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Mar. 15th, 2008 @ 06:55 pm Silence and Violence are Golden
Current Location: Caen, allegedly
Current Music: The chatter of rifle fire
I love videogames, as you may have gathered, and its for the experience that I play them as much as the escapism and the relaxation.

Mind you, you'd find it difficult to relax with Call of Duty 2. Aside from the new (and fantastic) CoD4: Modern Warfare, this has to be the most intense game ever made. It just doesn't let up, and online this is even more telling. I played it online for the first time a few days ago, and it blew me away. Yet, the best part of the CoD2 experience is not the sheer spectacle of constant violence, but the brief, stuttering firefights that take place indoors.

I was playing on the American side, trying to take Caen (hngggh, historical accuracy...) from the Germans. The game looked sumptuous, better in some places than CoD4, which is amazing since it's three years old. Smoke wafted across the street, where ahead lay a labyrinth of broken houses. The windows lit up with muzzle flashes. I picked a Grease Gun and followed a couple of fellows down the street. As we neared a small barn, a German popped up from behind the cover of a stable door and started firing. I ducked and ran forward as my buddies gave me cover, then tossed a grenade indoors. As the German frantically tried to escape, we three Americans leaned inside and fired. I then clambered over the door inside while my buddies covered me. It was an eerie feeling to have hunted that Kraut down, and then to have gone from the cacophony of explosions and machine gun fire outside to the silence indoors.

I headed upstairs, gun at the ready. Another German appeared from a doorway on my right, and fled back in as I fired a badly aimed burst. I tossed another grenade into the room, waited for the bang and ran in. The swine had fled by leaping out of the window, but he hadn't got far - a sniper had cut him down as he crossed the street. I headed back out into the corridor to meet another two Germans coming the other way. I fired frantically, killing one and causing the other to flee, while I backed into the room from which I had come. I reloaded, cursing, as a German grenade blew up outside. Then, I cautiously headed out into the corridor once more. It was a tense moment, and I literally peered through the smoke filling the dark passageway. The German appeared again. We fired at the same time, and died at the same time. Once again, the sudden transition from silence to violence and back again was affecting.

So, to conclude this rambling waffle, to really enjoy CoD2 without getting exhausted by the endless noise, head inside and go mano a mano with a Schmeisser-armed German. You won't regret it. Until you're killed, natch.
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Mar. 13th, 2008 @ 02:56 pm A Time of Total War
Current Location: On my PC, playing Medieval 2
Current Music: European Lute Music
It is the year of our lord 1230, and the Third Crusade has been going on for forty years longer than it was supposed to. Richard the Lionheart hasn't been slain on a field in France but is still in command in the Holy Land, presumably while Bad King John continues fighting with the Barons. The armies of Saladin had not even breached the boundaries of the Kingdom of Jerusalem (despite a few attempts), and the Crusader armies had captured the port of Dumyat on the Egyptian coast. Meanwhile, Richard, taking 500 men, has headed out for a second time to the castle of Alia in the desert to the south of Jerusalem. Between 1214-1216, Richard had lead an even larger Crusader army toward this castle, but had been forced to fight a long series of envenerating battles against numerous Egyptian forces, until he was finally defeated at Kabbai Oasis in August 1216, and began a long retreat to Jerusalem. With this second invasion he intended to avenge that defeat, but with the various multinational crusader armies off attacking the Nile Coast defences and fighting against Arab rebels on the eastern borders, had been forced to make camp and wait for reinforcements.

It is now the year of our lord 1301. On a hill in Oxfordshire, the great armies of King Llewellyn of Wales and King Edward I of England have met in a titanic clash . The English are on the back foot. In fifty years of war with the Welsh, they have gone from controlling the border counties and the small town of Cardiff to desperately repelling powerful Welsh assaults deep into the heart of England. Meanwhile, the Welsh have allied with the Irish and the Scots, who are now pressing ever harder on the English possessions in those countries. The return of King Edward from the Third Crusade (still going on) was supposed to reset the balance, but King Llewellyn was determined to prevent the English from ever regaining the upper hand. And so, on Quainton Hill, after six months of wreaking havoc with fire and sword in Oxfordshire, he finally met King Edward's experienced Crusader Army. It was a ferocious battle in the middle of winter, both sides reduced to a bloody slogging match. To the horror of the Welsh, in the centre of the melee, King Llewellyn was pulled from his horse and killed. Then, just a few metres away, King Edward suffers the same fate. Welsh reinforcements from Gloucester finally arrive, and the remnants of the English army flees toward London. The exhausted Welsh withdraw to Gloucester to prepare for another full-scale invasion. Ionafal of Clwyd, King Llewellyn's "Enforcer" in Gloucestershire, becomes the new King of Wales, Llewellyn's son Dafydd having fallen during a skirmish with English insurgents during the long Welsh campaign in Cheshire.

It is now the year of our lord 1530. The Conquistadores of Spain began to cut a bloody swathe through the New World. Hernan Cortes, their wily general, has thus far concentrated his efforts on unaffiliated tribes in Mexico, biding his time and waiting for reinforcements from Spain before taking on the massed might of the Mayan and Aztec armies. But, to his horror, the French have arrived in the lands to the north in an attempt to gain control of the New World for themselves. Now, instead of cutting down vast aborginal armies with massed volley fire from muskets and cannon, Cortes faces the prospect of waging conventional war in a land that is ill-suited for it.
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Jan. 30th, 2008 @ 05:53 pm The Deleterious Effects of Multi-Period Research...
Current Location: Saigon, South Virginia
Current Music: Shostakovich
On the 4th April 1964 the North Vietnamese Navy fired shots at Fort Sumpter near Charleston, N.C. This caused the British to invade Boston but they were stopped by the timely arrival of General George Westmoreland whose marines bottled them up in the town. At the same time the Confederate Army invaded South Vietnam and defeated the Viet Cong at the battle of First Manassas.

While all this was going on, the British retreated from Boston, which was taken by the Khmer Rouge who had killed General Westmoreland's army with Hessians. The British then landed at Long Island and were forced to fight across the Perfume River to recapture the Citadel. To ease the situation the 1st Cavalry Division under General Mel Gibson flew into the Shenandoah Valley and fought a vicious action against Stonewall Jackson's 5th People's Army of Vietnam Regiment. Jackson marched along his lines, and said that "They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance," whereupon Sergeant Sam Elliot fired his pistol at him but missed and hit the poor sod standing behind him.

In South Vietnam the situation for the Confederacy was getting worse, as the Union blockade was stopping them from getting their important cotton supply into the country. The Green Mountain Boys launched the Tet Offensive which was stopped outside Richmond in the Seven Days' Battles, where the enemy were killed on the steps of the U.S. embassy. This made the Confederacy nervous and they pulled out of Vietnam.

In the meantime, the British had evacuated New York and invaded Philadelphia instead, where they killed General Will Smith. The Americans counterattacked and besieged the British at Khe Sahn for two months. Then the French came in after the Chinese defeated the American army at Saratoga and invaded New Orleans, but thought it was a bit too watery so decided to withdraw and go back to eating wine and drinking cheese.

At the Battle of Gettysburg the fighting men of both sides decided to go home because the Generals were spending too long gazing into the camera and delivering long and boring speeches, although Colonel Tom Berenger was captured to find out the deadly secrets he concealed in his Longstreet beard. The British advanced out of Khe Sahn and besieged the French and Americans at Yorktown, whereupon a surrender agreement was signed and Britain regained control of the Thirteen Colonies.

Then the Vietnamese invaded and the Confederacy marched south to defeat them at the Battle of Shiloh, the bloodiest battle of the war. The Vietnamese didn't like getting whacked and fought a guerrilla war in the swamps of Mississippi, but were soon hounded out by the cavalry force under Colonel Forrest Gump who thought that life was like a box of matches. This philosophy and his hounding of the Vietminh forced them to withdraw to Dien Bien Phu where they defeated the crafty French (again) and then onto New York where Forrest set the city on fire. The American government blamed this on the British, who were forced to invade again and defeated the Americans at Antietam. The French then invaded Vietnam and beat the Viet Cong at a game of Tiddlywinks on Hamburger Hill.

The final peace agreement was signed on October 94th 1862, with the full effects of the treaty due to expire on September 72nd 1793. Then Napoleon came in and buggered it all up again, but that's another story...
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Jan. 17th, 2008 @ 09:04 pm What It Would Be To Be A...Pochard
Current Location: Hiding in a Bush
Current Mood: busy
Current Music: Jeff Buckley
Now that I've abandoned all pretence of being cool (if I ever was in the first place...*coughs*), I've finally converted into a full on birdwatcher. Okay, not the uber-twitcher of myth and mockery, who wanders around fields for hours with bins, and travels miles to see a Hoopoe - although I would love to see a Hoopoe, it is a real bird by the way - but still, what proper birdwatchers call a 'patch watcher', taking daily walks around my nearest green open space, and then noting what I see in a diary. Yes, that's right, noting what I see in a diary. HOW SAD IS THAT!?

Anyway, to the uninitated, birdwatching can seem a very dull hobby, but then so are most hobbies until you get into them. To me, football is just 90 minutes of idiots kicking rubber around a field and trying to get into a net for some sort of score, but I'm sure if I took the time to get into it I could see why people are so passionate about it.

But enough about that rubbish game, and on with the birdwatching. As I was saying, to the uninitated, birdwatching can seem very dull, just walking around a lot, staring through bins at a bird's backside as it flees into the bushes. I mean, what's so exciting about birds anyway? All they do is eat, tweet and mate. Well, to a certain extent that is true, but it's very easy for them to trap you. It started with me last year, when I was working nights on my dissertation, and at about 5am every morning a blackbird (though I didn't know it was a blackbird at the time), would start tweeting. Slowly, as the mornings grew lighter, I started looking for the offending tweeter through my cheap bins, and eventually found him, looked it up online, and lo it was a blackbird. Fair enough. But as I watched him that morning, I also caught sight of a bird that I'd wanted to see for ages - the humble Blue Tit. I mainly wanted to see it thanks to that ridiculous name, yet the sight of three of the colourful little chaps hopping about nibbling at treebuds was what infected me, and here I am, a year later, wandering around my local patch with bins constantly to hand, and boring people with my rendition of the Chiff-Chaff, the idiosyncracies of the woodpigeon and how I saw the American Spotted Sandpiper for the 9th time in a row.

Now going back to the original point of this waffle, if there ever was one, I was contemplating all this today, as I walked on a beautiful sunny afternoon, the rainclouds finally deciding to give us a rest, and wondering why I had got interested in birds, when I caught sight of a pochard. Now a Pochard is a type of duck, smaller than the mallards you see in the park, and not so common. They are winter visitors to these fair isles, and very nice they are too, with very dapper silvery wings and a copper-coloured head. I watched them diving for insects and splashing about in the water, and then tucking their heads over their backs and dozing off. And I thought, I wouldn't mind being a pochard. What a life, splashing about in the water, spending 90% of your time dozing (as they usually are asleep when I see them, the unusual activity being what attracted my gaze), and then being able to take off and fly and look down and laugh at us silly humans.

Ahh yes, what it would be to be a pochard. What a life. Which, judging by how long and rambling this note is, is clearly something I need to get...
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Jan. 7th, 2008 @ 11:51 pm Resurrecting Kretschmer's Boat - Stage One
Current Location: NordAtlantik
Current Mood: artistic
Current Music: Das Boot
Right, time for a history lesson. No, don't run away, it's not particularly boring, none of that Kings & Queens of England nonsense. It's got Nazis in it...sort of..and everyone likes Nazis these days.

Otto Kretschmer is a name you probably won't have heard of. Unless you have an interest in the War in the Atlantic. He was one of the premier U-Boat aces. Between 1939 and 1941 he was one of the leading lights of the German campaign against British shipping. He commanded a Type-VIIC U-Boat with 43 crew, 14 deadly torpedos and an 88mm deck gun for finishing off wrecked ships. This boat was callsign U-99, and with it he and his crew amassed an impressive total of 263,492 gross registered tons sunk in shipping. This all came to an end on March 17th 1941, when a British destroyer, HMS Walker, spotted U-99 on the surface and rammed her. This was unfortunate for U-99, but fortunate for her crew, who were captured and taken onboard the Walker. She backed off from the shattered boat and allowed to slip into the deep, before returning to port to mend her battered bow.

I am attempting to recreate U-99 with the help of a Revell 1:125 model kit and the soundtrack to Das Boot. I haven't built a model since the days when I couldn't grow facial fluff, so it's quite an experience. I finally plucked the courage to take the kit out of it's lovelingly illustrated box and spread it all over the kitchen table. My God, what a challenge. 84 million parts, instructions all in German and the rapidly increasing whiff of polystrene cement. But, several hours later, the kitchen resembled a dockyard with all kinds of language and smells wafting over the booming tunes from the Reichs Propaganda Ministry.

To rebuild Kretschmer's boat will take a lot of time, to do it well at least. So, today was stage one, the easy challenge of building the hull. At least, you'd think it was easy. First you've got to cut the parts out of the plastic scaffolding that keeps them all together in the box. A few minutes later, your fingers scratched from fiddling with a penknife, you have the parts free, but there are still all sorts of bulges and knobs from where they were held in place. So, out comes the sandpaper and time to file them down. Half an hour later, choking on plastic dust, the parts feel smoother than a peach, and it's time to get the glue out.

My God, I'd forgotten how strong the glue could be. Not in gripping, as it's pretty poor, but in smell. They witter on these days about solvent abuse, and I can see why. You can be three feet away and still have your socks blown off. When you press the two sides of hull together, the glue oozes out all over your fingers. It was only after I'd finished that I read the small print on the nozzle, which warned against contact with exposed skin. A bit late for that.

I then spent the remainder of the evening holding two bits of grey plastic together, inhaling fumes and seeing orange dolphins leaping out of the ceiling. But by god, it was worth it. I now have the unpainted hull of Kretschmer's boat. Tomorrow, it's onto the propellers and rudders and the conning tower. But will I create a beautiful replica of this deadly machine, or a disastrous mess of plastic, glue and paint that looks more like the work of a demented spider? Time will tell...
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Jan. 7th, 2008 @ 11:42 pm Glory Lasts Not Forever...
Current Location: Terra Romanus
Current Mood: worried
Current Music: Lord of the Rings OST
Summer, 243 B.C.

Long had glory followed the House of Scipio. For three decades, they had defeated the armies of Carthage in the field. They had carved out an empire in Sicily and North Africa. They were hailed as heroes by the plebeians, won great praise in the Senate, and became the richest of all the Roman houses.

But now, in the long, hot summer of 243 B.C., things are turning against this once mighty household. Its greatest General, Quintus Scipio, Victor of the twin battles of Carthage, defeater of Hannibal, and newly titled as Scipio Africanus, had died from a heart failure in his camp outside Lepcis Magna. This was indeed a disastrous blow for the armies of the Scipii. Quintus was the last of the great generation of the Scipii, with the exception of Gaius the Harsh, who was now comfortably ensconsed as govenor of Lilybaeum, and had not led armies in the field for a decade.

The younger Scipii are fools as far as war is concerned. Publius Scipio (or Publius the Stupid as he was named in Rome), new governor of Carthage and the African Empire, has proven this recently at the battle of Ruin Hill. Here, a small advance party, lead by the experienced Captain Caius, had been advancing into Carthaginan territory - on a reconnaisance mission ordered upon them by Publius - when they encountered a massive Carthaginian force under Captain Hakir. Despite the best efforts of Caius, the small band of men held the hill for only an hour before being overwhelmed by the enemy cavalry. Caius fled with 15 survivors back to Thapsus, were he was greeted with orders from Publius for him to be thrown into the cells, where he still languishes.

The coffers of Scipio are also beginning to run dry. The Houses of Brutus and Julius are doing far better these days, and so the Scipii try to keep up by expanding their armies and cities. But all this costs money. Now almost every settlement in the Protectorate of Scipio is losing money. There already have been uprisings in Massena and Syracuse. And all the time the Carthaginians hover like vultures over the desert, circling their beloved capital.

The future for this house does not look good. Only luck will save them, and return their former glory...

(From Spinechicken's adventures in "Rome: Total War")
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Nov. 22nd, 2007 @ 02:54 am All's Fairly Ridiculous In Love and War...
Current Location: The Battlefield of Lurrrrrve...
Current Mood: silly
Current Music: Mad Season
WARNING: THIS NOTE CONTAINS ELEMENTS OF SUPREME STUPIDITY AND LATE-NIGHT RAMBLINGNESS! ITS ALSO GOING TO BE VERY HUMILIATING TO THE AUTHOR IN THE COLD LIGHT OF DAY! READ ON AT YOUR PERIL!

The Battlefield, Somewhere in Northwest Europe, 2007. Two soldiers, Privates Diarmuid and Jez of the Welsh Legion sit against the hulk of a burned out tank, eating their rations and talking...

Diarmuid: So dude, how comes your still a lonely, miserable bastard? I mean, you were on earlier about the true Prussian grit! The English courage!

Jez: Damn right! But I doubt that and a brown bess musket would do me much good in a relationship

Diarmuid: So where do you lay, with the grit and courage?

Jez: Fleeing the field, tattered and bloodstained as the enemy cavalry charges down my men and I

Diarmuid:dude, I mean on the battlefield of love?

Jez raises his eyebrows to heaven at 'the battlefield of love' and puts down his food.

Jez: Okay then, a more appropriate metaphor would be; crouched beneath a bush, swaddled in a ghillie suit, looking through the scope of a sniper rifle, waiting for the right moment to take my shot while the war rages on around me.

Diarmuid: Ah, but how come you haven't played your shot, yet? You must have had plenty of targets.

Jez: Because the shot has to be the right shot, otherwise, I expose my position, and that would be a fatal mistake. The target has to be of correct military value.

Diarmuid: Yes, but in this battle, when you're killed you're not out for the fight, you can keep firing beyond your death, that is the true life of love.

Jez stares at the food and wonders what has been put in it. An artillery shell flies over their heads and lands in a foxhole a few yards behind, turning into a bloody pulp and unfortunate legionnaire. He does not get up to return fire. The pair continue talking as if nothing has happened.

Jez: But as a sniper, my duty is thus -"One shot, one kill". I miss, and I could be out for a long time.

Diarmuid: The battle and skirmishes can be one on any field, with any weapon. all you have to do is weild it and aim straight. And what do you learn by shooting a sniper-rifle?

Jez: That windage will always screw you

Diarmuid: No, no, it means this;if you fail; you always have more bullets. And much better chance of hitting than some guy with an M-16 on auto-burst

Jez: True, true

Diarmuid: So aim that sniperrfie, and stop thinking too much soo much about your target, and fire at will!

Jez stares bewildered at his compadre. Is he really saying this rubbish? What's in the food? He continues speaking, as a machine gun chatters up ahead.

Jez: Well, there's just one problem, I still haven't found my target, or at least, one of the proper military value, and I've been sitting so long in this goddamned hole that I wonder if that target will ever pass in front of my sights.

Diarmuid: Why are you... are you aiming at the civilians? The nurses?

Jez: God, the temptation is strong...such easy pickings...but no

Diarmuid: Why not? Easy pickings are a good starter

Jez: *Mockingly* But not of military value...

Diarmuid: Ahh, but it gets you ready for the main course... and if not that, the just desserts?

Jez: Well...I don't know. I guess I'm just afraid that if I pull that trigger, I'll miss my target. So I wait just a little longer, for the right target, for the right windage, and then, maybe, one day, HEADSHOT! *he makes a rifle firing noise and a headshot splattering noise between his teeth*

Diarmuid: Yeah, well. Love's like that. I've learned the hard way. but sometimes you learn from that, learn from those mistakes. Eventually, you'll see it through, and heck! eventually someone might just shoot and kill you!

Jez: Good god no!

An enemy sniper opens fire, cutting down a man in a nearby foxhole. Blood splatters against the tank. The men continue talking.

Jez: Then the war would be lost!

Diarmuid: A broken heart will always recover, besides, how would you lose the war, if the ladies make the first move?

Jez: "Attack the enemy before they attack you". Although, I suppose, from a Clausewitzian perspective, defensive would be better. It is the superior form of war. Or it was in the eighteenth century

Diarmuid: Yes, but in this war, everybody wins in tjhe ened, as long as they fight. No-one fights, nobody wins. Peace and fidelity's too much.

Jez: Blimey mate, I never took you for a militarist!

Diarmuid: In this case, I am. I'm the Patton of love.

Jez: Well, I bow to your experience, your around the enemy a lot more than I am.

Diarmuid: Yeah, but I haven't even tried to take a shot for three or four years.

Jez: *Gesturing to the large pile of lady letters from home bulging in Diarmuid's jacket pocket* Ahh, but you seem to have the enemy circling your position,
waiting for the right moment to attack you, whereas I am observing targets from afar.

Diarmuid: Yeah... but I think we're both afraid

Jez: Fear is natural in the combat soldier. Anyone who isn't afraid is either a liar, or deserves what he gets.

Diarmuid: Yup. So, why not take your shot. In fact, why not both of us, lets do it.

Jez: But I haven't got any potential targets! I'm still waiting for orders!

Diarmuid: Well, if by the end of 2008, if we both haven't shot at any ladies, we'll have to have a bottle of Vodka each

Jez: Make it Calvados for me

Diarmuid: Okay, a whole big bottle of it... for each of us

Jez: Hoo-rah, I hear you.

The battle picking up ahead of them, the men throw away their food, pick up their weapons, and move out to engage the enemy.
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Nov. 2nd, 2007 @ 02:33 pm Irriations...
Current Location: A Ticking Time Bomb
Current Mood: aggravated
Current Music: Galactic Cowboys
With the season of goodwill fast approaching, like some sort of tinsel-flecked shell, I thought it was time to get a few historical and societal humps off my shoulder. In order:

1. One of the few things that irritates me about academic historians is their pithy dismissal of re-enactors. Yes, okay, I can see perhaps why it would raise their hackles, grown men dressing up and playing at being soldiers, and yes, you can argue that re-enactment is about as far away from the reality of war as Medal of Honor. BUT - re-enactors do make a vital contribution to keeping history alive in a country that rapidly seems to be losing interest in it.  I can't tell you what a shiver it was when I first saw a German re-enactor walk past me at my first event, in full feldgrau regalia. I'd seen hundreds of photos of German soldiers before that time, and spent years reading about their deeds, but to actually see a German soldier, to actually see an American paratrooper, to actually see a Bren Gun Carrier full of Tommies, that took it to a whole new level. Who cares if they are electricians from Sollihul for the rest of the week, they make history come alive in a way that no film ever will. Academic historical research should not be superseded by living history, but our understanding of history can be enhanced and much better appreciated by re-enactors, and I salute 'em all. I also had to laugh at one lecturer who the other week told me that re-enactors were attempting to purport 'counterfactual' (what-if) history. Where on earth did he get that idea?

2. Where did all these poppy-haters come from? On the BBC's preposterous "iPM" website - and god help us if they keep pushing down this route of interactive journalism, because that road leads straight to hell - I was amazed at the idiots clamouring about not wearing red poppys because they 'glorified' war, and we had the same thing last year with Jon Snow, he of the silly socks, saying words to the effect (not being a journalist I can't be bothered to check. Oh wait, maybe that does make me a journalist...) that there was a 'tyranny of the poppy'

Well, firstly, bollocks to them. Explain to me how a red poppy, which symoblises the fields of flowers that grew up over the killing ground of the Western Front, freshly fertilised with hundreds of thousands of dead, is one that glorifies war? Explain to me how a day that commemorates the most tragic and traumatizing period in this country's history 'glorifies' war, one that reminds us of the hundreds of thousands of ultimately pointless deaths between 1914-1918?  Visit even the smallest village in this fair isle and chances are you'll find a memorial full of names of those who died in France in 1914-18, 1939-45. This is not 'glorifying' war. It is reminding us of the sacrifices made in the some most horrific wars of history, sacrifices, certainly in 1939-45 conflict, without which they would not be able to complain about wearing poppies without some leather-coated swine dragging them into a room to bash their toes in. It reminds us of the sheer futility of slaughter like the First World War, and to urge us never to repeat it. Am I the only one who thinks that those moments of silence on November 11th and the playing of the "Last Post" is to mourn those lost rather than glorify them?

God damn right everyone should wear a poppy. I have far more respect for those who fought for their country, and those that right now are facing the dangers (and indeed the boredom) of fighting those ridiculous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan than those who would wear a white poppy for some wishy-washy notion of world peace, and condemn those who do otherwise (I'm being something of a hypocrite here, but who cares). This country would be a far better place if people shuffled out into the cold this sunday to remember those that died for them, and in an age of citizen armies they certainly did - rather than staying at home swilling bear and watching sport on the telly.

Rant over. My spleen has been vented. Now it's just happy thoughts and smiles until Christmas.

-SC
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Oct. 20th, 2007 @ 06:05 pm Intelligence
Current Location: Nordengland
Current Music: Wehrmachtmusik
It's always been lacking, as this quote from p.78 of Hew Strachan's European Armies and the Conduct of War (1983) shows:

"In 1864 the British dispatched a punitive expedition to Bhutan, on the borders of Tibet; 2,000 men and 150 elephants were sent 40 miles over difficult and mountainous country to capture the hill fort said to be at Bishensing. On arrival, they found a stone house inhabited by a solitary lama priest."

I just liked that.

-SC

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Oct. 19th, 2007 @ 12:45 am The Great Bluebottle Massacre
Current Location: The Bluebottle Slaughterhouse
Current Music: Ty Tabor
I live by a river at my new posting, which means I get my fair share of insects from time to time. However, nothing quite prepared me for the sight and sound that greeted my ears and eyes as I came out of the shower tonight. Y'see, as I have no extractor fan I have to leave the windows open so as to let the steam out and not end up with black walls soaking in mould and condensation. Occasionally a dozy bluebottle might show up, buzz around disconsolately and land on the window, where it will stay until it keels over and dies.

However, when I emerged from my cleansing session, I found bluebottles everywhere. Buzzing around the ceiling, landing on my stuff, on my cupboard, on everything. It was 11pm, my flatmate had gone to sleep, and I was knackered. There was nothing for it. I had to kill them all. One bluebottle I could put up with, but I counted about five in the room, and five bluebottles is not cricket.

So I picked up one of my birdwatching magazines, rolled it up, and prepared, with a heavy heart, for several hours of fruitless bashing. Fortunately, the bluebottles were particularly dozy. One landed on the top of my cupboard and sat there as I took aim. I hit him square in the centre, so hard that when I withdrew my weapon he was stuck to the cupboard by his own sticky blood. One down, five to go.

The second winged victim landed a few yards away from my first kill. I whacked him quickly, before his 75 million eyes could spot me, and he fell onto the floor. I could see him squirming, so to finish the job I stamped on him. I found myself taken over by a bloodthirsty glee, and I stamped on him several times until he stuck to my slipper, whereupon I scraped him off with a tissue. Two down, four to go.

The remaining victims had taken refuge in the bathroom. One bluebottle had perched, rather precariously, on the edge of the shower head.  A quick slap from my magazine sent him tumbling into the still-wet bath, where he flailed about uselessly in the water, drowning slowly. The second had taken refuge on the shower rail, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye, peeking over the top in a sort of "I hope he can't see me'-way. I had seen him. He didn't see my magazine as it smashed him into a gooey oblivion.

The final bluebottle was a crafty one. He had hidden away, having seen his friends die horribly. I wandered around for a few minutes, thinking I'd got them all, then continued to tidy up and get ready for bed. He obviously through the coast was clear, and started buzzing around the bathroom again.

A fatal mistake.

I returned to the bathroom with my magazine club, found him hiding behind the door, and whacked him. I must have just missed, for he flew frantically around the ceiling for a few moments.

"Ahh, you're a clever one," I said, relishing the challenge of a more wary winged opponent. The bluebottle flew over and landed on the opposite wall. I sauntered across.

"Very clever of you to keep still. You are a clever chap."

The bluebottle, perched slightly higher up than before, must have thought he was safe.

"Very clever..." I stood on my tiptoes, took careful aim, and whacked him with all my might.

His corpse slapped onto the cold tiled floor.

"...but not that clever, my little kamerad, not that clever."

I then cleared up the corpses. The bluebottle which had been stuck to the cupboard by his own goo had started to slide down towards the floor, leaving a trail of green blood in his wake.  I squished them all into tissues and thrust them into the bin. However, when I came to the little chap who I'd sent into the bath, I found him still alive, scuttling through the water, trying to make for the plughole. A quick assault with a tissue and he was being flushed down into hell.

The thing that worried about this incident, apart from so many bluebottles having invaded my room, was the bloodthirsty relish with which I got rid of them. Perhaps it was the challenge of trying to outwit them. Or perhaps it was just the tensions of the last few weeks being released. Whatever it was, I'm a bad mo-fo, and if you're a bluebottle you better not try and come in here, or you'll find yourself sliding down the wallpaper in a trail of your own goo.

-SC
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Oct. 18th, 2007 @ 03:58 pm What a Waste...
Current Location: Hiding
Current Mood: cold
Current Music: Tad
Since arriving at my new posting I've spent a reasonable amount of time trawling through internet forums, which can often be good places to pick up historical titbits and to laugh at the ramblings of nutters. But it does strike me, in an age where the virtues of so-called 'citizen journalism' are being extolled like there is no tomorrow, that many of the participants are so far up their own behinds that the lump in their necks are their own bloated noses.

It makes me cringe when I log onto certain, unnamed forums to find members engaged in slanging matches, launching into enraged diatribes because Lozenge432 has insulted Snortbunkle72's academic reputation and has, heavens, called him a dickhead. There then follows a detailed, almost courtroom-like exchange of personal messages, previous posts and god knows what, as one tries to outwit the other like two overpaid barristers. Eventually the moderator comes along and locks it, cutting the two idiots off in their prime (though one assumes the match continues on Messenging services)

This whole thing is a farce. Explain to me how someone with a false name like Lozenge432 and Snortbunkle72 can possible take themselves seriously. I suppose that's the problem with the internet. In real life the two would probably not even grimace at each other. But on the web they are free to do as they please.

It does irritate me. It gets in the way of quite useful stuff which the internet is able, when not being hacked to pieces by iditoic 12-year olds from Kansas or Hubei, to produce in quite stunning quantities. But there we are, that's life for you.

And this coming from an anonymous idiot writing in a blog no-one reads. Isn't the internet glorious?

Rant over,

-SC
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Oct. 4th, 2007 @ 10:29 pm The Hills of Home
Current Location: Embarking on a New Voyage
Current Music: Jerry Gaskill
I've been at my new station for a week now, and I'm surprised how quickly I've settled in. But of course, a bit of heimatslust is beginning to sink in. Sure, my kamaraden seem to be nice folks, and the mission is a challenging one, but still, I miss the green and pleasant hills of home. Part of me can't wait to be back there, in the yellow sunlight of a May afternoon, the trees dappling the shadowlight, the chaffinches singing in the trees, the crunch of footpath stone under my boots, the smell of the fresh morning air.

Still, hopefully it won't be long before I see it again. *sniff*, I've made myself sniffly now.

Wimpishly,

-SC
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Sep. 29th, 2007 @ 10:52 pm A New Mission
Current Location: U-156, Northwest England
Current Music: Mississippi Fred McDowell
It's been a long time since I last wrote. I've had a lot to do. Lots of stuff to store for the move to my new base, with the 21st Flotilla. My mission is to patrol the shores of northwest England, watching for strange sightings and engaging any enemy shipping where I find it. It's tense, because I've never done this on my own before. The crew is completely new. Never been on a mission like this. It's very nerve-wracking. But we'll do it.

The brass band is there as I leave, playing "Auf Wiedersehen Sweetheart" - not quite PC, but who cares. I stifle the tears. It'll be a while until I see the hills of home again, assuming I make it through this.


-SC
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Jul. 31st, 2007 @ 12:59 am (no subject)
Current Location: Bristolische Kanal
Current Music: Radio Deutschland
U-51:
Type-VIIB U-Boat
Crew: 28
Armament: Twelve torpedos, one 3.7cm deck gun, one 20mm flak gun.
Officer Commanding: Leutnant-zur-See Johannes Sturmer


*September 1st, 1939
Departed Kiel at 0900 hours, cleared the northern coast of Denmark and was at sea by nightfall. No contact. Orders are to make a general patrol, but my intention is to test British defences around the Bristol Channel.

*September 2nd, 1939
Had a little practice at 0800 hours with a neutral merchant ship. No shots fired, due to the fact that the war at sea is still taking time to get moving. How I wish I was in the Panzerkorps

*September 3rd, 1939
It's official! We now have authorisation to attack British and French merchant ships and any other vessels in the North Sea and Atlantic! Typically, however, no sightings. This will change when we reach the Dover Strait. I still aim to slip into the Bristol Channel and give the Tommies a nasty surprise.

*September 4th, 1939
Nearing Dover Strait. No sightings. The crew are tense.

*September 5th, 1939
Am now passing through Dover Strait and southern English coast, submerged to periscope death. Plenty of warship and merchant sightings and hydrophone contacts, but I am not going to engage them in this area!

*September 6th, 1939
Engaged and sank a British destroyer off Penzance with a single torpedo that struck her aidships. She turned over and sank at 0634. Continued on, making no further contacts in the worsening sea. However, at midday was forced to surface to allow batteries time to recharge, and was engaged by two Hurricanes. Dived to 40m. They dropped bombs by we suffered no damage. Am now continuing at full speed to target area.

*September 7th
Entered Bristol Channel at 0445. Halted of Newport and observed docks and coastal defences. Very little traffic in the area. At 0600 I turned the boat around and headed towards Cardiff and Swansea. As I did so I sighted a C2 Cargo Ship departing Barry docks. I followed and engaged her when she was in the middle of the channel. At 0715 I fired the first torpedo which struck her amidships. She slowed and start to list, but continued on. Given the complete lack of aircraft and other ships I felt safe to surface and did so, aiming to finish her off with our deck gun. We pounded her for five minutes, and despite several hits to the bridge and cargo, she still limped on. At 0725 I fired a second torpedo at 25m range. This struck her waterline just below the bridge. The explosion broke her back and she split into two and sank. There were no sruvivors. We submerged and continued our patrol between Swansea and Barry.

At 1800 we sighted a second merchant ship, this time coming from the direction of Cardiff. It looked heavily laden. We fired one torpedo at 1805 at long range which hit her stern. We followed this up with a second torpedo at 1808. This missed. As light was fading we surfaced again and sunk the ship with a barrage of fire from the deck gun. She sank, stern first, at 1815.

I am concerned at the relative lack of warships in this sector? Where are they? I will take advantage of their absence and will remain for at least 24 hours.

September 8th, 1939.
Very poor pickings today, so when night drew in we headed towards Swansea. At 2100 we were in sight of the docks and spotted a large merchant and tanker, both sitting ducks. I fired two torpedos at the merchant. As we waited for the impact an Armed Trawler passed between us and the target. For an agonising second it looked as if it would absorb the torpedos, but they passed by and struck the target, which exploded with a brilliant fireball.

However, as we turned to engage the tanker, the Trawler spotted the periscope and turned to engage. We dived, played dead, and then for three hours had a cat and mouse game, firing three further torpedos. They all failed to hit. After the final failure I surfaced the boat and engaged the ship with the deck gun. However, despite damaging her she was able to knock out the deck gun and force us to dive again. I decided enough was enough and headed out of the Bristol Channel. Contact lost with the purser at 0055.

The ship is heavily damaged and as I now have only two torpedos left, I am making for home. Four kills is not bad for our first mission. We will effect repairs and radio BdU at the earliest opportunity, but I am sure the Royal Navy in this area will be looking for us.

September 9th, 1939
Have had to stay submerged at 40m and running at only 2 knots to save power. Numerous contacts on the hydrophone.

September 10th, 1939:
Still in danger. Weather worsening.

September 11th, 1939:
Clearing Cornish coast. Air is stale. Crew exhausted. Hopefully we can surface soon. Battery is getting low.

September 12th, 1939:
The exceptionally poor weather has at last provided us with an opportunity to surface, which we did at 1100. Repairs took all afternoon in difficult seas - we nearly lost 2 men washed overboard. I am giving the crew (and the ship) the cyance to rest before the crossing of the Strait, and will halt for the day unless the weather clears. Radioed BdU with current sitrep.

September 13th, 1939:
Continued on surface all the way to the straits. Poor weather must be putting the Royal Navy off! I guess they can't risk spilt tea.

September 14th, 1939:
Submerged at 0100. There was an almighty clang at 0441, but looking through the periscope I saw no evidence that we hit anything.

Lots of hydrophone contacts between Dover and Calais. The British must be moving to the continent.

Surfaced at 2023 off Dutch coast

September 15th, 1939:
Completely uneventful day. Sea flat calm. No cotact. Home tomrrow.

September 16th, 1939:
Docked at Kiel. Wonderful reception from the locals. High Command seem pleased too.

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Jul. 30th, 2007 @ 03:57 am The Death of U-5
Current Location: The Irish Sea
Current Music: Aufwarts zur Sonne!
NOTE: Based on a three-hour long session of playing "Silent Hunter 3", which is possibly the best £10 I have spent in a long time. I've got a sore throat from constantly humming the "Das Boot" theme tune.



On 1st October, 1939, Type-IIB Submarine “U-5”, under the command of Leutnant-zur-See Joachim Koen Sturmer, departed Wilhelmshaven naval base. The boat’s initial orders were to patrol the area between Iceland and the Western Scottish coast. However, prior to departure, the commander had stated his intent to the flotilla commander to attempt a far more daring mission, sneaking into the Bristol Channel with the intention of sinking merchant vessels leaving the docks of Cardiff, Barry and Bristol. The vessel departed port with 23 souls and 5 torpedoes aboard.

According to the Capitan’s log, which was recovered amongst the flotsam by the crew of the HMS Pontypridd, a V&M destroyer, the first few days of the voyage were relatively uneventful. They made no contact with any ships as they headed north towards the Orkney Islands, attempting to hook around the north coast of Scotland to reach their patrol area. The seas were calm and the only signs of life were the perpetual flocks of seagulls.

On October 4th, however, at 0100, U-5, travelling on the surface between Orkney and Shetland, made contact with a large merchant ship. However, the Captain did not engage due to the vessel’s distance and the extremely poor light. This did not go down well with U-Boat Headquarters who urged Sturmer, in what was ultimately its final message to him, to “be more aggressive!”

On October 5th, again at night, the boat made contact with an armed fishing trawler, the HMS Ericson. The vessel had been commandeered by the Royal Navy and was armed with several 40mm bofors guns and a turret of two 3-inch guns. Lieutenant Sturmer ordered the boat to dive, but was spotted by the trawler. Although it had no depth charges, it patrolled the area for two hours. Despite lying silently at the bottom, Sturmer could not escape the persistent crew. He brought his boat up to periscope depth, using the scope as bait, and fired his entire compliment of torpedoes at the vessel in an hour. Two torpedoes struck the enemy boat – but both failed to detonate! U-5 was thus left defenceless, as it had no deck guns, being only a light sub. Sturmer brought the boat back down to the sea floor and the crew remained silent for four hours. The trawler eventually gave up, and at 0700 U-5 returned to periscope depth and began to turn back for Wilhelmshaven.

However, the trawler had radioed the RN forces at Liverpool, and at 0730 U-5 was spotted by the destroyer Pontypridd and a second converted trawler, the HMS Raleigh. The two vessels swept the area with their ASDIC dectors and quickly found U-5. Pontypridd fired its first barrage of depth charages at 0745, which caused severe damage to U-5’s electric engines (which provided its sole source of power whilst underwater) and killed two crewmembers. The engines were out of action and the boat lay at the bottom, battered by continual depth charge runs. T

At 0845, after having lost many crew and with an apparent mutiny on his hands, Lieutenant Sturmer tried to bring the boat to the surface in order to surrender. However, damage sustained on the hull by the depth charge attacks had weakened it fatally, and as the boat rose the hull cracked and split. All 23 men were killed instantly.


The final log entry, made perhaps only minutes before the ship expired, are particularly telling:

“We are all exhausted, and prepared to die. Many of the men gave up over an hour ago. Despite my exhortations they refused to work on the engines. We will die here like rats in a cracking bottle if we stay, so I have decided to bring the boat up and surrender. What a wonderful war. Heil Hitler!”
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Jul. 2nd, 2007 @ 11:27 pm Hiking Stories - Episode Two: The First Bunker Hunt
Current Location: Craig Llysfaen
Current Music: R.E.M. - "Fables of the Reconstruction"
I’m always fascinated by historical “what-ifs?”, or ‘counterfactuals’ as proper historians like to call them. It’s amazing how many turning points hinged on small decisions that had big consequences.

Let’s take, for instance, the Cuban Missile Crisis. What if Kruschev didn’t back down? What if Kennedy had ordered someone to press the red button? I can safely say none of us would be here anymore. Such a chilling thought presented itself to me as I went on a bunker hunt last week.

The Cold War may be over – although if the current Russian regime keeps going the way it’s going, it could be the First Cold War – but it has left many markers on the landscape. Cardiff was a prime target for Russian missiles thanks to the port facilites and the fact it was the administrative hub for the Western British mainland. But, I hear you cry, how was it defended? There’s nothing for me to see. Well, digging around on the web, I found at least two of the city’s Cold War defences that still remain. So, last Thursday, I went out on a beautiful summer’s day to find them.

The first is an AAOR – for the unmilitary, an Anti-Aircraft Operations Room. According to my brief research this room controlled a battery of automated 3.7-inch anti-aircraft guns. Quite what use these would be against a Russian intercontinental ballistic missile I have no idea – and I’m even more baffled by the fact that this bunker was still operating in this role until well into the 1970s, long after the nuclear powers had stopped using bombers to deploy their nuclear weaponry. Whatever the reason, the bunker on the Wenallt is particularly sizeable and apparently in good condition. Where the guns were sited, and what condition the gunsite is in is another story.

You note I say the bunker is “apparently” in good condition. During the bunker hunt I didn’t actually get to it. I know where it is and I caught a glimpse of it, but alas, the site is now owned by BT and appears to be not open to the public. Still, there may a way of getting to it. It’s certainly an impressive structure.

The other bunker is more interesting in that I have found only one mention of it – in a Cardiff Council publicity leaflet. It sits, or sat atop Craig Lysfaen, a long, high ridgeline on the eastern periphery of the Caerphilly Ridge, overlooking Lisvane and the countryside between Cardiff and Newport, the highest point until your reach Craig-yr-Allt. The leaflet refers to this as being a “Cold War observation bunker”. It would make sense. The views from the path that crosses the back of Craig Llysfaen are absolutely spectacular, as you can see in the photos. I’d picked the right day to go – I had a fantastic panorama right over Cardiff and the Vale, towards Newport and Somerset. In fact, the views were so enormous I think I had a mild moment of agoraphobia. It made me feel giddy to see so much landscape so clearly. I pressed on and hiked along the ridgeline, but found no bunker. The only possible site was a modern radio mast that was on a suspiciously old plinth-like structure, with what looked like a ventilation shaft next to the actual aerial. Going around the front, I could see there was a dip at the front of the plinth – possibly an embrasure for the observation post. I need to do more research on this one. Still, the journey was far from wasted thanks to the views.

After wandering around the ridgeline north of Cardiff I thought I’d head for home via Rudry Common, which is currently under threat of sale and ‘development’. Alas, despite following my map, I ended up going around in circles, and to my dismay after half an hour of going up and downhill I ended right back where I started. Sod that for a bunch of monkeys – a walk for another day.

So, while the bunker hunt was far from successful, it was still an interesting experience, as all hikes are. The strangest moment, aside from the vertigo on Craig Llysfaen, was wandering through the woods on the Wenallt and imagining a nuclear shockwave sweeping the tranquil, beautiful woodland away and turning the hillside into an apocalyptic nightmare of burnt stumps and soil, with only the scorched concrete of the bunker still remaining intact. The other troubling thing is the rapidity with which such structures have been abandoned by the military. There are still a hell of a lot of nukes out there. Just because the Cold War is over, doesn’t mean the threat has gone away. Cardiff may not have been particularly safe during the 1950s-1990s, but now it’s completely defenceless. God help it if a nuclear war does start up in the future – and there’s every possibility that it could.
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Jun. 24th, 2007 @ 01:34 am Hiking Stories - Episode One: Recon Mission (Part One)
Current Location: Hill 229
Current Music: Ry Cooder - "Southern Comfort"
Diarmuid wiped the rain from his brow and pushed on. His feet burned as though he were walking on hot coals, his leg muscles crying with every movement. He shivered in his rain-sodden clothing and slopped grimly through the mud. Every part of him was crying to stop, but he had to move on. The shit had hit the fan.

“Cover!”

Jez hissed the command through gritted teeth. He’d crouched down beside a tree, weapon up to his shoulder. Diarmuid staggered behind another nearby tree and unshouldered his rifle. A quiet recon mission gone to hell. Why did he sign up for this?

Everything had been going well. The three man patrol had moved along the ridgeline towards Hill 229, scouting it out after the 29th's disastrous attack on the hill in the previous week. The Krauts had reinforced not only the hill, but the entire ridgeline. Artillery pieces sited well in the valley were pounding in the city of Cardiff. The hills and ridge had to be taken to blind the guns. Diarmuid & Jez were the eyes of the attackers. They'd seen plenty, lots of troops, bunkers, mines. That was when the patrol had got down to two men. Poor Tim. Trod on a pencil mine. Blew his intenstines into his face. Died of the shock.

The radio in Jez’s backpack suddenly fizzed and crackled to life.

“Echo 3, this is base, enemy converging on your location, over”

“Echo 3, roger.”

Jez turned around, gestured for Diarmuid to keep moving. Amidst the slow wash of the rainstorm, Diarmuid was sure he could hear footsteps. Hauling himself and his half-body weight of equipment up again, he staggered further down the trail, taking cover again and calling for Jez to follow. Jez got up, walked backwards, and promptly tripped over a stone. Cursing and spitting, he dragged himself behind cover. Through the mist, at the far end of the trail, shapes had begun to appear.

Enemy. They had dogs. Diarmuid could hear them barking. The fucking radio burbled again.

“Echo 3, what’s your status, over?”

Jez, still cursing from a cut on his hand, started to fiddle with his backpack. The dogs howled. Jez ignored the radio and raised his rifle, signalling for Diarmuid to keep moving. Diarmuid knew what that meant. There was only one way Jez could buy him time.

Moving through the trees now, hurrying. The pain in his feet had gone. Fear gives you wings, or so they say. Gunfire rattled behind him. Jez had engaged the enemy. Grenades exploded. The dogs howled again. Diarmuid stumbled out of the wood into a vast field of man-size bracken. Plunging into it, he prayed the enemy weren’t following him…
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Jun. 11th, 2007 @ 03:25 pm In Memoriam
Current Location: Zummerzet
Current Mood: nostalgic
Current Music: John Williams
In memory of the K.I.A., W.I.A, M.I.A.of the following:

Royal Winnipeg Rifles, 3rd Canadian Infantry Division
Surrounded and slaughtered at Putot-en-Bessin, Normandy, 8th June 1944

Headquarters Company, Regina Rifles, 3rd Canadian Infantry Division
Resisted an armoured night attack, Bretteville l'Orgueilleuse, Normandy, 8/9th June 1944

The prisoners from the Regina Rifles & Sherbrooke Fusiliers, murdered by the SS at Chateau d'Audreiu and Abbaye Ardennes, Normandy, 8th & 9th June 1944

2nd Battalion, The Royal Ulster Rifles, 3rd British Infantry Division
Cambes-en-Plaine, Normandy, 9th June 1944

Regina Rifle Regiment, 3rd Canadian Infantry Division
Held against repeated enemy assaults, Norrey-en-Bessin, Normandy, 7th-11th June 1944

La Regiment de la Chaudiere & North Shore Regiment, 3rd Canadian Infantry Division & 46 Royal Marine Commando
Fought a vicious battle against an entrenched enemy, Rots, Normandy, 12th June 1944

The men of A Squadron 4th County of London Yeomanry, and A Company, 1st Rifle Brigade, 7th Armoured Division "Desert Rats"
Wiped out in a surprise attack by Michael Wittmann and the 101st SS Heavy Tank Battalion west of Villers-Bocage, Normandy, June 13th 1944

and also the men of 130th Panzer Division (Panzer Lehr) & 12th SS Panzer Division, who in spite of what they fought for and how they fought for it, should still be remembered.





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May. 19th, 2007 @ 01:12 am The Night
Current Location: The Zone
Current Mood: calm
Current Music: Rush
I fear the night.

There's something out there. Something...horrible. I don't know what it is, but I can hear it. A low, tremulous howl. I hear it sometimes in the day too, during those moments when the sky grows grey and the birds grow quiet. It's always there, underneath the hum of normal life. That purring scream.

I've been here two days now, wandering the fields. The weather is as strange as ever. The sun is out, boiling hot, and yet at the same time the wind is Siberian in temperature. I've even seen little icicles on the grass blades, where the dew has frozen. When the sky goes grey, as it does at some point every day, then things seem to get hot again. The dew melts. The ground goes muddy. It sticks in my boots, yellowy-green, not like any mud I've ever seen before. It almost glows.

The food is running low now. Two tins of old Army rations, a half-eaten baguette and a slice of salami are all that stand between me and starvation. Of course, there's always the birds, but the effort of hunting them is pointless. There only seem to be songbirds out here, little birds - robins, blackbirds, finches. I wouldn't waste a bullet trying to get one, I'd be eating more lead than meat. Where are all the big birds, the predators? Come to think of it, what are the songbirds feeding on? There's no insects out here at all.

When the evening starts to close in, I try to pitch camp near any trees I can find. There's something about them that feels safe. I lay a couple of claymores, in case that...thing wants to spring, but in the morning, I've never found any sign of life. I settle down with a book and read until I fall asleep. It's almost like it was before...God...it was too long ago.

Tomorrow I going to have to move on. That means leaving the fields and heading north, towards those mountains in the distance. Though it goes against my better judgement, I'll have to make camp up there, somewhere.

Oh God...I fear the night.
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Mar. 25th, 2007 @ 02:03 am The Killer
Current Location: Somewhere in the desert
Current Mood: busy
Current Music: Neil Young
I shot a man today. And it felt good.

To be fair, he wasn't actually a real man, obviously, otherwise I wouldn't be stupid enough to confess it here (not that anyone's reading, but the Police probably are. Wait, do I hear sirens? Oh bugger.)

Annnyway, to get back to the point, it was on a videogame, yes, another bloody one, and I cut the bastard down as he was trying to get away. I was playing as a Russian, for a change, invad...sorry, arriving at the bequest of a neutral government to aid it against democratic swine...I mean rebels. Anyway, we're dropped near the capital via helicopter. The bastards on the ground have AA missiles so half of the company gets killed before it even hits the floor. Then, as we charge from the LZ into the town, my CO is cut down by an enemy sniper and all hell breaks loose...

Half an hour later, sweaty palmed and panting suspiciously, we'd subdued the town. Three-quarters of the company was dead or badly wounded. I was running low on ammo after being a bit too liberal with the ol' trigger finger. And then I saw him.

He was running away.

I couldn't let this cowardice stand, not after what had happened. So, I lay prone, aimed carefully, and sent a burst of bullets cascading up his back. He collapsed foward, blood trails following. He was dead. And I felt good. Maybe it was because that man stood for my own cowardice, and I was killing that. Or maybe it was just stress relief, after a week of fist-bangingly difficult essays.

Or maybe, just maybe, I'm a cold blooded killer...
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