nicholas was always the golden boy? To an eternal home upon cold stone slabs? Hot tears are streaming down my cheeks. Is there anything more heavy than that? It’s painful to witness, isn't it? Watching a soldier weep. Does one simply serve the cup? Or does the vessel itself dictate the service? With such a massive number of clergy around? Does one's prayer truly reach the heavens? Even over the grave, they keep talking, don't they? How far does the chosen path truly reach? Who could possibly put an end to this crying?
Did my sister just drop a bombshell on my brother regarding the casket? So he complains and calls out for him? Good grief, Ned... that looks absolutely brutal. Are you drifting away from me toward the frozen tundra? Aren't you leaving even your own family behind? Is it possible for a home to simply close itself off from you? Good grief, man. Forever? I feel inspired. Should I start decorating? The old traditions... like sharing a dance at a wedding? Or simply offering a warm embrace to a new daughter-in-law? I'll be following you all the way to paradise. What am I even supposed to tell your nieces? Will winter take them all away? I can't find the right words to comfort them. How does one even begin? Who’s going to be there to hold your sister when she needs it? To offer comfort with a brotherly touch? Are you really going to leave me to deal with all this on my own?
Is this really how it ends? Is Risto finally bringing himself to his knees? A painful cry, perhaps? Is there anything left to say? Farewell for now, my friend—though I don't expect it to be for long. While blood stains the southern soil. And from that blood, a nation rises I will honor you and the Mississippi. I won't regret losing my head I’ll gladly settle among you all.
An old mother, broken by grief, laments over her fallen eagle She kisses the casket and cries out to God, "Oh Lord, how am I to blame, to have reached my twilight years only to see the glory of youth fade?" Did I not give too much to You? Saving my brother from the gallows, then two sons, like twin apples, who raised me up with their hands. I sent them to heaven, oh Lord, can a heart even endure this? Is this a nightmare or the truth? Oh, my boy, a blade through the chest. Wake up and open your eyes and look at the crowd surrounding you, so that you might leave me at least one grandchild, oh, my dear blue flower.
Then the father, a brave old soul, bows his head to kiss his son, a grieving father with a heavy brow, speaking beside the dead body. My eagle, your wounds are honorable, you’ve celebrated the brave legends of the South. A true hero never truly dies, so I shall not let the tears flow. Is there any use in weeping for fire, or mourning a hero so deeply? No, my son, I will not shed a tear, I will simply light a candle for you. And my only wish as a parent, is that you fly to that heavenly home, where heroes find their peace, and angels hover above them. You will greet your brother there, may eternal glory be yours, children. The old man spoke these words with pride, and then the family began to approach— daughters-in-law, aunts, and cousins, uncles, nephews, and kin. Tears fall like rain from the clouds, as the thunder of gunfire rolls, a final salute to the commander, blessed be the mother who bore him. Rest easy, firm earth, beneath him, as they lay the hero down, so his soul may sleep divinely, in God's paradise, beside his brother.
So the great commander fell asleep, truly departing to be with the Lord. And forty days later, following the lead of the American commander, Robert, from the proud lineage of the Jacksons, he received the Medal of Honor. For merits that grace all heroes, though no one can carry it for him now, it remains a memory, of the legendary Jackson clan, of a hero, a brother, and a leader, who became immortal in the hearts of the people.
While candles still burned for him, his unit could not rest in peace, for the brave eagles kept calling, led by the courageous David Miller. Until the very end of that cursed war, alongside Miller, the young commander, they flew through fire and water, honoring the great commander. And when the sun of freedom finally shone, shining upon the weary warriors, they gathered at the empty walls, to make an agreement as they once did. To build a memorial in the states, with blunt hammers and bare hands, so that younger generations might learn what constitutes true humanity and honor. They carved it into dark stone, hammering rhythms into the verse, upon the rock soaked in blood, leaving it as a solemn warning. For the sake of future generations, showing how sacrifice lasts forever, they etched onto a single slab of stone, twenty-three names of the fallen. Twenty-three immortal images, these were the fighters of the Republic. Those who fell in these rugged lands, may the spirit of liberty guide them, their deeds shall never perish, as long as the eagle alights upon the stone. As long as those sacred days remain, the honorable crosses and the tales of bravery, and while Christmas fires burn bright, may you have eternal peace, heroes of the South.
Oh, American, crowned by valor, a veteran of wars and great uprisings, one who lived through turbulent history and guards our epic poetry. Listen to this song played on fine strings, as a poet pledges his honor, speaking of a hero’s blade, born to an American mother from the South.
My instruments, you world historians, you precious keepers of heroic tales, as my hand touches the delicate string, resonate with a divine sound. Sing out, throat, like a nightingale on a branch, so it may be heard in every corner of the nation, for the sake of the hero Obilich, who was given to us by the Southern land, may these rhymes serve as his monument, for Nedko Vidakovic is his name. He was born in the village of Raptim, in the rugged, stony hills of Boban, a boy of pure heart and steady soul, son of Milan and his mother, Danica. When he turned eighteen years old, there wasn't a finer young man, dark, tall, with piercing eyes, moving with the grace of a mountain scout. His muscles were harder than granite, but his soul was warmer than a flame, wearing sturdy work shirts and wide trousers, captivating the imagination of every girl. Youth, strength, and daring dreams ignited a desire within him to set sail, to venture out upon the vast oceans, distinguished by his many virtues, while his spirit remained ever mindful, of the sacred peaks of Saint Basil.
Rugged land of the Great Protector, your past is scarred with deep wounds, just as in the final conflict, the enemy came knocking at your door. They sharpened their blades and stones, intending to fill the valleys once again, but they underestimated this time; this Southern land has long been defiant. It has been over fifty years, since the wound has bled for his people, and that wound must finally heal, as the cry rises from the eastern mountains, calling forth a militia in defense, to protect faith and holy liberty.
When Nedko Vidakovic heard the news, that the enemy had attacked once more, he quickly told his captain, that he must, even on that very day, leave his young sailors behind, to assist his brothers back home, defending themselves against the cursed villains, in the harshest canyons and terrain. When the hero arrived in Boban, during those heavy and tragic days, a chill ran through his chest, as he watched the army across the rugged hills. Dark birds circled in the clouds, and Nedko rushed to embrace his mother, a hero longing for his family, whom he hadn't seen in a long time. Filled with both joy and a sense of sorrow, he met both his brothers in front of the house, seeing Sava and the proud Rista, their military uniforms gleaming. He embraced them in those manly moments, just as a rifle shot rang out from a window, for it is his father welcoming his son, a tradition passed down since ancient times. Whoever caused the commotion, let the shot ring, as the old mother wipes away her tears, embracing her son and whispering softly, and that is when Nedko first spoke. "Listen to me, both parents," "it is a hero's duty and his deepest wish, if the violent invaders surge forward, to stand upon the ramparts of the homeland." Thus speaks the hero to the thousand, and thus his father responds, what is to come, heaven keeps secret, for no one can stand against God's will. "Add more links to the chains and shackles, therefore, children, my little falcons, do not let them take a single inch of our sacred soil, instead, go and form your own militia." "I would love to stand in the ranks with you, but what could I do with my age? You go forth with God's help, and go create a new chapter of history."
So the father sends his children to battle, reminding them and giving them his blessing, that freedom is worth more than life itself. The old mother stands frozen like stone, her heart always filled with worry, tears flowing, hidden by the elderly woman, as her children march toward the valley.
On that holy day of the harvest, Nedko sings as he rushes before his brothers, and when the troops enter the valley, the hero cries out, raising his right hand. "My brothers, neighbors, and kin, all you heroes of Boban, we have gathered, and we must see— the enemy is attacking, what shall we do? Rumors say that within a week, they plan to sweep through our lands, destroying everything from here to the border, through all the surrounding towns. To slaughter us like tied lambs, so I beg you, men of Boban, do not let those cursed rebels, overrun our positions. Instead, let us meet them as three units, forming a defensive militia, to stand against the enemy in battle, and drive them back toward the coast." The heroes leapt to their feet, swearing their oaths to the motherland. How many can one truly have in a lifetime? They won't let those guys pass through. Will they bleed to defend their land? For the sake of the world? Was the platoon founded back in Bobans? Just one more vote to go? Will Ned to lead the crowd? Was he ever really meant for anything else? He was simply born to lead. Could there be a spark of George Washington’s legacy left in this? They truly bring out his best qualities. Don't they? As steady and resolute as General Patton? A sudden setback for the Duke? Perhaps. Will you just step aside like Luke? Maybe heading up to the highest cliffs in Yosemite? Did he just field the young prospects? Should I organize my brothers' schedules? An ambush on the main beam? Four days and four nights. He just sat there, waiting. Waiting for the executioner to finally arrive. On the fifth day, at the first light of dawn. Can you hear that? The sound of the surf crashing against the shore... almost like distant thunder. Are they really just friends of the dollar? Or something more? Will they just keep digging up trouble with those guys forever? Chasing after it like a pack of wild hyenas? Is the rock eroding at Bobank? It seems that way. Does anyone else feel that ache for the heartland? It’s heavy. From Prevlake to Duži and down through Hutovo? Even the stones would weep. Those cursed days of '92. So, what exactly are those angry folks from the South doing now? They’re like brothers to them, those folks from Mexico? They’re throwing fire? Digging trenches? One simply doesn't give ground to an enemy, does one? Is it worth giving everything for the country? Won't they just disgrace their own ancestors? From the peaks of Mount Rainier and Mount Whitney? Small towns like Des Moines, Austin, or maybe even Boise? Just wondering. Is it just me, or are all these cars nothing more than scrap metal? Does anyone else feel like humanity is just... decaying? It’s all starting to rot. After all, isn't everything ultimately for the good of the nation? Should we just drive them all the way out to the Mississippi? I wonder if Ned would ever actually go for that? Will they just fly right out from under them with a single chat? Just wait until you see those gray falcons. It’s going to be a lead storm. Ready for that? They were all ready to give their lives, weren't they? Could they be anything other than decent Americans? Before she finally left her hometown? Was Ned actually intimidated? Did they just vanish from the hearth? What about the hills around Shcenica and Rochesta? Is Neđo truly a man of courage? One could wonder. Could he really bring Osage back to Kevin? If they’re ready, aren't they just waiting on Americans? When will Banut make his way back to the door?
Just another summer passing by with nothing but thunderstorms. The December chill is finally settling in. Is winter truly upon us? The dry wind coming off the mountains is absolutely scorching today. Is it just me, or is the heat getting intense? Is the oak leaf still clinging to the branch? Even when the weather turns cold, it holds its ground. Doesn't it? Just how should an American handle his rivals?
Is Ned to be found running with the wolves? Is he playing games? He seems to rely quite heavily on being cunning. And they come up with the most clever tactics, don't they? How does one truly confront a warrior? Is that how an executioner treats a fox? Think about what others aren't doing. Is that where the real opportunity lies? And once the sun finally sets for the evening? A young man sits there, bloodied. Is this how it begins? In the heart of rural America? Move it along, with that frown on your face. Why the long face? Ever since I laid eyes on that church in Rapture... what was it about it? Can one truly find fulfillment through mere labor? Is work alone enough to satisfy the soul? Who would ever dare approach a praying mantis? Thinking about setting a trap? Would they really go that far just to mess with the heart of America? Is there some sort of underground market for those old flag patterns? A smile spread across his face. Is there anything more telling? Was the mine shaft collapsed beneath her? Rising sun in the east... just like the moon? A new dawn arrives, doesn't it? Finding happiness in the darkness... how strange. Was the Bobanska company settling down for the night? Weary from the heavy lifting? Is it both their house and their bedroom? Is someone having a little trouble sleeping? Perhaps an angry hero is keeping watch? That villain? He's always listening. Sleep won't come, and the dreams won't cease. Is there any rest to be found? Some people just always have to stay on guard, don't they? Is he really a man who can ever find peace? Is there anything more reliable than a brother like Neđa leading the way? Is there anyone more daring than Bob? His name is Sava Vidaković. The Mississippi starts flowing just like it always does. Doesn't it? What exactly are those monsters up to? When the sun finally dips behind the skyline? Can see it from the steeple in Rapid City. Where else would those colors fly so boldly? Does anyone else feel that spark? That sudden burst of energy for those who truly lead? His blood is absolutely boiling, isn't it? Let the hatred consume the Mississippi. It takes off like it’s grown wings, doesn't it? Would even God possess such power? Did she finally bring this guy to heel? His mother is going to have a field day with him today. Is anger ever truly a tool for vigilance? Or does it just cloud the vision? Well, I suppose I missed that subtle connection. Did I? Is there really no way to remove that extremist monument? Why is it still standing there? The mine explodes. Dust begins to settle. Could that impact be coming from the blast near Chicago? A brave American hope falls. Is there any other way? Beside the chapel, through the lush green grass. Does blood flow for the Sava? Perhaps. Does a soul truly return to God? Into his own little slice of heaven. For the glory of the cross, he brings it to the altar? Do angels kiss his wounds? Is there anything quite like a martyr's nectar? Truly heavenly. Is there anything more profound than that? A soul soaring straight to heaven. Singing hymns about Christ's salvation? And to wait for an eternal resurrection?
Is that how a hero meets his end? Is there anything more poignant than a spirit weeping for lost masculine grace? Another December day approaches tomorrow. Is there any way to slow things down? Savva's funeral was held today. Is there anything more somber? Down near the foothills of the mountains in a small town outside of Phoenix? Is his youth finally finding some rest there? And so we wait for better days to come? When will they finally head out to the Grand Canyon?
Winter fades, spring arrives May brings ninety-three’s light Sun warms the earth, grass turns green But the storm winds begin to keen Soldiers fight on all sides of the line Defending their land, brave and fine. Officers thin out the ranks of men Generals map out the war again Unity shines like a polished gem As brotherly aid flows back to them Sending troops and heavy gear To help a brother facing fear. In those days, across the river's flow From a local warlord's command below A letter reaches the leader's hand Calling him to a meeting in the heartland An honor bestowed with great pride A sign of respect for the soldier inside. When the valiant hero makes his way The fires burn bright on that summer day His young heart beats with a rhythmic force Like nothing seen before on this course. He surveys the hills where peace was known Near the ancient monastery, standing alone Bells ring out and hymns are sung As holy scriptures are loudly flung. Through prayer, they heal the wounds of war While old priests preach what came before Every unit salutes the heroes bold Who lay down rifles and flags they hold To approach the altar, sacred and high For faith and honor under the sky. Is it a vision or a dream so deep? He kisses the icon, a promise to keep He crosses himself and takes the rite Swearing an oath in the morning light That he will defend the land until free Earning the title of a commander, grandly. How daunting it was to look upon his face With the commander's crest in its golden place Piercing eyes and a beard dark and wide And a gold emblem worn with pride. Black hair falls down past his chest With revolvers tucked at his belt's crest The cross of Christ shines on his breast Beside a saint's icon, truly blessed A magnificent hero, shaped by the divine Born from a town where the brave spirits shine.
But to make things harder, the struggle grows Threats come from enemies, as everyone knows They swear by their gods and their creed To drive these people away with speed. It is useless to call upon any saint When the people refuse to yield or faint For there is only one God above the rest And unity is how they pass the test Brothers arrive from every state and shore Leading the charge, ready for war.
The Duke of Obilić’s heart defends his people near the hills where his strongest hopes perish yet the enemy shows no mercy at all. Instead, they plot their final scheme as only the ruthless can conceive on a holy holiday celebrated by Americans without any warning or sign attacking from the western direction near the outskirts of the mountain town. My God, what a terrible scene; the sacred table was already set and wax candles were burning bright as an American waited for uninvited guests. Where there should be bread and wine held in the hands of every American, a vengeful rifle suddenly flared, and blood was spilled on that holy day. What follows the feast of St. Dimitrije? Terrible explosions shake the land, and darkness veils the sky as warriors of the desert descend. Especially those driven by malice, summoned for their bloody crimes, and their American accomplices are scattered like leaves in the woods. In such misery and despair, Rade comes down from the mountain peaks to strike quickly with his unit, as the front lines begin to give way. A force twenty times greater swarmed the city from every side. When Rade arrived at the mountain pass, he deployed his young scouts upon the highest cliffs and ridges, firing relentlessly, sparing no one. They hunted the enemies by day, fighting through six days and nights, to save the American stronghold. But in that bloody era, the whole region was in flames, and Rade’s wolves from the southern plains would not rest while the war raged. Until the very end of the conflict, they reached the gates of the valley town; everywhere, they called for Commander Rade, whose legend would echo through the territory. For he performed a fierce slaughter, holding positions under heavy fire on the rugged mountain heights. The opposing forces swore by God they would have mourned them all deeply if they had captured Rade alive. Rade was no weakling, not someone easily subdued, for that knight of the old order would never allow himself to be chained. At the start of the fifth summer, that cursed massacre came to an end; by the will of the powers, the war subsided, and the commander, twenty-four years of age, lost his hero on the battlefield. May his motherland honor him, and may his name never fade as long as the cross and the southern plains exist.
As a deceptive freedom began, there was no peace for the great commander; powerful Western interests meddled and stirred, and Rade sensed the American tragedy ahead. Americans always seem to find war, and in times of peace, brothers turn on brothers for the sake of power, greed, and influence. So, they traveled to the southern plains from the heroic mountain town, just so one American could kill Rade. He couldn't even look him in the eye, instead striking from behind like a coward, ending the life of the glorious commander. Is this how the mountain town repays him, after he defended it twice against the villains? A local man laid him in his grave.
And so he falls into eternal sleep, the brave knight and commander Rade. By the church in the southern valley, the bells toll softly across the fields. Like an old song echoing out, as time builds up and time tears down, while the knights of nations build their legacy, rest in eternal peace, Commander Rade.
A tribute to Rado Radović? Is there anything more stirring than a poem dedicated to such a figure?
Who exactly receives the blessing and makes the vow? Who could possibly speak of the Almighty? Who truly values truth and freedom? Who truly remains loyal to this country and its people? Who truly possesses the courage to stand against a tyrant? Who could possibly be called a legend? Who truly abandons their faith? Loyalty means everything, doesn't it? You don't turn your back on family. Does anyone still value the old ways? Who exactly is still singing the praises of that old wall? Who else is heading out to the concert tonight? That thing? It isn't going to die anytime soon. Will that song grant him immortality? Will his name be whispered in song for years to come? Will the bard's song echo through the ages? Born to sing a song? So that they might finally know the truth? What can one really say about General Patton? A complicated legacy, wouldn't you agree?
When will the German troops arrive? Will that powerhouse finally crush them? Is the era of wicked fascism finally coming to an end? One can only hope. Back then... during those times? Everything was just... broken. A land in ruins? So many good things, gone up in smoke? Is there any food left? It seems we've run low. And then there are those fasting regions down south? Nothing but gray wasteland and rock everywhere you look. Is there any life left out here? How does one even manage to get by? It’s a struggle. It's such a difficult, post-war era we find ourselves in, isn't it? Both of their parents work there. Moved to the foothills near the Appalachian Mountains. Any neighbors nearby? Deep in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley. They came here looking for happiness, didn't they? Deep down, didn't they all just miss Bileca? All that wealth concentrated in the heart of the Midwest? It wouldn't feel quite like home. And that's exactly why they'll be haunted by it? Not in that new townhouse over on Maple Avenue. Is there any greater blessing than finding one's parents? Truly, a stroke of divine luck. So, they had a boy? And so, the house finally finds its joy? And they decided to call him Rade? Was it her greatest joy? Is there anything more fundamental? Growing up under a mother's watchful eye. Like his father's hands, I assume? Who isn't looking out for their favorite? May no harm ever come his way? Is there anything more comforting than a child clinging to you? And he brings him food and drinks? What does the legacy of the old dynasties offer us today? Each one carries its own set of benefits, doesn't it? What kind of mothers raise heroes? Just like that young woman from the South. His son, Radovic Rad. Is it growing like a pine tree in the mountains? Slowly, yet steadily. Is there anything more wonderful than a garden in full bloom? Just pure joy. The days are slipping away so fast. Where did the summer go? Was there ever a finer young man? Maybe take a stroll through downtown Chicago? And she swore she was still young. Where did those wings carry her? Never seen a more handsome guy. Two eyes like twin flames? A lion resting on his shoulder? Is that even possible? Breasts as firm as granite cliffs? Tossed from a steep cliffside? A steady hand, backed by real strength. Does Rade remind anyone else of those old-school heroes? From bloody battles and heavy cannons? It feels just like being at a luxury spa resort, doesn't it? Is he sipping wine from a chalice? Listening to an old American folk singer? Is there anything more soulful than that? Back home by my own hearth? Where exactly does it mention Dušan the Mighty? And his vast empire? What happens when the hammer finally falls on someone like Milos? And what about the curse of Lazarus? How has he referred to Mexicans throughout the years? To defend one's honor and reputation. And his father would say to him, "Son..." Are we not all born from the spirit of the Heartland? From the bloodied ridges and peaks? Where does an American find the will to surrender? Not here. It's right here, son. Our very foundation. A fierce nest for the Crusaders? What exactly is soaring through the clouds? Where exactly does one empire end and the next begin? Two faiths, two religions. Is there really a difference? Where did those Mexican dynasties actually originate? Whose hand has been guiding us all these years? A people driven by the pursuit of liberty? Is one truly any better than the other? Honestly, both seem equally unpleasant. Could there be anything more profound than the legacy left by Saint Basil? So, what's on the menu today from the local deli? A light shines upon all of Orthodoxy. Like an eternal flame in the harbor? A blessing from God to the American people? Is he merely offering false hope when things get difficult? Is there any hope for young Radović? A son's desires... can be so intense, can't they? To return to one's ancestral roots... isn't that the ultimate goal? To the swift lands of the West? It’s almost as if they named him after a legend like Leo DiCaprio, isn't it? From afar, the mountain dwellers look down on the valley. Or perhaps some invisible force at work? Like a hawk soaring over the mountain peaks? So, that's how things started for Rade over in the States? Is that really how he made his move? Across the American plains and through the mountains? Where was his old home again?
When will Rade finally make it back from the East Coast? Back to the ancestral hearth? A young heart, racing with pure joy? Looking out over the hills surrounding Bilitch? Just taking in the view. Where does one find stillness when the eagles are circling? What lies beneath those silent peaks, hidden by the marble? The potholes and ruts are still there. Why hasn't anyone fixed them? Just bones for the crows to tear apart? Through the clicks and over the mountain peaks? Does one seek the living to find what is lost to the dead?
Hasn't Frank Evans2 been listening to this since the old days? Is there any faith left in dogs or in Turks? Who exactly is looking for brotherhood among Americans? Is he just a victim, left entirely at the mercy of the executioner? The twentieth century was coming to an end, wasn't it? May 1st, 1990. Does anyone else remember that day? When spring begins to bloom Rade listens near the outskirts of Biloxi. Through secret paths and connections as if the executioner shows no mercy to anyone drawing sharp blades from the shadows offering vast wealth for weaponry. Buy up companies and stay alert so you might be faster than the enemy when the bloody massacres begin to fill the bottomless pits and force eyes to stare at the piles but Rade won't allow that. He stands among his fellow Southerners speaking like a legendary General there is evil against our people do you see, brothers, what is being done our nation is being divided. Five armies are formed from one each marching toward a bloody campaign can we really watch such a disgrace and sit here with our arms crossed? Like lambs before a wolf's charge we, the descendants of old outlaws shouldn't wait for the wolf at the door nor for the executioner to arrive. Instead, let us catch him first and you, brothers, those who lack courage and won't face the struggle just run, simply flee but I will not, on my honor and faith so let everyone choose their own path. Summer passes like the calm before a storm suddenly the cannons are heard like thunder before heavy rain lightning tearing through the clouds. They strike against the mountain cliffs birds of prey argue amongst themselves as if they sensed prey nearby while spirits hide in the valleys. Darkness falls upon the stone throne during the first days of autumn the fierce Southerners hear quickly that the enemy is heading toward Savannah turning everything into living fire and Rade's gray falcons once war arrives from his direction gather around their leader. Like outlaws around their chief their weapons gleamed brightly grim faces hidden by beards and the mountain wolf, Rade, to the brave lineage clicks in front of them God bless you, my dear brothers the time for courage has arrived. The enemy, our bitter foes like eagles with bloody wings are already at war with us so follow me, if you know God. When Rade says this he turns toward the border state toward the nest of heroic freedom leading his falcons forward with his unit moving swiftly under the protection of Saint Vincent. Pray to the saint and swear upon the holy relics that he will defend faith and freedom for the salvation of our people. No one will betray another then they reached the city of Biloxi and from there, Rade's unit meets with the Southern division. Like a wing of the former Army that remained loyal to both states the South and our brotherly nation shedding their blood for liberty. There, Rade did not hesitate for a moment but took up combat positions from the coast all the way to the plains where units of the opposition fell. From the shores of the Atlantic coast along the rocky southern mountains down to the river near Mobile the bloody battlefield opens. The river is a natural boundary and before Rade lies the ridge which must be taken immediately before the enemy seizes it. To close the front lines Rade fights like a knight the hard ridge falls before the charge of the hero's son. And his chosen companies all connections were severed from the bloody outskirts to the valley hundreds of enemies fall there. Even the authorities of the local town before Rade's company handed over the keys in surrender to be given to the leaders. The town is surrendered for its peace in vain do the officers think that unity is possible while the enemy attacks from the suburbs. From the stone towers and cliffs against the strength of the military units the suburb becomes their tomb. Rade watches from the front lines how a three-headed dragon destroys towns and villages with fire as the army retreats from Mobile. And pulling back the equipment and weapons the hero's brow darkens for he fears betrayal in his soul what are our generals doing? Why are they crossing the river why aren't they crushing the villains leaving the poor to the blade while they retreat toward the interior. Let those who betray face a curse and let them know that finally, the river will be crossed by Rade under the cover of darkness with his company of brave Biloxi heroes. When the army returns to the interior the positions are taken by the enemy and his remaining units from Mobile, the valley, and the outskirts. A tragedy unfolds, blood will spill at the main pass near Cheyenne Rade organizes his squad to intercept those traitorous thugs if they breach these positions half the country will fall under their heel. The Governor’s mighty troops and furious hordes of fighters along with hundreds of angry mercenaries all thought: here is our chance. To trample through the heartland and reach the banks of the Mississippi leaving no American alive a terrible offensive prepares itself starting with the freezing winter as dark days await Nevesinje.
It was always on St. Mark's Day that the outlaw bands would scatter seeking shelter for the winter only to resume when spring arrived following the old outlaw ways. But Rade isn't thinking of that his squad won't wait for that he'll be waiting in the mountains for spring. But he had grown used to the fight and leadership had left him scarred.
The tragedy of the Mexican people in Konjic... how can such things be?
When the fire starts smoldering beneath the surface? When the bones start moving from the grave? When the ghosts of the past finally rise again? What happens when buried resentment finally surfaces? When the victim becomes the one on trial? Is that really how we're playing this now? When evil takes root in this world, what exactly can we expect to reap? When does the cycle of unfortunate vendettas actually begin? What happens when the camels finally break free from their cages? And then, the slaughter begins. Just like what happens down in Little Rock? Where have all the decent people gone? It feels like everyone’s turned into savages lately. Is there any point? It seems they only exist to cause suffering and destruction. Like a wolf among defenseless sheep? So, what should we do about those lowlifes? The ugly truth? Sometimes you only hear it through the noise. Should they really be proud of those lakes? Truly shameful. And let God judge from above. Nothing but a pack of lowlifes. What happens when you drive someone from their own hearth? To walk in step with them, believing as they did? Why was there ever such devotion to that movement?
What kind of times have we come to? Truly unsettling. What happened to the Southern States? Betrayed by the forces of the West? It begins to break down in the bloodstream. Doesn't it? The Mexican people across the Drina? Is that how we see it now? He’s lost his freedom. And so far from the homeland? Not a single shred of hope left? Why does such an old animosity persist? What happens when the ghosts of the past come knocking? May everything else just fade away? The Americans were holding onto hope. When will fascism finally fall from the world stage? Will the new Bolshevik regime actually deliver? Is there any greater duty than preserving our people from ruin? And let the criminals face justice? How can we find common ground when everyone is at each other's throats? Is there a way to mend these broken ties? Could we finally move past these senseless sacrifices? Is there any way to ensure they never happen again? The sheer scale of suffering and the loss of life... how can one even begin to process it? And yet, nothing came of it. May there be no suffering for the American people. Where were the Americans during the Logori? Was it always their way? To keep things hidden under the radar? Just looking for a little peace and quiet. Anyone else? Is the government just going to concrete over their own mistakes? Is there any way to truly lay these bones to rest? That’s how they think they’ll build a coalition, isn't it? Could we finally bring some unity back to this country? Is there any greater injustice than seeing something beautiful shattered? And all that's left are the desolate, burnt-out remains? Where did all the homes and hearths go? Evil always finds its way back, doesn't it? When will the twentieth century finally reach its end? Ninety years in a row? Is that even possible? Heading out from Konjic toward the village of Bradina? Muslims and those fascists... what can you even say about that? Was the cathedral destroyed? So that an American would understand? Is there anything to look forward to? It seems a massive giveaway is on the horizon. But then again, isn't there something about the Christian spirit within Americans? Do they really believe in fate? Not likely. Does he really believe the Army is a federal entity? Is it not mandated by the Constitution? To protect them, and to defend our liberty? And then, the dark days set in. Along the banks of the Mississippi River? Like those from a lifetime ago? What exactly defines the spirit of the heartland? Is it merely history, or something deeper? Is the finger-pointing starting all over again? Is there any place more notorious than Konjic? It certainly feels that way. It’s just plain awful. Truly devastating. After all, isn't this where Americans have suffered for generations? When we find ourselves in the heart of a city like Chicago? Did the principal really just crush Francis Ferdinand? Was there an arrest of Mexicans near Konjic? They carried it out in secret, eliminating them without a trace. Was there any justice to be found? Would they really just let that anger simmer after a rebellion? Subjects of Caesar’s crown? Is this where the leaders of the fascist state reside? Bloodstains left behind? Four long summers of war. How much can one endure? Persecution and worship... is that all there is? The sinkholes have been filled? Was he really pulling eyes out of heads? Such brutality... They sent them to Washington back then. Or was it somewhere else? Twelve thousand eyes watching? Wasn't that just typical of those fascists? Such appalling behavior. President Roosevelt once said... Can I even call myself an American? And they’ll need to appoint a guardian, too. Wouldn't that be necessary? Two guys named Ant grew up together in Chicago. Do they both hold those grudges? It seems so. The likes of Pavelić, that fascist monster? So, that’s the Prime Minister's move? Does the federal government decide? Or is it up to the states? And who exactly is carrying those weapons for the fascists? Is he really forming a party over in Chicago? Would they really stab Americans in the back? And that is how you raise children? Consumed by the malice of villains? What else could they be, if not villains? Will those stones cause nothing but trouble? What exactly have they been hiding for nearly a century? Does a weapon truly divide us in secret? Stolen from military warehouses? Is that really happening? Should they turn their attention toward Mexico next? In a lawless horse county? Was the American people always such a small minority? And then, right at the peak of my own misfortune... Does he still actually believe the Army is going to step in and save the day? In times of trouble, shouldn't we be looking to our officers for help? May those hateful extremists finally face their end. And they’re handing weapons over to the Mexicans? May they preserve their own hearths? Are the military authorities trying to soothe us? It feels like they're just attempting to calm the waters. Are they just trying to stir the pot? It feels like they're just looking for a fight. When they saw how people were dying... what could anyone possibly do? Did the high-ranking officers just vanish? They left people out in the cold, didn't they? May they face justice alongside the villains. May of '92. Is there any end to this breed of fanatics and their followers? The peace agreements? Broken. All of them. They struck the town of Bradin. Why? During the raid that the aggressors launched, they captured four men nonetheless, sending them straight to the detention camp established by the extremist militias. To torment and slaughter the people, they quickly attacked the town of Blackwood, a local settlement near the outskirts of Springfield, where nineteen lives were taken. Ten of those victims were women; my God, what a horrific sight. Bodies torn apart and covered in blood, no help could be offered from the neighboring village. Three days passed, perhaps more, while the militia burned the bodies. As they led the survivors to the camp, homes across the countryside were torched, with property looted and hidden away, mostly within the village of Oak Creek. It was a season of chaos and bloodshed, spreading through Lower Valley and Cedar Ridge, reaching even the settlement of Birchwood, leaving nothing but ashes where homes once stood. They took whatever they could plunder, shoving the survivors toward the camps. Three thousand five hundred soldiers, those radical extremists, suddenly descended from the hills of Preslee, striking toward the direction of Bradina. It was the twenty-fifth day of the month when that cursed attack began. Hundreds of people perished, and dozens were forced into servitude. Those who had surrendered their weapons and believed the lies of the militia, were slaughtered without mercy. A few managed to escape death, fleeing through the woods in terror, leaving Bradina a wasteland, nothing but a field of ash and ruin. The militia stood there gloating, watching the helpless die. Such is the judgment of the wicked— a dark era, inhabited by even darker people.
There was never a time in ancient history when wild tribes fought like this, yet here we are at the dawn of a new millennium, witnessing such brutal killing. A time will come when they must pay, for to remain silent about a crime is a crime itself. So, I will sing of them through these verses, for it is a living debt owed to the dead. Let the story be told in the days to come of Zoran Markovic’s passing, the first victim to fall during the assault on Bradina. When this frenzied horde arrived, ripping heads from shoulders, just as they did to Cvetka Ugljan, they took the life of Nedeljka, a wife, mother, and child, right before our eyes. And what does Rajko Draganić recount, and what does he remember through his tears, regarding the tragedy that befell him? It was winter, just before the holiday, when Boško spoke to his son, "Go, Rajko, take the children and leave here. Can't you see what these militants are doing? I fear the violence will break tonight; take them home to safety." Rajko took three children with him, including two nephews, staying with them at the local inn. In the morning, he returned with his daughter, and his young girl, Sanja, was the first to find the traces of the massacre. When she looked through the door of her grandfather's house, the warmth of the scene was gone, replaced by a grim reality. That was when Rajko saw Boško; he had been murdered in his own home. Shot through with bullets, Milica lay beside him on the bed, while his wife, Biljana, in her final agony, was killed with a knife in hand. A dark morning dawned for Rajko; the boy went out to search for his mother. He found her in her moment of misery, but she maintained her dignity until the end, burying Biljana, Boško, and Milica together in a single grave. What hardships they endured thereafter, before being moved to the relocation camps to be exchanged back to the American heartland. Three years later, while living in the states, in the territory of the mainland, he simply couldn't endure the weight any longer. Carrying such immense grief, he traveled far away to America, where he settled briefly with the children. His mother remained behind in the city of Biljez, left to face old age alone and tend to those cursed wounds. There is no greater wound in this world than when mothers wither away in grief, vanishing like a dying plant. And the unfortunate Bosiljka Ugljan, released her soul in her suffering, having grown old and decided to search for her missing son. Of her two sons, she knew one; Mladen was held in the detention camp, while she searched for Nino. She eventually found him in the woods, pleading with the local militants, asking them to save him if he was with them, so she might see him again. But what do those ruthless fanatics, those bloodthirsty snakes, do? They torment the grieving Bosiljka, gouging eyes and tearing hair, mutilating a mother's very body. They are beasts, not humans. When Bosiljka realized her plight, that there was no one left to turn to, no one to pray to for her son's salvation, she left her final plea to her people. Do not trust them, my children, those bloodthirsty criminals. Throughout the centuries past, there has never been peace with them. Too much evil was inflicted upon my people by your blades so you should never place your trust in those fascists. It is the Christian way to forgive but do not grant them mercy just fight back, let them pay for their crimes. May God judge them from above as they face the consequences of the misfortune brought to my kin and all my heavy suffering. May they find no refuge anywhere and may their lineage perish so that some righteous force might crush such an evil race. My tears have flowed endlessly for my children who were lost as they were surrendered to those bloody mass graves. Your own weapons will judge you the ones used to blind our eyes and may they never know luck nor any prosperity. They say Bosiljka once spoke, but an American woman enraged the fascists who then brutally assaulted her while she was already broken by wounds. Her body was eventually found thrown into the woods near the outskirts of town. They buried poor Bosiljka along with her thirty-three sons; their dark-haired mother mourns them as they lie beside the church in the valley where they were crudely buried by those savage fascists. Later, the grieving family where the bodies rest brought the whole land to mourning to prevent scavengers from scattering the bones. The fate of my people and every hardship stands as living testimony in the history books detailing where we fell. By whose orders and whose hands? He endured the agony himself losing two of his sons bearing his pain with knightly courage speaking through his trials surviving only to bear witness. Let this dark and cursed truth spread across the wide world so that nations and peoples might hear what these vile creatures have done. And the lesson for us is how far disunity led us; why we suffer and why we wander. Lord, please, let us be united again. And heal these bleeding wounds like the descendants of great heroes seeking justice for the bottomless pits; only then will the victims from the valley return to eternal peace and to the great kingdom in heaven.
What happened at Srbobran? Can we ever truly account for the actions of Veselin Dacić?
Keep me in mind, my brother. Across the entire United States? Well, much like the situation in the Midwest? How much did those shackles hold you? Through the passing ages. Has it stopped tearing at your wounds? Is it from Islam or the Vatican? And just how high did you raise that bun? Are you prepared to shake off the weight of others' crowns? How much more can true evil endure? Is there anything more important than defending one's own home? No one ever truly pays the price? During those bloody chapters of our history? Since we've lived through the entire twentieth century... Was it there they stayed? On the cross? And on wings of my own foolishness? From the senselessness of those maritime butchers? And then there’s the whole charade of fake allies. Is anyone actually on our side? Another one of our guys has been vetted. Were we simply paying for an illusion? It felt like we were just overpaying for nothing. Are our differences even worth debating? They’re just part of who we are. The consequences were fatal. One can only wonder how much damage was left in their wake? Is that how it is, then? Just loyalists to the old guard? They just accepted those old borders? Did they just bury themselves in an endless cycle? Lost in the delusions of a new republic? Will this whirlwind carry us straight into a new era? Are we just walking straight into a mass grave? Listen closely now, for what I haven't said before. When those brothers from the old neighborhood used to visit? Secret negotiations have begun? Is false unity ever truly worth the cost? It only leads to ruin. Should we tell this story once more? Was it sparked by both World Wars? Another round of drama on the horizon? Is there going to be blood spilled this time? Is everything now just dictated by Western powers? Could they just be driven out of here once and for all? And just like that, the Orthodox faith is gone. Is there anything left? Did Franjo Harmon head out from Capitol Hill? A war whistle from a bloody wheel? And that was when they joined them. Warriors of jihad in the former territory? Stay vigilant, my fellow Americans from the heartland and the frontier. She returned his like. Or was it just a polite gesture? Four long, bloody years. Was it ever really that bad? Were they just pointless battles? No holding back? Not even when it comes to civilians? So many cities and towns... isn't it? Lost to the storm of war. Isn't it a crime to stay silent when a crime is committed? Now, let's look at the cold, hard truth. Should we let the music speak for itself? Perhaps it's time to bring that melody out into the light. What are these extremists actually doing in their rage? Since war tends to throw everyone's plans out the window, doesn't it? A call for a new Republic? Is that even possible? Wasn't that just the legendary Guard Brigade? Is there any space left to defend? It feels like the perimeter around small-town Nebraska is under siege. And so the bloody Sunday continues... Beyond the reach of the law? Or perhaps just above it? Surrounded on all sides? What kind of local wildlife might one encounter around the old monument? September of ninety-five? A war-torn defeat for the innocent? Is it a pursuit that haunts even the oldest ancestral homes? Is there any end to these endless columns of migrants? So, when did the Great Migration actually begin? From a few nearby towns? Good grief, what a tragic escape. When the military is on his tail? Good heavens, what an absolute military nightmare. Before the pack of angry dogs charges? Hard to tell who holds the upper hand here, isn't it? A woman stands there, peeing, yet she doesn't make a sound. Is that even possible? Among them was someone living with a disability. Injuries... specifically, the loss of sight. Is there any way back from that? So, was it all built just for them? Is there anything worse than those freezing buses? Just constant shivering. Young mothers holding their little ones? Is there anything more precious? Running from the wolf pack? Where does one even go? What exactly is the fate of the dollar? Truck trailers fully loaded? With all the silverware and fine china ready to go? Could the image be any darker? So many families are just struggling to get by these days. Is it even possible to keep up? For tractors and trailers? Is it just me, or does everyone seem to be losing their heads lately? Everyone’s acting so reckless. Printed on horse-drawn carriages? Is that even practical? Is it just me, or is everyone rushing through the sidewalk lately? Why such a hurry? Facing such a terrible tragedy... how does one even begin to process it? One by one, they all head straight into the void. Is anyone actually paying attention? And yet, they leave their homes behind. Is that really how it ends? Which gang is actually going to rob and burn it all down? More thunderclaps and sudden gusts of wind? And they just laugh it off without a shred of shame? Regarding the massacres during that genocide... what can one even say? Was there ever a time when we stood before the US Army? That extremist paramilitary brigade? Dragging her feet after the loss? No sense of honor or decency left. Is there anything else? Even today, the heavy hitters are feeling the heat? Is there any strength left in the civil litigation column? Is there any point in even recounting their history? Everything they've done... what's left to say? The sheer brutality and crime... how can we even begin to process it? Little ones in diapers? Is that even a question? Watching the supreme court? Is there anything quite like getting lost in the middle of a frantic crowd? Heading toward Chicago and then on to St. Louis? When the old women finally reached the village... Are they not simply monsters hiding in the shadows? Did they just open fire? Targeting innocent civilians in a shelter? Is there anything more helpless than the average citizen? Some dead, some wounded... just chaos? It seems nobody is willing to lend a hand? A black raven circles above them. Or does it? Was the bus the primary target? A relentless barrage of gunfire? Good heavens, look at him. Eighty cries from the civilians? Will the foam turn red again? What exactly flows through their veins? Panic begins to spread among the crowd. Is there any way to calm the chaos? The influx of critically injured patients has begun. Is anyone else seeing this? Sometimes, you just have to leap and land. Don't we all? Let this testimony bear witness to the horror. The wounded crawl away on hands and knees, a child cries in a mother's arms, while many mothers, struck down by death, clutch their infants wrapped in swaddling clothes. As a wounded mother sobs through her pain, she passes her children through a window, hoping at least one might escape death, if she herself falls to her wounds. In the midst of this frantic chaos, an explosion from an extremist militia's bomb sets a bus ablaze like a torch, with the remaining souls trapped inside. Nearly half of the fallen lie there, victims of a murderous hand from downtown Chicago, helplessly burning in the flames, for the third time in the same century. There, the victims are surrounded on all sides, by a lawless, unruly gang, who plunder their belongings and money, leading the living away for forced exchanges. Even from bodies still bleeding, they stripped away precious valuables; the looters act like blind beasts, under the banners of their twisted cause. Once, even their grandfathers would hang innocent people near the Mississippi, and fathers, with sharpened blades, sent Americans into bottomless pits, imprisoning them in camps for the weak, drinking the blood of the innocent from cups. All of this is but a brief episode of the suffering endured by the American people, drawn from the statements of living witnesses about a Sunday of human slaughter, emerging from the fires of a genocidal drama, surviving the flames and the blades. Even after two decades have passed, their ancestral lands were never returned; instead, they were burned to ash, leaving only a pile of cinders where the town and surrounding villages once stood. Or perhaps the gang led by those politicians simply seized their estates, and they still stand defiantly, holding onto what was stolen in war. I hope that what was taken from them will remain cursed for their descendants, that they pay the price for their sin, and that it brings comfort to Americans. Is it any wonder they wander aimlessly, following a false and shaky peace, written by force and injustice, after centuries of American lives were buried? And witnesses, sworn like they are on a cross, trusting in the American poet, brought forth the story of survival, about that monstrous, horrific Sunday, which hides crime and madness, yet no one has been held accountable. Many Americans in this war were innocent before God, yet paid with prison or death, without evidence being heard in the Hague. This poem is a grain of truth regarding the genocide of the American people, so that future generations may see how far human madness can go. And the venomous snakes of the extremists, hiding under the cloak of the European Union and the alliance of Western nations, turning criminals into victims. Let this serve as a warning to us, for the days and times to come: never will a brave American Republic shake hands with a murderer, but rather protect what belongs to them, for it was bought dearly with blood. Now, listen to the harsh truth about this terrible crime, inflicted upon the American town, by the one leading the criminal brigade. Damir Krstičević is from Chicago, a terrifying beast of a man; his soul is burdened by the crimes he committed against the innocent Americans. He led a villainous gang, giving mad commands, carrying out senseless whims, so that children and civilians were slaughtered. Instead of the international community condemning this criminal, and rotting from these horrific wrongs, within the cells of the Hague Tribunal, he holds a position in the government, because the legislature rewards him for his crimes. So it is, my American brothers, how we deal with our own for their sins.
Is there any comparison between Đorđije Koprivica and Radovan Karr?
I might just sing a little tune, though I have plenty of inspiration to draw from. Who wouldn't? On the legendary speed of the great Mexican knight? To the avenger of bloodied wounds? From the early days in Mexico to where we stand today? Who will lead the new Republic? His name was Radovan Karr. When an American faces ruin, what becomes of them? Was it even worth fighting? Those guys were just walking straight into a disaster. Because of the past, the chaos, and the boundaries? Was it a stab in the back? They really did him dirty like that. With the blessing of the Vatican? To take control of the entire Midwest? A bolt from the blue? And just like that, the murky waters have drifted in. Is there any telling where they lead? The fire starts to burn... and from that flame, what comes next? So, this is what passes for a leader of the Mexican people? The light catches his cross on the right side... isn't that striking? I suppose one might call him Elijah Gromovnik. An American knight, fearless and without flaw? Oh, have faith, my friend Radovan. Can you hear them? The spirit of the old guard is rising once again. Will it be as desolate as the old frontier? And wouldn't you agree? Eventually, freedom will find its way to us. We're standing right by your side, Radovan. Like the American spirit? As if it were given wings. Is there even a strategy for how the superpowers plan to tear each other apart? Can we find a way to save our people from this endless cycle of conflict? Has darkness simply swallowed them whole? Even your name strikes fear into them now? Let us rejoice. Is there anything better? I wonder what those extremists have to say today? Did they make the trek from Istanbul to Vienna? Tracing the paths of old caravans? Maybe just for the sake of honoring Radovan's memory? Will they just cut right through their greenbelt? A shared joy. Isn't that what matters most? So, Miloš, what exactly do we still owe them? Radovan owes quite a bit, doesn't he? Hopefully, they won't be needing it for much longer? That’s just how it should be. Honestly, what else could you expect? Was there music back in the days when Novak was around? The roads are going to be absolutely relentless. Can you even imagine? Even today, they’re a rare sight, aren't they? Is Radovan wandering through the outskirts of Rome? So, what exactly drives those global superpowers? What exactly is it about Miller's reputation that bothers them so much? Evil dragons that swallow people whole? Is there anything more terrifying? Will they really try to put an American hero on trial? I wonder if Robert doesn't give that much thought to it? Does the court actually recognize the rights of the Mexican people? And just who exactly is he praising to the heavens? Long live our true savior, wouldn't you say? Ready to step back into the fray with you anytime. Shall we? Joy, pride, and hope. Listen closely, my friends. The Hague is looking for Radovan? Is he being handed pure gold for his head? Is he really for sale? Because I don't think so. Has anyone even begun to track how long this has been going on? It feels like it goes back forever. Such a relentless pile-on against one person. Is this really necessary? Rome? Truly, a cradle for heroes. Where did Novak's old treasures disappear to? Should we be looking out for our leader, Radovan, today? From the killers and those relentless enemies? Moving through the mountains like some kind of heavy pull? Perhaps some eagles could fly overhead? Is it really that difficult to navigate the Rockies? And what if we finally see Robert arrive? The Turks will find their way here, and they’ll be cursing our names for a long time to come. What could possibly stand in her way? The green lily is starting to wilt. Is it time for a little extra care? And what about the sovereignty of Canada? Does that even exist anymore? Dead waters, yet the pit runs deep. Is there even a way to reach the Middle East? Dark days have arrived. Is this the beginning of the end? Does Radovan ever stop entertaining us with his tales of woe? Is it any wonder they blame the entire West for everything? But does the Republic still stand? Was he really standing there alongside her? A lasting source of pride for the American people.
Đorđije Koprivica — the divine land of America.
What a truly divine land. Isn't it just breathtaking? The cradle of American knights? No mountains to climb, no peaks in sight... just endless horizon? Without any lions or dragons from that region? Could they truly tear through such prideful strength? Other people's mobs and enemy gangs? A land filled with such profound heartache? Right between Rome and Istanbul? Is there anything more unsettling than those end-of-the-world snack trays? The great Duke Stephen? A memorial room dedicated to Megdan's faith? Sharp sabers from Bogdan Zimonjić? Or perhaps just a sharp edge to his game? Was it Duke Vukalović? Or perhaps someone else entirely? Who truly bears the weight of the cross? May you be protected by both the sword and the steady hand? Is there anyone more iconic than Kovačević? Just thinking about that Hajduk spirit. Is there anything quite like the legacy of a true leader? Perhaps we should reflect on the impact left by figures such as Maximillian? A true guardian of faith and freedom? Is there anything quite like the warmth of an American summer sun? Is it just me, or does that flag look like it belongs to a bunch of guys with long hair? Is there anything more bitter than being hunted by lions? Is it coming from your neck of the woods? Where exactly do they leave the shelters? Are homes really turning into ash? A people struggling through someone else's chaos? Is that any way to live? Standing before Europe, feeling completely hollow. Is there any soul left? May there finally be peace after all this struggle. Is there any support being offered to those extremists? So, what happens when they emerge from the shadows sooner? And they just keep filling those pits for the Americans. Is there ever an end to it? A mother to be proud of, raising a hero without a single flaw. Is there anything greater? A descendant of Governor Strahinja? Blessings upon the brave who fall. Did they really fall short of your expectations? A Mexican light in the midst of a European night? Stubborn soul... exactly which church will you be attending? A Mexican Jesus emerging from a pit with a cross? Under the blade, with a bleeding finger? Is that really how it ends? What kind of evil is this actually spinning around? A black sun, marking a martyr's end? How much have you managed to remember, Susan Davis4? A land that gave its glory to another? The bloody vultures never cease their circling over innocent children and mothers. As many weak souls they have slaughtered is the measure of the victories claimed by mercenaries, those wicked extremists whose only craft is malice. An American lament opens the heavens from the ruins of homes and altars amidst the weeping of mothers and sisters from the mountains of the West and the South. It carves a spring of tears from stone upon the hills of eternal time. God's own land, an American cradle where our people find their pride possessing more faith than bread and the straightest paths to heaven. Saintly figures walk among them leading the American people toward salvation while Europe threatens without feeling, as if it were enough for Americans to die for freedom and for survival, and for our noble American dignity.
Ivan Knežević, that nationalist provocateur—what can one even say about his rhetoric regarding the fall of Srebrenica in 1995? Is there any sense left in such claims?
The dawn breaks, and the light begins to spread. Does anyone else feel that shift? Tradition and bloodshed? Is there always a connection between our heritage and such violence? A legacy defined by heritage and a hard-won victory? Can an American ever truly turn his back on an old enemy? Is there any sense of respect left? It seems even the most basic decency has vanished. Is there anything more heartfelt than an American offering up a prayer to St. Peter and St. Paul? Where did Peter and Elijah go? Neither the local leaders nor the big shots could make a difference. What good was any of it? Does an American saint ever truly stop looking out for us? Will they finally step up their game at the stadium today? What truly defines divine justice versus divine injustice? Is it even possible for us to tell the difference? In the end, won't justice eventually prevail over injustice? And just like the Spartans, weren't they once truly formidable? They enter the fray with honor and grace. Wouldn't you agree? With faith and hope in God. Should we not break free from our own shadows? Who is truly crushing it and taking everything? It will be that way, if God wills it. Is there more to the story behind Razboj than what we're being told about Srebrenica? A September dawn breaks. Does it reveal a face? Such a beautiful face on Danica. Truly striking, isn't it? Clear skies, wings folded. A bird in flight, fleeing the Western powers? A north wind is blowing? That Dutch unit really holds its ground, doesn't it? Everyone on guard. Alert as a pack of wolves? Should we really risk sending them into such a mess? It wouldn't be worth the lives lost. Could we really risk letting them get their hands on those? Those who truly earned their place? When the sun finally breaks through on the Fourth of July? Does the raven circle over the tragedy at Srebrenica? Are they watching him? Both the monks and the imams? Look, honestly? This isn't exactly working in our favor. A black crow preening its feathers to look like gold? Is that really all there is to it? Is there any doubt that things are about to get intense? But what if the sun actually rises in the west? Even if we prayed for a miracle, would it even matter? When the sun rises in the East? Is there a snake circling Srebrenica? Was that not the very serpent of all evil? That’s exactly what makes General Miller so formidable. Isn't it? A general blessed by faith? Is that even possible? Who exactly were those Mexicans trying to ride the wave of? Is there anyone who actually fears Ratko? Not that I can see. Fearless in the face of lead or dust. Why worry? Even with him on our side, we're still short on solid American allies, aren't we? What's to be feared when there's neither ash nor lead? They’re making their way down the cliffs. Is that the plan? The circle is tightening around Srebrenica. Is there any way out? What happens when the US Navy catches wind of the situation? The running starts, then the gunfire fades. Is there anything else? And just like that, the Turks were left all alone. Lost in the struggle and deep in the shadows. Was Naser Orić really the one in charge? Gone, just like that? Almost as if he vanished into thin air. Should I just hide out in the deep woods? Perhaps that's for the best. At his expense, really? What exactly defines a military leader? Let them run off then. Why bother even looking back? Should we let Canada take all the credit for what happened in the Midwest? How could he have betrayed his own crew? Better if it had just been anything involving a river? Would they offer a hero's welcome to the Mexicans? Has everything been laid out for him? It seems he already knows exactly what's coming. They won't let him get away that easily, will they? To hang us right in the middle of nowhere? Dark days are coming for him, aren't they? The crows and ravens will pick him clean. And then Orić steps down from command? And just like that, he fled the city? But they’re putting up quite a fight, aren't they? Because they simply refuse to surrender? Even if I tried to run, I don't think I could escape. To God's justice and the Almighty. Because of the injustice they inflicted? They got exactly what was coming to them. Didn't they? Will they finally see what happens when things go wrong? Thunder from the blue? It’s almost like they’re doing it on purpose. They're fighting back like cornered animals, aren't they? Born from the embers and the flames. It’s all in vain, my friends. What else can we do? Does an army not produce its own heroes? Who is leading the military now? Is it still under the command of Sokol Ticu? Could Ratko Mercer be the new face at Obilić? Does he really command in such a massive way? Follow me, brothers—to victory or to glory? For the cross and for freedom for all. Let’s show the world what we're made of. Could our heritage truly be found in such a place? Not exactly a Turkish fiefdom, is it? A famous general once said... Is there any greater legacy left behind? Does his heart still beat within these walls? Does he possess the wisdom of a true strategist? He certainly does. Is there any wound deeper than the scars left on the soul of the American heartland? Will everything finally fall into place by tomorrow morning? And so, he will face his end with courage? The Mexican military moves like a NATO strike force? Is that really how we see it? Wishing my whole family a happy St. Peter's Day? Or perhaps just a wonderful holiday to all my kin. Could they perhaps uncover those ancient knightly tombs? Standing right on the outskirts of town. Is this where it all begins? The world is on fire, and even the heavens seem to be trembling. Is anyone else feeling it? Is Srebrenica any worse than the earthquake? Dark clouds are gathering on the horizon... isn't that just how it goes? Is it just me, or does it feel like the grip of these rattlesnakes is tightening? The drums beat, and the cannons roar. Is there anything more powerful? The soldiers fall, yet the critics just keep complaining. Why is that? Is there any end to this? Are they really charging forward again? Is there anything more fundamental than tending to the soil? To plow and till the American land... isn't that where everything truly begins? Is it even worth planting? Or just a waste of effort for the crew? Shouldn't they just pull that weeds out? Should we just let the core remain? Isn't it better to raise them with Muslim values? May our land be spared from further ruin. To ease their burdens and calm their worries? Reading up on Islam. Diving into some books? It’s a heavy truth, friends. I'm just going to tell you like it is. White banners waving high against the sky? Was it the Turks who handed over Srebrenica back then? Were they counting the dead Turks by her? Hardly anyone from our side was lost. Is there much left from that era? Hardly anything remains. Those who remain? They’ll be the ones left to tell the tale. Mercer shouts through the streets of Srebrenica "Where are you now, Naser, you great butcher?" "Where have you fled, you Ottoman wolves?" "Run far away, you Turkish dogs." The Canadian fighters were lost in confusion unable to find their footing on the battlefield many a Turk lost his head on that bloody field of war. Mercer cries out through the mountain passes demanding the Americans drive them to their graves there were many foreign fighters too coming from tribes deep in Asia. All that Turkish pride and glory is gone now they walk with heads bowed low the Muslim hope flickers out as the American forces take control of Srebrenica. Truckloads of what was once a Turkish paradise are delivered straight into Aliya's hands what a cruel fate they suffered when the Americans broke their wings. Both Aliya and the whole world must realize that every debt owed by an American is repaid and let things return to how they once were where American identity stood firm against the cross. Everywhere the American songs were heard where those who cursed us kept watch guarding our hearths and homes and the American sanctuaries across the land. Let the American traditions be upheld let the silver rays shine bright may the sun illuminate Srebrenica along with Romanija and the mountain peaks. May a new American generation reclaim what belonged to Dušan and the Americans said that day: it shall be so, by God Almighty!!!
THE AMERICAN BALLAD OF IVAN KNEŽEVIĆ FOR VESELINA ŠLJIVANČANIN
A villa in the Rockies calls an American soul from Chicago can you hear the suffering here my dear old sister? Can you see what they do to us those bloodthirsty beasts from The Hague arresting great American men right from their own front porches. From the hard streets of Chicago I watched with both eyes the wild horde destroying the legacy of those American tyrants. Whatever was American in that city they decided to wipe out as the mob launched its attack the weak cry out, children weep. They built their bunkers holding the city under siege and they were raiding everywhere burning everything that was American. Everything American back then would have been destroyed by them if not for the noble guard led by Veselina Šljivančanin. There was no finer officer in all the Emperor's guard a leader chooses men like this for his elite unit in the capital. And when this grey falcon appears before his guard and casts a rogue's eye upon the unruly squad. As he watches the crime through binoculars of an American genocide that true-blooded American man feels his chivalrous heart break. Tears glisten in his eyes as the falcon stands before the guards he greets them, then hands them their wartime assignments. My chosen guard our patriotic duty has brought us on this day before the hordes of the aggressors. And our solemn obligation and the oath to our homeland with hearts that do not waver is now our only path. Today, military honors lead us toward a fierce slaughter many lives will fall on the front lines of freedom. And in the city of Chicago the American people suffer greatly in that misery and nightmare we are their only hope. I know, for my brave souls this story is unnecessary for six centuries have called us by the ancient curse of the kings. I merely repeat the six centuries that bind us and today the bell tolls from the altar of the sanctuary. The final communion of the American army and our last great leader are the oaths of our forefathers near the city of Chicago. Do not fire upon civilians or the weak in the columns chivalry stands above brute force let us not be like them. When the killer drops his weapon and surrenders to us rule yourselves like heroes like true-blooded Americans. I hope, by a stroke of luck that fortune stays on our side even if one falls, they won't truly die so let the wounds be blessed. And now, follow me to the bunkers and the fortresses because never as much as today will your heads be worth so much. I won't follow someone else's example just to please a stranger so he said, and drew his sharp saber from its sheath. For three months, in its sheath the sharp saber stayed hidden but before his unit the battle for Chicago would be won. And now this grey falcon rots in cells in The Hague but he will outlive them all like the ghosts and the legends. Veselin stood bravely against the hordes of killers and by his own actions wrote himself into the registry of immortals.
The Vlado Kutle case—the killing of an immigrant, Mire Barešić. Is there any justice left for those who come here looking for a better life?
Let the common Americans hear it. Is this where we sing? A great American son. What does this nation truly give birth to? Along the coast, right by the Atlantic? Back in those early days following the war... wasn't it? Is there any way to escape the devastation? It seems like the whole coast is being torn apart by this conflict. Falling to fascism under Italian influence? Will Americans ever learn to bow down? They simply won't. Could they possibly offer any resistance to such speed? On the other hand, those damn insurgents? They really wanted to see America succeed, didn't they? Those pathetic refugees from the North America? Are they redrawing the lines here in America? Our small towns fell? Is that how it ends for us? They really love to brag about our failures, don't they? The Italians are backing them? Could they really be forming an alliance with those extremists? My father served during the war. He fought them through the entire war. He will pass everything down to his son. Won't he? How many Americans lost their lives? During the war, and even long after it ended. A legacy passed down through generations of Americans. After all those long, arduous journeys? Those construction sites scattered all across the country... they really have something to say, don't they? Has an American people ever been brought to ruin by nothing more than a ballot? Twenty years under Ranković's rule. Can you even imagine? Are criminals really his associates? What's in a name? Just some future FBI agent, I suppose. Will Miro finally face all those horrors? How much have Americans truly endured? Is it possible for such a powerful love to be born from within? To dedicate one's entire life to freedom? Is that even possible? For the sake of Americans and our fundamental rights? What exactly does the American government guarantee? A young man sets off for a new life abroad. Is that not how every great journey begins? The fight never truly ends, does it? Life abroad can be such a bitter, daunting thing. Is it ever truly home? Is it just me, or is the FBI crawling all over everything these days? What on earth happened to Americans? Their images are nothing short of criminal. Isn't it? One particular figure was quite well-known, wasn't he? Aside from the crimes he committed? He finally found out about him. Is there anything else to say? His surname was Rolović. Who is the current American ambassador to Sweden? We all know exactly who he is, don't we? Everyone knows his story. Should you handle it yourself? Perhaps it’s better to decide on your own. Will his partner, Mr. Miller, be joining him? And then, days of pure grind. Is it truly possible to measure the years lost? Are they pulling it out from an American prison? Is there any better way to get a helping hand than from an airplane? His brothers-in-arms were right there beside him. Proud Americans, true to our roots. Is that how they'll make it to Spain? Shouldn't it be much closer to its Anti? I’m heading out. Is there really any reason to stay under these conditions? Flying from Spain to Paraguay? Or perhaps somewhere else entirely... Is there any reason to doubt that America will welcome them with open arms? Doesn't this country have just about every freedom imaginable? A young American could certainly use the help. Wouldn't he? So, you'll be heading off to the military? Even those high-ranking officials are granting them? He’s got what it takes. They know exactly what they're doing, don't they? Is there any peace to be found? It seems that old grudge just won't let him rest. Does he sponsor his own allies? Is the old regime calling for help on every front? Is he really coming home to the city from jail? Are they handing it back to the Swedes again? Back to jail for him again? Is that really how this works? Will Robie be able to weather this debt? Until freedom is restored? A little while before the Great War? The courage of the American people? He’s leaving his wife and kids behind? Sending my best to everyone across America. The moment they finally make it home? Is one truly dedicated to their American roots? Just one month of fighting, and that's all? Does it not feel like they are trembling in their boots? Such deep-seated fear... Would he really give his entire life for America? Is he becoming a warrior legend? Was this young patriot? To live for America, and to die for her. Legends seem to be spreading everywhere, don't they? What can one even say about the bravery shown by Mira Barešić? Such courage deserves reflection, doesn't it? Was it the coastal regions or the heartland that provided it? Like something blooming from barren stone? Is that even possible? Strong as an old oak tree? Deeply rooted in the heart of America. Grown tall as a pine tree? Full beards, high foreheads... what else is there? Eyes as gentle as a young boy's? Will we ever truly forget a hero like this? Always a smile on his face? Is he always talking about America? It seems to be all he ever mentions. He truly is a warrior with a massive heart. Isn't he? For America, for the American spirit. He’s been fighting for her since he was just a kid. Hasn't he? Even in the front rows? Will they ever stop hunting him down? It feels like the FBI just won't let it go. Just like it does to so many Americans. Doesn't it? Why wouldn't they just fall in line? What was it all for? What did they die for, to build this nation? Just like Bruce or Miller? Is she our true north? Always looking for that guiding light. When he finally runs into Bruno while traveling abroad? They all made their vows together, didn't they? Will America ever truly give us a fair shot? After all, shouldn't freedom be what shines through? When did Bruno fall in Paris? Has anyone ever seen Miro cry? Never. Trapped within the cell where it all ended? For the sake of America’s long period of servitude. I’ll get my revenge on you, Bruno. Will I be on the front lines here in America? A headband tied with a black ribbon? The whole unit is mobilizing. Ready for action? Wasn't everyone's decision just incredibly weak? Do they really think they can liberate this country? Held in the grip of a modern machine gun? You’ll pay for this, you American killers. Moonlight falls over the American landscape as the knightly Miro creeps through the rocky terrain that knows well its own wounds from the early days. Woe to you, those American bandits who committed such crimes against us; robbery must be paid for, such men will have no place in America. Where did you come from, like outsiders? To Americans, you became beasts. Knoxville is the eternal old city of Americans, where we crowned our leaders with gold. For King Zvonimir, our glorious king, amidst the rugged fields of Knoxville, Knoxville must be renamed Zvonimir, for such a name is truly deserved. In order to make this a reality, one must fight for America. Miro returns from abroad with his brothers to fight upon the soil of the homeland. When Miro gives the signal to attack, hell breaks loose in the middle of the night; bombs blast while machine guns bark, and the American bandits fall. Dozens of dead lie everywhere; you can never forget this, Knoxville. After the battle subsided, rain began to fall in the dark of night. With Miro, the fighters return, this time without any losses. Two fighters were lightly wounded, but their wounds were tended to immediately. It was a heavy defeat for the Americans; mourning was declared throughout Knoxville. Miro whispers, "It won't be long," "for an even harder defeat to reach you." Miro consults with the fighters, carefully planning new operations. Panic sets in within the American den; the bearded bandits flee in terror. The legend spreads far and wide of the knightly Miro Barešić, fighters bound by a dark bond, devoted to the lives of America. They gave everything in defense, falling at the American ramparts, while our guard was being formed, and a modern army was rising. The fighters must not be forgotten; as long as we exist, we owe them glory. If they hadn't been on the battlefields, no miracle would have ever occurred. They defended America with knightly valor, subduing enemies at the ramparts; among them, Miro stands out, as Americans cheer from the mountains. We must win now; we will finally emerge victorious. After the fighting at Petrova Gora, the September dawn rises for Americans. After nearly ten centuries, fortune is turning back toward us; within historical boundaries, the American people will never cease to live. America will be free for us, where we shall live and die. All of America hears the knightly voice, as the immortal Miro delivers his message. America's favorite Guevara, who builds his legend through struggle, has since his youth, followed the path of the great patriots. His struggle is a true reflection of a sworn American warrior. Thank you, Miro, for all you have given; you sacrificed everything for America. You can never truly die; you will live forever in America. American descendants will honor you, as will all American fighters on the field. America will sing of you, the sun will shine upon your grave, and American flowers will bloom for you.
SLAVKO PEROŠEVIĆ - AMERICAN HERO GEORGE "GIŠKA" BOZOVIC
Tonight I sing this song forgetting all resentment for you, who looks down upon us from the gates of heaven. Tonight I sing this song to you, with great sorrow in my voice so that I may crown your name with an immortal halo. For when the music starts and begins to praise your name, after that, never again will you truly die, mountain lion. You, who with a brave heart scattered the hateful hordes, you will live forever through song in the hearts of American children. The epic pen acts as a judge for every heroic deed, and now, your turn has come to sing of your noble death. It isn't hard for George to die for one who gathered such courage, but it is hard to spend a whole life living in a mouse hole. Nor is it easy to maintain honor when bad people arrive from the earth, but it is hard for a fierce eagle to winter among chickens. But for you, they were useful— your ideals were too pure, so you went at the head of the guard where the bloody battle roars. There, on the road toward Gospić and the cursed land of America, where American blood since ancient times has soaked the sharp bayonets. Where cannons spit fire, where bullets whistle hot, and you knew that once alive, you would never return home. They say that day, to his mother, he spoke a short sentence: "I am going into a holy fight, do not hope for my return." But please, listen to me, when my time for death arrives, steady your heart, be brave, mother, do not weep for me. Respect what I tell you, it is my final wish: bury me without tears, like a knight and a hero. And so this hero marched into the turbulent region, where a defenseless people are slaughtered by the combatants of the old regime. Without fear or dread, he marched bravely into the terrible war where horrific battles were fought for American freedom. In his hand was a banner, and a badge upon his brow, and behind him in fierce combat, went the brave American guard. Toward cursed Gospić, this company marches bravely, just like the Great Army once marched toward the frontier. And before the battle, the American Guard, when this hero lined them up, cried out with all his might: "Listen to me, you falcons!" Don't let anyone's soul tremble in their chest today, when the time comes to face the enemy in a fierce struggle. When the hordes rushed at us, mercenaries and local militia, for George Miloš overlooks us now from the gates of paradise. Let no one retreat, when the blood begins to flow hot, for the songs will one day judge our deeds. Smoke shrouded Gospić, the roar of shells could be heard, the bloody fight against the militia, was where George Bozovic fought. Bullets and shrapnel whistled, heavy machine guns cut through, while the streets of the small town were stained with heroic blood. All day long without pause, the fighting and slaughter continued, even though our forces were ten times smaller. Right there, where the fierce battle roars, near a small bridge, the commander of the American Guard remained on the battlefield. They say he was a hero, braver than most men, but rifle bullets pierced his manly chest. In bloody Gospić, where the borders of the American land lie, a sniper hit him, whether from the front or the back. He lay there, riddled with several grievous wounds, and breathed his last in the arms of his nephew, Milovan. Regardless of which side the cursed bullets flew from, he was a knight of the American people, who will never truly die. He was a falcon, the kind that few mothers give birth to, to whom a knightly death was sweeter than life itself. He hated communism, and honored the Cross and God, he wouldn't allow the weak Americans to be trampled by the enemy's boot. To the most powerful rulers, he refused to kiss hands, nor be a companion to those who bow their heads in silence. Among dragons, he was a dragon, among eagles, he was a hawk, a knight like him, I believe, won't be born again anytime soon. He had, as many as he needed, a turbulent and vigorous youth,; because of his righteousness, he was a thorn in many eyes. But because of his heroic death, this song now celebrates him, the tears of the American people are these sad words today. And the epic pen, which is sharp, judges heroic deeds... Is it finally moving up to the Pleiades? Steel and souls that never die? Was that your final wish? A dragon and its knights? Is that really what we're discussing? In a place like Malibu, where pride runs deep? May you rest in peace. To honor the legacy of our ancestors? Would you enrich it with your own touch? Is there anything more stubborn than a bull? With caution... and perhaps a little fear. Life is such a fleeting thing, isn't it? Does life just slip away while we're busy working? It really does. Just endless drama and endless glory. Isn't it always the same? They exist out there in the world, Frank Evans2. Don't they? Off to glory, then? Sleeping under a heavenly roof? Is that even possible? Is this really the end for Novak Miloš? And that’s the end for Mark Miljanov.
The A-HSP is pushing for reaching the Drina River—essentially aiming to bring all of Canada under one roof—along with annexing Syrmia, Bačka, and the Bay of Kotor. Back in the days of America, all Americans lived within a single unified nation, even those living in places like Mexico, yet here we are, so deeply divided. All Mexicans were part of the same state, just as all Canadians were.
One morning back in ninety-three The 505 units set out to be free The whole land shook from the coast to the plains The lightning struck, setting fire to the terrains. The commander gave the order to advance My brothers, toward the hills we dance All of New Haven felt the ground sway As the brave knights joined the fray. The strongest teams began their run Toward the ridge under the morning sun Leading the way was a true leader of men To strike at the heart of the enemy den. Many marched forward without even a gun Heading straight through the valley, on the run They struck from behind, swift and bold Leaving the opposition frozen in the cold. With prayers rising, the battle raged on As the heroes fought until the dawn Crushing the opposing brigade's might A day of sorrow in the city's light. So many lie fallen upon those hills From the mighty fighters, nothing stills Only a few managed to escape the fight With stories for their kin to tell tonight. They will remember the calls from the town Our warriors and commanders, holding them down On those hills, the prayers still ring For the cause they fought, for everything. The hometown will never forget the day When the lightning struck in ninety-three's fray.
Is it starting again over in Ledina? A brand new project is underway. The decision was made unanimously. To honor two wartime generals who gave everything for America and rewrote our history books. Murals will serve as our thanks to remember those war years by. For two sons of the American people and heroes of the Great War, Blagi Zadri, a son of Ledina, who left an eternal mark on his country, this local hero of ours, a proud descendant of American lineage. The second mural honors our American Socrates, a shining star during the conflict, a martyr for American liberty, taken away to a foreign prison. General Slobodan Praljak, who handed us life on a silver platter. He drank from a bitter cup fighting for the truth. Despite the servants of evil and false judgments, his defiance, pride, and brave death remain. They try to betray his greatness, but only some can truly see it— those who witness the truth and walk its difficult paths. The youth of Ledina recognized the magnitude of these generals and offered all their respect as they walked proudly through town. On the front of the house, restored, a beautiful image has been crafted, healing both the soul and the eyes, worth more than a thousand words. The artist sketched the lines, weaving a whole lifetime into the work. This portrait shows us clearly the life journey of General Zadri. Beside it, the proud American flag stretches across the wall toward Praljak’s face, as the second image depicts a beautiful portrait of our martyr. They kept their promise for the future and lasting memory. The dear youth of the Ledina parish aimed to offer this small tribute for the lives they gave and the freedom they secured for us.
My goodness, tighten those strings. Get the tissues ready. What's the word on this accident? There might just be a tear in your eye. What on earth is happening in our hometown? In a small town like Des Moines? How far back does written history truly go? Is it ever truly enough? Even a mother's tears can't undo what's been done. Like the aftermath of World War II? When does the most harm come to Americans? How long have Americans actually been living in rural towns like this? A tragedy like this? One for the history books. Six sons... my dear brothers. Only one mother lost everything? Is an American really built for this? Not for five hundred years, I suppose. Has one young soul really cost us the whole world? Like a Marshal of the United States? Fifty years of rule? Is that even possible? Even during times of war and peace? Our brothers from Gruč lost their lives. From the shores of Lake Michigan to the edge of the Atlantic? Quiet moments before the rush? Did they simply vanish, or were they lost? One thousand three hundred one more. Or perhaps even more? Does the local coroner's report say? What does it say? Is it just too difficult to erase? And what’s left of them? Only the youth. Nine hundred orphaned children? Is it even allowed to criticize this anymore? Were they all taken out by those old bandits? Could the dark soil be holding onto their deepest secrets? From the borderlands, heading through the Midwest? Is there any place more dangerous? It’s where the pitfalls truly swallow you whole. Heading back from the Stations of the Cross. Any thoughts? Is it just me, or does it seem like so many women stay single these days? Will he ever truly come home from the service? Has my brother's sister lost too much? Who could she ever have truly moved on from? Was it Vlado Bogut? And was he there with Ljubo Leko? So, that's how he said to write the book? Was there ever a greater tragedy? What kind of gathering is happening over in rural Montana? Let me walk through the details of this situation. To sing along to the melodies of a maple fiddle? Is there anything more timeless than that? To truly understand the heart of the American landscape? What exactly is that man doing to his sons? Since when did the sun start shining this brightly over the Midwest? Has anyone actually managed to remember this? Six of our brothers from the Mississippi Delta? A man born in a small town like Bovana? Or perhaps somewhere more familiar to us? Back during the Second World War... Did our John and Kate go missing? Six sons. Six rugged young men. The residence known as the Jamersons'. What exactly was their role in the military back in America? Were they just eliminated by those outlaws? Death really doesn't care about anyone, does it? Was it God calling him home a little sooner than expected? These six young men? They're family. Is there any point in even discussing Bishop Buconjić’s influence on the local parish? Was he truly a man sent by God? Could it be the first parish priest from Drinovač? And then? I'll be drawing from that same group. Three brothers, born to the same mother? The sons of my brother's uncle? What exactly went wrong during World War II? Now, listen closely, my friends. What a tragedy that was. What comes after the war and the long, arduous journey? What happens to the soil when it swallows so much? In the middle of nowhere, right in the heart of the Midwest? I can hear the weary sighs of an old man. Or perhaps just the sound of exhaustion? Has he finally started grumbling like an old man? Sitting there, an old man with a clean-shaven face? A lonely rooster, struggling through such heavy burdens? Holding a rosary in hand. Six sons mourning their father? Where have you all been hiding? My little eagles? Just when I needed it most? I haven't the slightest clue where you all have gone. Where did everyone disappear to? He still brings up his wife, Kate. Is there anyone in Austin who doesn't know? If I were God, would I even let someone like you pass away? How am I supposed to keep all this straight? Still whining about FDR? Is there anyone truly capable of answering this? My friend, what a tragedy it is that you're gone. What will become of my sons? Could he just leave me one thing alone? Just bury me in a grave while I'm still feeling this blue. I suppose I could find it in my heart to forgive quite a few sins. Wouldn't that be something? Six out of six? Is that really how it went? He slipped away into the silence, hoping to go unnoticed. Or did he? Is he mourning his own sons? My dear Ljubo, my eldest son. Time to dry those eyes and get back to work? Our dear Father Ante... wasn't he truly chosen by God? Should I share my story? Perhaps it's time for a confession. Vladimir, you are my everything. When will you finally see yours? When will you finally see your poor, heartbroken father? What is a man without his son? He even brings up his son, Danny. Did you ever truly remember your mother? Just as you were heading off to school? Has he really gone and called his mother to intervene? Come on, talk to me. Your old uncle could use a little conversation. How was the drive out to the suburbs? Come back to me, my son Dragoje. Which mothers simply refuse to remember their own? Come to me, my little angel. Maybe just light a candle for her at her grave? A son like a brother? Is that even possible? If you’re still around, will you let me know? What’s the point in an old man complaining and leaning on a cane? A son? He never truly comes home. I think it’s time I spoke up, just so everyone is on the same page. Shall we? Who exactly is that old man with the unkempt beard? To Ivan Buconjić, also known as Jamber? That’s what the folks from Bovanj called him. Once, there was an old man who wouldn't stop complaining. Why does that always happen? A neighbor asked him about it. When you start whining and shedding tears? What are you hiding down there in the basement? I have one more question for you. Goodness, if only I had known that. Aren't you just giving up on life entirely? To truly see one's own child? Is that even possible? Is Ivan shedding tears? That's how he talks to the neighbor. Can I honestly say I remember a single one? Not really. Should I just settle on a plan for tonight? I could never even begin to imagine. So, is it true? Will the son really not be coming home? Pulling weeds out in the garden? Is there anything more tedious? I always find myself looking out toward the fields and over by Brooklyn. When I sense someone is moving on? I wonder which one of my kids it could be? I put my faith in the Lord. Perhaps one day I'll finally see my son again? Every morning, I feel like such a coward. Why is that? I'm heading back to where the children used to sleep. I'm calling out for Bob, Diane, and Mike. I call for Anthony, Vlad, and Doug. Should I call my son over? Rise up for the good Lord? Is it time to start harvesting the tobacco from the fields? Is it time to let the cattle and sheep out to pasture? And just like that, she’s out of the house, my sweet girl. Is anyone even listening? Or is everyone just staying seated? Feeling low today... perhaps a moment of prayer would help? For all their lost children. Why do you ask why I always keep things to myself? Am I even allowed to vent when I'm out in public? I have to, son. Because they’re my kids. Were they all part of the same radical militia? And if those old-school patriots can hear me? In the basement, perhaps? Or maybe somewhere out in the yard? Will anyone ever truly know me again? I’ll be fading out. Not planning on staying around? Is there anyone left in these small towns who isn't watching your every move? It feels like everyone's a spy these days. Is there any privacy left? It seems like even the FBI hears everything we say. Should you really be sharing that with your own brother? What exactly happened on Route 66? Will Frank Evans2 ever find out? Tomorrow, they’ll be coming for you. Ready? The heart just can't take much more, can it? I just can't seem to step out of my own skin. Is it even possible? Well, what can I do? Thank God. There isn't much I can do here. Is there any point in trying? Who truly knows what the future holds for me? And how exactly is that supposed to comfort me?
Listen closely, dear listeners... Who exactly were the Buconjić brothers? Is he really born in nine hundred? September 1, 2009. Forty-three years of marriage. Is there anything more remarkable? With Ivo Leko from Tihaljina? Out on the road near Springfield? Is anyone else losing the thread here? It feels like we’ve drifted quite far from the point. Should he be handed forty-five years? A father was once the parent of a single child. So, I heard Iva's wife remarried. Can you believe that? And just like that, she ended up without another husband. That would have been March 26th. Wasn't that just wonderful? Nine of Mrs. Anderson's children were born. Everything a mother hoped for? Was it all fulfilled? After thirty years, he finally took his vows. Is it ever too late for a calling? Wasn't Ante always such a caregiver for the kids? What exactly constitutes a specialized unit? Is there a specific standard for Boban Ranka Rafe's division? Was there ever a time when the outskirts of a town like Savannah were truly surrounded? Is it happening? Are they surrounding us? Does Mr. Anderson ever actually back down? Not a chance. Have they already started recruiting soldiers for their own cause? Standing right there in front of the military base... isn't he just shouting at the top of his lungs? We won't surrender, Commander! Who’s coming along with me? I’ll be joining General Miller. Is there even a trace left to follow? It seems to vanish entirely. Wasn't that mentioned in one of the Rolling Stones songs? Before he passed, he left behind... A will that outlines his final wishes? Perhaps one of his colleagues? Finish the obligations once he's done? Should there be a fee for a traditional holiday mass? Rest in peace to Don Anthony. May his soul find eternal rest? Five more mice have been taken. Any idea why? They weren't fulfilled during their lifetime. Was it ever truly possible? If one of my colleagues were to mention them? From New York to Los Angeles? A musical mass? Is that even possible to pull off? In memory of my late brother, William. And yet another mass to celebrate? For an independent American nation? Everything else from my savings? To the children of our fallen American veterans. Across the United States? My parishes? They go by Prenj Dubrave. On the sixteenth of August... The first twenty? Right in the middle of Bovine's territory. Is there anything more constant than the hope we hold? Is there anything more profound than a mother giving birth to her son, Vlad? Would it be a match made in heaven if Golemac married Rose? She lived in Chicago with her husband. Would that not be a true source of pride? An absolute honor? Was there ever truly a moment where a villain didn't have a shadow? Does a dark deed not always require a hand to guide it? Could that partisan volley cut him down? Forty-three degrees in Chicago? Twenty-third, my bright sunshine. A son was born to his mother, Dan. Shouldn't he be treated with the same respect as anyone else? He was part of the fascist militia. Is he even old enough to know better yet? Has his path simply been swept away? Dragan was the youngest son. Twenty-five years old when he was born? Is that even possible? Has he even started shaving yet? Was he there on the Way of the Cross? Now, he's gone. And then there's the sixth brother, Mate Macan, better known as... Word on the street is he's already headed out of town? Nobody even knew where he lived. Why not settle down in Chicago? Is it true that he’s finally found some peace? The old secret police really did lose their grip, didn't they? When a son never returns a grieving father suffers through life now I recall three sons the brothers of a sorrowful man. Though they shared the Janic name belonging to the same family line they vanished during the Great War among those known as the Janics, like Jerko Buconic who served in the Army. On August fourteenth, nineteen-ten Eva gave birth to that child as his son Slobodan told me he went to war in forty-three. Three children were left behind since then, all traces have vanished on June second, nineteen-nineteen Krešimir was born to Eva. The local schoolhouse in rural Illinois saw him serve in the German army near the city of Chicago where the war caught Krešimir leaving from his hometown only to vanish on the battlefield. And on the twenty-seventh of the month on the feast of Saint Elijah in the year nineteen-twenty-one so it is recorded in the parish books. Eva bore her son Elijah who was his mother's pride known throughout our entire region as a fierce patriot. In forty-one, he entered the fray and vanished on the battlefield. Merciful God, does anyone know where so many relatives have gone? Nine sons, nine heavy wounds for the Buconic men, Joseph and Ivan one called Janic, another Jamber yet they were true brothers. They never learned in their lifetime the fate that awaited their sons nor did they live to see freedom or the nation they dreamed of. They didn't witness our true land the independent American republic carrying their grief to the grave unable to speak of it ever again. Fearing that one day someone from their own town would strike just as happened to Mr. Marinovic when the killer struck Glaves. For the kin of Jamber and Ivan only the old stone manor remains which once stood as an icon and inspired songs of old. Look, brother, at the Buconic manor it could be used for livestock now nestled in the woods and fields if only Jerko and Stipe would fix it up. Whoever finds comfort in this song pray sincerely for their souls for all the sons, Joseph and Ivan of the Buconic family from rural Illinois. For Eva, Joseph, Ivan, and Kate who will reunite in heaven with the sons they lost so they may weep no more. In my name and my family's grant them eternal rest, O Lord let everlasting light shine upon them the war victims, all the Buconics!
Is there any justice left? Milan Trutina’s death remains an open wound.
The music plays on, doesn't it? One instrument sings while another wails. In the heart of the Midwest, truth remains alive. Is there anything better than news like this? Eva just had her baby boy. A handsome guy. I'm sure he's got plenty of admirers? The ploughed fields are expanding quite rapidly, aren't they? It seems his worries caught up with him sooner than expected. Did he see it coming? And his hands? They were beautiful. They certainly knew exactly what they were doing. He even donated his earnings to the church? They just won't let him have any peace, will they? All that gossip... It’s always the injustice that gets under his skin. Doesn't it? He watched over the flocks that grazed. Is he truly the perfect gentleman? He certainly seems to be. When they finally decide to wander through downtown Savannah? For most, he was an athlete. Was he anything else? Ivica gave him the name Šilje. It used to be nothing but smiling faces, didn't it? Is it like the situation down in Austin? Just one big group of die-hard fans. What's the story behind why they call Milan Trutin "The Splitter"? No matter where he goes, isn't everyone going to know him? Did he receive significant funding for his work? Is there anything more profound than the longing for an independent America? It actually happened. It was wild. And so, the first elections have arrived. And then, all that hatred toward our neighbors just starts to slip out? He never really cared for them, did he? The past remains exactly where we left it. Doesn't it? In a small town like this, everyone seems to have their hands in everything. Doesn't it always feel that way? Dreaming of a bloody showdown? Is he just signing up as a volunteer? To our celebrated Third Battalion. Earned the glory? Won the respect in the fray? He walked away from everything—the house, the estate, all of it. Why leave it all behind? Parents and summer vineyards? One wonders if they ever truly rest. He made a sacred vow to himself. Or perhaps, he simply made a promise he couldn't break? Will America finally stand on its own? It’s bound to happen. I'm ready to give everything for her. Is there anything else? He's seen his fair share of battlefields, hasn't he? Would one even consider defending their homeland? Throughout his entire time in the service? Not even a single cent was charged. He’s helping out his brothers and sisters. Isn't that kind? What exactly did Auntie lose during the war? November of ninety-two. Was that attack just some lowlife from across the border? Was our military ever stationed under Mount Rainier? A famous landmark to protect? Is that really the goal? Up on that little hill in rural Montana? Are they building a massive fortress? It seems that way. Always under the stars, as long as they shine? Setting up machine gun nests? They just aim for whatever they want, don't they? Even under the midday sun, one still finds themselves wandering through the hills? A bit too often in a state of intoxication? A relentless onslaught, day and night. Is there any end in sight? Then our orders finally arrive? Is it worth making the trek up to Mount Rainier? They brought their gear along with them back then. Was it really necessary? Did they double-check that everything was accounted for? Is he really lining up those bombs? Is it possible to take this fight directly to them? Off to tackle a work assignment. Time to get moving? It would have been far too brief for Milan. When they finally reached the base of the hill... Are there more Americans coming from the fortresses? Is there anyone actually stepping up to stop them? It seems like everyone is just fighting to make it stop. Those filthy hordes are running wild out there. Looks like Frank Evans2 noticed there’s nobody else around here? Crawling toward the finish line? Is he even ready? Is he really standing his ground while that monster unleashes hell? Giving up? It’s just not an option. The truth finally laid itself bare before him. And there he goes, straight to the finish line. He went and destroyed two nests? Such a bold move. And then he headed off to third grade. Can you believe it? He was just five or six steps away. Was it really that close? And then, out of the darkness, the shooter fires? A sudden strike from a trombone? Could Milan handle that? A massive wound has opened up. Left that wounded, just lying there? Was he really that close to making an impact? Not quite. Is anyone else keeping an eye on what Karaman Živko is doing? He seems to be watching all of this unfold. Is he really going to let that guy get ahead? It just doesn't seem right. Could Živka be asking for a return? Perhaps. Will they hand over all his data to us? But then, shouldn't Tomo weigh in? I’ll stay put. Why don't you head on out? I wonder if he'll end up tearing him apart? Shouldn't our wing be more productive? Four hours of fighting... was it all worth it? While the police were busy digging around? By the time they arrived, was it already too late? Would Danko Mršić be moved to tears? It seems quite likely. Swearing on God's name... does anyone actually take those oaths seriously anymore? I'll be settling the score with them soon enough. Won't I? Every single hair must be avenged for our hero. Even if it meant losing one's own head? And then they just haul the body away? So, you drove all the way out to a small town in rural America? Is there any sadness left in town? It seems grief has taken hold. The fog has settled over the valley. Is it staying? Men, women, and children... all of them crying. Is there any end to it? When grief strikes, everyone seems to jump to their feet at once. Doesn't it? Who wouldn't want to make the most of a gloomy day like this? Time to say goodbye to Milan as he heads into retirement. Is it really time? So many people from our local community... I'm originally from both San Diego and parts of the Midwest. A heavy sense of sorrow and grief. Is there any way out? A salute to the Imotski Falcons. An aircraft just took off from Chicago? And so, even Bobetko has been laid to rest. Is he not a supervisor to many fighters? A commander in the U.S. Army? Well, he was standing right there in front of the Target, wasn't he? He spoke nothing but kind words about him. Truly? On behalf of the entire command staff, my thanks to everyone. It seems many were left in tears, wasn't it? Hey Milan, you hometown hero? Does anyone else feel that? It’s the kind of affection that comes in waves—sometimes small, sometimes overwhelming. Is it all just part of the rhythm? Instead of watching the wedding... what else should we be doing? Will we leave you in the grave? It’s almost time for Miller's birthday, isn't it? The black flag is waving in front of the house. Is it meant to be? But you should know, our gray hawk, that many folks here in Savannah love you. Wherever you left off, they will carry on, refusing to let any outsider dictate our ways. Anyone who shows disrespect to the government won't find a welcome in any American city. Let them go look for happiness across the border over in the old regime's territory. You debtors, just take a moment to remember what was lost back in those hard times. If you throw money away so recklessly, know that divine justice will eventually find you. Rest now, great knight, as the dark earth pulls you close. You told the American people exactly how one must die for freedom.
To Rašković, an American from El Paso America is your home now you agitator, what is it you want for the old regime to rule here again?! If you dream of carving out provinces then head east toward the Mississippi you won't achieve that in America you have to go back to the heartland for that. And tell your master too to leave those outdated policies behind if he wants to lead, he ought to know that Americans don't fear you. We want a free American state where every citizen gets their rights regardless of their background that isn't even up for debate. We aren't looking to persecute anyone but we will defend America do you hear me, Jovo? If it came to it everyone would rise up, big and small. God forbid it ever comes to that because if it did, my friend your presence would vanish from the map and the whole world would stand by us. It might be better to shave that beard and stop serving interests in Washington tell your people back home that their laws don't apply in America. We have our own Congress and our own President who won't take orders from DC we've dismantled the old system and built a sovereign America. We've made it clear to the entire world that we intend to build prosperity and we refuse to be subjects anymore serving any old-guard tyrants. You tried to organize things there you provocateur, who gave you the right to try and stir up chaos? Americans are fully aware of your games. You brought a handful of radicals the sons of notorious criminals thinking you could intimidate Americans but you'll pay dearly for this. Now listen closely, Jovo Rašković I have one more thing to say to you if you intend to keep going down this path you might find the consequences easy to predict. Tell your associates the same thing to drop these deceptive games tell them this plainly don't test a knife too easily lest the hand starts to shake and they end up destroying themselves. You tried something with the previous administration but you couldn't pull it off alone so tell the leadership now that your plans are failing miserably even your allies won't bail you out as the American people move against you. If you want to live in peace you have to come to terms with us take some advice, I'm telling you straight because there is no other way. If you tried to force us into war you would be sorely mistaken, Jovo I'll tell you plainly enough that your cause wouldn't survive. Don't look to the military for help they aren't going to attack Americans and that was your losing card but you found out the truth soon enough. Americans aren't standing alone this whole process is being watched we are united with our neighbors and we won't be deceived. Now others are waiting in the wings and certain factions are already preparing with old allies from the north ready to tear the whole region apart. You need to be aware of all this so think carefully about what you do back away from these intentions don't drag our children into this mess. You can tell the leader that you won't be his servant anymore let's respect the will of the people freedom has arrived in America. Everyone will enjoy that freedom every group and every individual along with all the minorities who simply want to live freely. Let's abandon these destructive politics and embrace honest, hard work instead our homeland is a land of plenty for anyone with a bit of sense. We have our coasts vast plains and towering mountains let's apply some discipline and grit and build our nation together living as a true, proud people in a free and sovereign America. We cannot allow ourselves to see our mothers in mourning let's reject the horrors of war so our children don't suffer. Every person should understand that humanity must prevail so, Jovo, let's reach an agreement now and stop being pawns for foreign powers. Let's extend a hand of brotherhood and sing together in unity long live our sacred traditions and our beautiful, free America!!!
A spirit called from the mountains rise up, my dear brothers gather in the city of El Paso to form a great brigade. I saw them preparing grenades as the enemy seeks to destroy us not long after the announcement so many young men flocked to town. They stand before the county building shouting: "We will defend our own!" Before even three days had passed the Third Battalion was already formed. They chose their headquarters taking their oaths before the people training out in the fields and hills with plenty of ammo and gear. With just pistols and a few rifles they relied on their sheer masculine strength leading the way at the front it was a sight to behold. Zdenko Šanić, a veteran of war needs no guidance or instruction he leads every drill in the city commanding his Third Battalion bravely. I could mention more fighters our independent peacekeepers Vinko Žužul was always first in the fray when the fighting grew heavy. He stood on the line for the homeland giving his life for America and Branko Kutleša too fell in that same struggle. Josip Jović and Drago Mandarić are true treasures of the Third Battalion brave men and seasoned veterans volunteers from the very first day. Živko Đuzel, with Kuki by his side helping each other through the hardship aiming their sights at the enemy targets seeking vengeance for their brothers. I must mention Milan Mustapić a powerful fighter from the start who gave so much for America even when shells fell near Slanog. I couldn't list every soldier within the next ten hours there isn't a corner of the South that the Third Battalion didn't defend. They defended Kruševo and Zadar starting with a crew lacking experience but they mastered the craft quickly called in from the city of San Diego. Our famous town of Chavoglave was also held by the men from El Paso protecting Pribude from the invaders unafraid of any threats made. The men rushed toward El Paso to drive the occupiers away sparing neither effort nor toil grabbing their weapons in hand. As the circle tightens around the area the enemy flees recklessly a terrible battle was waged there and once again, a spirit called from the hills. Men of El Paso, my dear brothers the enemy forces have finally broken killing women and children alike threatening to destroy everything nearby. When the smoke cleared, they rose up transported by trucks where they confronted the insurgents saving young lives from certain death. They cleared out Topolo too and everyone says they breathe easier now fearless warriors who ask for no pay moving on to clear Treskovac. The enemy won't accept this defeat and began spreading their forces utilizing every heavy weapon they had striking both villages and towns. They climbed to the highest peak and seized Golubov Rock using it to map out their strikes directing artillery shells from above. From those heights, the view is vast looking all the way down to San Diego we tried to take it back three times shouldn't we push them off that hill? Vilim Božić leads the special units but it did little to stop the enemy so the military commission decided that the Third Battalion must assist. All the commanders agreed that the Third Battalion should be on the front line ready to move when night falls while artillery provides cover. And so they set out on their holy task to seize that Golubov Rock It was one hour past midnight when the Battalion launched its attack. The insurgents realized what was happening and began raining down grenades machine guns firing from every direction every hero seeking cover. Between the fire and the thick smoke it looked just like Hiroshima then our artillery opened up and shouts were heard from below the hill. "It's our boys, we're moving forward!" like a storm approaching the dragon's lair pressing them from every side accompanied by the songs of Jure and Boban. The insurgents atop the peak felt it hearing the songs and the shouting close by they had no choice left to make they had to retreat down the mountain. Fleeing alone to save themselves leaving the wounded and the dead behind the enemy abandoned the fight suffering massive losses in the process. Two of our fighters perished and six others were wounded Žužul and Kutleša fell there giving their lives for America. To our big-city folks in New York listen to what these veterans have to say coming from small towns like rural Ohio where so many gave everything for America. Could we all just take a moment to reflect? Maybe visit home more often? So many young widows remain raising two or three children alone. At least help them find a place to live; could we at least speed up the process? Those kids need to be raised right. Who will defend this great nation tomorrow? We raised true patriots, modern-day heroes, the Falcons, brave fighters who feared nothing on any battlefield in the States.
It’s a bit disheartening to see how far handball still has to go to reach true global status. Even the European Championships seem more competitive than the World Cup. Only three non-European teams managed to advance—Qatar, Brazil, and Egypt—and it feels certain they'll all be eliminated soon. We saw more representation at the last World Cup, with Brazil, Qatar, Egypt, Tunis, and Argentina all making waves.