---The Line---
Day 982, 08:51
•
Published in United Kingdom 
•
by
•
by Spite313
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What happens when an attack is made hundreds of miles away from relief? In the middle of the night, when nobody can come? Those were my thoughts last night, sat around a campfire in an otherwise deserted forest in Armagh...
A cold wind was blowing through the trees, towards the North, where the lights of Belfast were faintly visible on the horizon. The silence was broken by a hundred leaves, swaying gently, and a hundred small creatures moving through the night. Around the fire sat a dozen men, firelight faintly lighting their haggard features. Some were reclined onto mossy banks; others sat staring intently into the flames. Only one thing they had in common. All of them clutched their weapons, holding them close to their bodies.
Around the campfire shells and clips were scattered everywhere. A slight opening in the woods made this a popular battleground in a region which has changed hands a dozen times in the last few months alone. Dig a little deeper and you would probably find the crumbling bones of those who had fought here and lost: and perhaps those who had won too. War was not something anyone won, rather a case of who lost the least badly.
In other clearings like this, across the forest, were other groups of men: British and Brazilian regulars; German skirmishers; Slovenian guerrillas. In others, hidden caches of weaponry, tanks and helicopters under camouflage netting, the cold steel becoming even colder as night swept in. Every man round the fire knew that the setting of the sun meant death. Our only satisfaction was that it would not be us who died this day.
Eventually one man coughed, leaning forward. Vaguely visible was the tattered uniform of a member of the Hungarian General Staff, with the insignia denoting he was a member of Phoenix’ Strategic High Command. Casually he flicked a half smoked cigar into the fire, before pulling himself to his feet.
“It is time,” he grated out. “I must take my tank. I must move to the West, where they will first breach our lines.”
His announcement was met by a shifting of weapons and clothes. As if uncoiling, the men around the fire rose to their feet, dirt and detritus falling from their uniforms. I felt myself rising in response, and an urge rose in me to break the silence.
“Good luck Ernst,” I breathed, “give them Hell.”
Ernst nodded once, sharply. Lifting his rifle over one shoulder, he walked towards the tree line. Within seconds he was lost in the gloom. Ernst von Jacob, one of Hungary’s greatest generals, was not a man given to needless words.
As I looked around the rest of the men, now exchanging quiet words, I reflected on who was represented here. Kibla, Ilija, Dishmcds, Milo666, a host of big names, famous for leading battles not fighting them. The mood was sombre, and I was worried it could turn despondent soon. Then, from the darkness, came an insane laughing and out of the forest walked Jazar, swinging his helmet from one hand and singing to himself. Everybody immediately stopped talking, surprised.
“We won, friends!” Jazar said, throwing his pack down and spreading his arms theatrically. “We bashed the Italian-pasta eaters and kicked them straight out of Mexico! The Spanish tried to help but we beat them! And I bring more soldiers home with me, listen, you can hear them now!”
And as he said it, the crackle of gunfire and the whoosh of missiles became audible, far to the South West.
“We need to get moving now though boys,” he went on. “When we were flying in, I saw those Americans in green clothing sneaking in slowly to the West. Ernst is out there, alone, but he needs backup.”
The Brazilian’s enthusiasm and good news encouraged everyone. I felt a smile come to my face as I pulled on my helmet and shouldered my pack. Saluting Jazar casually I began to jog South, to where my chopper was stowed. Behind me, I heard one or two men following- the rest having placed their weapons elsewhere. As I ran, I thought about the craziness of the situation. Phoenix and EDEN, two of the most powerful alliances ever to exist, and this battle would be fought by a mixture of General Staff, Cabinet members, and whoever happened to be around at the time. No organised assault like we are so used to, but a series of personal battles designed to slow down and wear down our opponents. The US troops arriving now weren’t here to secure the region: Ireland didn’t want it. They were here for personal reasons, to get trophies. And there were a lot of those available on the battlefield tonight.
Suddenly the forest opened up. Amongst the towering pine trees stood three choppers, camo netting pooled around them and rotor blades warming up. In my chopper, the lead one of the bunch, a British soldier leaned out of the cockpit and offered me a hand. Running up, I grasped his wrist and he pulled me up into the pilot’s seat, before pulling on his headphones and signalling to me I should do the same.
“Welcome aboard sir. The main fighting is to the North.” The man gestured roughly towards where I had come from. “Apparently there is a rogue column of tanks led by the Israeli Krimpiekat headed towards the capital.”
“Bloody puppet states,” I muttered, pulling on my gloves and setting the controls to prepare for take-off. “All they do is fight where they’re told, work where they’re told, move where they’re told and shi-“
“I get the picture, sir,” muttered the soldier.
“Yes well so you should,” I said. A swift pull on the collective lever launched the copter skywards, and taking the joystick in one hand I turned us towards the main source of the fighting. Behind me I could imagine the other two choppers rising to follow, though the noise of the engines meant that I could only feel rather than hear them.
From the vantage of the sky, I could see how the battlefield looked. As I’d thought, it had degenerated into a few individual battles. To the North was a destroyed tank column, smoke and flames still rising from the harrowed corpses of the heavy vehicles. Presumably my comrades had reached Krimpiekat faster than expected, and this was all that remained. Giving the area a wide birth, in case some enterprising tank commander with a rocket launcher decided to give it a shot, I headed to the West. My radar and the frantic gestures of the co-pilot suggested that I should head that way.
As I approached the West of the map, a crackling voice became audible over my earphones. “Withd...w...Withdraw...w...draw...”
“Ernst?” I asked, panicking. What was happening that Ernst was withdrawing?
“Withdraw,” his voice came again, clearer this time. “Railman is mine. Repeat, Railman is mine. Nobody else kill him.”
Laughing, mostly with relief, I twister the joystick turning me and the chopper North. As we flew over Ernst’s position, we saw him leaning out of the command hatch of his oversized Hungarian tank, personally arming a rocket launcher. If Ernst does catch Railman, I thought, it isn’t going to be pretty.
North of Ernst’s position there were a few rogue Irish infantry units. Swooping low over the field, I quickly gunned them down. One however, had some sort of heavy cannon weapon, which strafed through the body of my chopper like a hot knife through butter. After I’d killed him, I turned and signalled my co-pilot we were going to land. We needed to repair the hull, and make sure that none of the bullets had cut a fuel line or damaged a weapons platform. If I went to fire a missile and found that the weapon went off in the casing I wouldn’t have a second chance to put it right.
It took me almost an hour to patch all the holes in my chopper, and make sure there were no leaks. It’s a miracle that the bullet fire missed all the important components- and me of course. I leaned against the chopper door, wiping oil from my hands with a rag and glancing at the sky for any marauding choppers. On the ground we were sitting ducks, and standing next to something which you have just filled with oil and explosives is a nervous experience. Suddenly, the radio crackled into life. It was Kibla. He and Antonio had been cornered near Belfast by a surprise attack from US units. They were under heavy fire and expected to be beaten any minute. We needed to secure Belfast and beat back the Americans. If we did this, we would win.
I climbed back into the driving seat and checked the clock. The large neon figures told me it was now 02:14, and the dawn was only a couple hours away. If we stopped this attack, then the battle would be over. Allies were due to arrive in the morning and without the capital region the US would be unable to reinforce.
Quickly gunning the chopper into life, I pulled up into the sky. My co-pilot moved to the rear to try and fix our radar, which had been on the blink since the attack earlier. Flicking a switch on the dash, I opened a band to the Phoenix Command units on the battlefield.
“This is Iain Keers. The enemy are advancing on the capital. I see Gates Schellinger and a load of the USMC moving North East alongside the riverbed. Both Tanks and choppers. There are two artillery placements I can see. Regroup one mile south of the Capital and hold the bridge. I will be coming from the West, and Ernst is on his way too.”
The announcement heralded a few responses, but mostly people seemed to be too concerned fighting for their lives to acknowledge the orders. As I flew Eastwards, a few other choppers fell in on either side. The American tank column was now on our right, as we both moved parallel to one another towards the capital. A few artillery units fired flak in our direction, but the worst we suffered was the rattling as explosives went off around us.
As we reached the rallying point, we saw that most of our thin line of troops had already arrived. Antonio and Kibla were both there, though their vehicles were heavily damaged. Ilija was with them, and waved upwards as our little group of choppers moved in to land. Around the trio was a horde of Brazilian and Argentinean soldiers, laughing and passing round beer. For them, today was a day of victory already, and they were in high spirits. Off to one side, the British army waited, already bloodied from two battles today. Royal Engineers swarmed over the vehicles, checking everything was in order. Quartermasters were throwing fresh weapons to soldiers and healers were applying whatever field dressings were available. Amongst all the chaos was a tank, and leaning out of the tank was James Woosh, a bottle of some spirit in one hand and a rifle in the other. He seemed to be singing loudly.
Opening the door to my chopper I jogged over to Antonio’s tank. Climbing on top, I waved for silence.
“Get back in your vehicles. The Americans will be here any second. This is not a chicken hunt like before, this is a pitched battle- it is do or die! And I say we do and they die!” This corny line got a few cheers and laughs, and everyone quickly jumped into their vehicles and readied their guns. Infantry soldiers jogged into the bushes, and tanks took up positions along the ridge. The helis began to take to the air, though this time I didn’t join them. Climbing up onto a tank, I saw the first of their armoured column crash through the trees. Jumping into the cockpit, I grabbed the radio.
“All units....FIRE!”
All at once it seemed like the earth itself opened up. Mines planted by the infantry combined with blistering artillery fire threw the earth skyward. The front most tanks of the enemy column were torn to pieces, and barely managed to get a shot off. Blocked by their wrecks, the tanks behind couldn’t get a clear shot. Still, we were taking casualties. A few hundred yards to my left a tank shell hit a troop carrier dead on, and only a few men scrambled from the wreckage in one piece. Both armies helis were locked in a deadly dogfight above us, and the howling of failing and over-throttled engines was the only warning we had someone was coming down. The battlefield was a murky mess of tangled men and metal, and visibility was only perhaps fifty metres.
Finally the US troops shifted their broken tanks and began to advance again. The smoke cleared, revealing at least thirty heavy tanks to our fifteen. Still we fought, though it was beginning to look hopeless. The only good sign was that our choppers still held the skies, though barely.
Then suddenly the entire south flank of the enemy tank column erupted. Ten or twelve tanks were destroyed straight away. From the riverbank came Ernst with a full dozen heavy tanks. It was all we needed. As the enemies moved to meet the new threat, our infantry burst from hiding and ran recklessly towards the tanks, hurling Molotov cocktails and packs of explosives. One thrown Molotov missed entirely, but hit a covered truck, setting it ablaze. The truck must have contained the Tank column’s reserve weapons, because the ensuing explosion lit the sky like the sun. Over the charred wreckage that was the tank column’s centre, allied forces swarmed.
The Americans had been defeated, and were withdrawing from the battle.
In the distance, the sun had just began to light the sky. It had been almost six hours since the beginning of the battle, though it seemed like minutes. The line had held, and Belfast was safe once again.
http://wiki.erepublik.com/images/a/a9/PHOENIX.png">http://wiki.erepublik.com/images/a/a9/PHOENIX.png">
Hail Phoenix Command o/
Hail UK Command o/
Iain Keers
UK President
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What happens when an attack is made hundreds of miles away from relief? In the middle of the night, when nobody can come? Those were my thoughts last night, sat around a campfire in an otherwise deserted forest in Armagh...
A cold wind was blowing through the trees, towards the North, where the lights of Belfast were faintly visible on the horizon. The silence was broken by a hundred leaves, swaying gently, and a hundred small creatures moving through the night. Around the fire sat a dozen men, firelight faintly lighting their haggard features. Some were reclined onto mossy banks; others sat staring intently into the flames. Only one thing they had in common. All of them clutched their weapons, holding them close to their bodies.
Around the campfire shells and clips were scattered everywhere. A slight opening in the woods made this a popular battleground in a region which has changed hands a dozen times in the last few months alone. Dig a little deeper and you would probably find the crumbling bones of those who had fought here and lost: and perhaps those who had won too. War was not something anyone won, rather a case of who lost the least badly.
In other clearings like this, across the forest, were other groups of men: British and Brazilian regulars; German skirmishers; Slovenian guerrillas. In others, hidden caches of weaponry, tanks and helicopters under camouflage netting, the cold steel becoming even colder as night swept in. Every man round the fire knew that the setting of the sun meant death. Our only satisfaction was that it would not be us who died this day.
Eventually one man coughed, leaning forward. Vaguely visible was the tattered uniform of a member of the Hungarian General Staff, with the insignia denoting he was a member of Phoenix’ Strategic High Command. Casually he flicked a half smoked cigar into the fire, before pulling himself to his feet.
“It is time,” he grated out. “I must take my tank. I must move to the West, where they will first breach our lines.”
His announcement was met by a shifting of weapons and clothes. As if uncoiling, the men around the fire rose to their feet, dirt and detritus falling from their uniforms. I felt myself rising in response, and an urge rose in me to break the silence.
“Good luck Ernst,” I breathed, “give them Hell.”
Ernst nodded once, sharply. Lifting his rifle over one shoulder, he walked towards the tree line. Within seconds he was lost in the gloom. Ernst von Jacob, one of Hungary’s greatest generals, was not a man given to needless words.
As I looked around the rest of the men, now exchanging quiet words, I reflected on who was represented here. Kibla, Ilija, Dishmcds, Milo666, a host of big names, famous for leading battles not fighting them. The mood was sombre, and I was worried it could turn despondent soon. Then, from the darkness, came an insane laughing and out of the forest walked Jazar, swinging his helmet from one hand and singing to himself. Everybody immediately stopped talking, surprised.
“We won, friends!” Jazar said, throwing his pack down and spreading his arms theatrically. “We bashed the Italian-pasta eaters and kicked them straight out of Mexico! The Spanish tried to help but we beat them! And I bring more soldiers home with me, listen, you can hear them now!”
And as he said it, the crackle of gunfire and the whoosh of missiles became audible, far to the South West.
“We need to get moving now though boys,” he went on. “When we were flying in, I saw those Americans in green clothing sneaking in slowly to the West. Ernst is out there, alone, but he needs backup.”
The Brazilian’s enthusiasm and good news encouraged everyone. I felt a smile come to my face as I pulled on my helmet and shouldered my pack. Saluting Jazar casually I began to jog South, to where my chopper was stowed. Behind me, I heard one or two men following- the rest having placed their weapons elsewhere. As I ran, I thought about the craziness of the situation. Phoenix and EDEN, two of the most powerful alliances ever to exist, and this battle would be fought by a mixture of General Staff, Cabinet members, and whoever happened to be around at the time. No organised assault like we are so used to, but a series of personal battles designed to slow down and wear down our opponents. The US troops arriving now weren’t here to secure the region: Ireland didn’t want it. They were here for personal reasons, to get trophies. And there were a lot of those available on the battlefield tonight.
Suddenly the forest opened up. Amongst the towering pine trees stood three choppers, camo netting pooled around them and rotor blades warming up. In my chopper, the lead one of the bunch, a British soldier leaned out of the cockpit and offered me a hand. Running up, I grasped his wrist and he pulled me up into the pilot’s seat, before pulling on his headphones and signalling to me I should do the same.
“Welcome aboard sir. The main fighting is to the North.” The man gestured roughly towards where I had come from. “Apparently there is a rogue column of tanks led by the Israeli Krimpiekat headed towards the capital.”
“Bloody puppet states,” I muttered, pulling on my gloves and setting the controls to prepare for take-off. “All they do is fight where they’re told, work where they’re told, move where they’re told and shi-“
“I get the picture, sir,” muttered the soldier.
“Yes well so you should,” I said. A swift pull on the collective lever launched the copter skywards, and taking the joystick in one hand I turned us towards the main source of the fighting. Behind me I could imagine the other two choppers rising to follow, though the noise of the engines meant that I could only feel rather than hear them.
From the vantage of the sky, I could see how the battlefield looked. As I’d thought, it had degenerated into a few individual battles. To the North was a destroyed tank column, smoke and flames still rising from the harrowed corpses of the heavy vehicles. Presumably my comrades had reached Krimpiekat faster than expected, and this was all that remained. Giving the area a wide birth, in case some enterprising tank commander with a rocket launcher decided to give it a shot, I headed to the West. My radar and the frantic gestures of the co-pilot suggested that I should head that way.
As I approached the West of the map, a crackling voice became audible over my earphones. “Withd...w...Withdraw...w...draw...”
“Ernst?” I asked, panicking. What was happening that Ernst was withdrawing?
“Withdraw,” his voice came again, clearer this time. “Railman is mine. Repeat, Railman is mine. Nobody else kill him.”
Laughing, mostly with relief, I twister the joystick turning me and the chopper North. As we flew over Ernst’s position, we saw him leaning out of the command hatch of his oversized Hungarian tank, personally arming a rocket launcher. If Ernst does catch Railman, I thought, it isn’t going to be pretty.
North of Ernst’s position there were a few rogue Irish infantry units. Swooping low over the field, I quickly gunned them down. One however, had some sort of heavy cannon weapon, which strafed through the body of my chopper like a hot knife through butter. After I’d killed him, I turned and signalled my co-pilot we were going to land. We needed to repair the hull, and make sure that none of the bullets had cut a fuel line or damaged a weapons platform. If I went to fire a missile and found that the weapon went off in the casing I wouldn’t have a second chance to put it right.
It took me almost an hour to patch all the holes in my chopper, and make sure there were no leaks. It’s a miracle that the bullet fire missed all the important components- and me of course. I leaned against the chopper door, wiping oil from my hands with a rag and glancing at the sky for any marauding choppers. On the ground we were sitting ducks, and standing next to something which you have just filled with oil and explosives is a nervous experience. Suddenly, the radio crackled into life. It was Kibla. He and Antonio had been cornered near Belfast by a surprise attack from US units. They were under heavy fire and expected to be beaten any minute. We needed to secure Belfast and beat back the Americans. If we did this, we would win.
I climbed back into the driving seat and checked the clock. The large neon figures told me it was now 02:14, and the dawn was only a couple hours away. If we stopped this attack, then the battle would be over. Allies were due to arrive in the morning and without the capital region the US would be unable to reinforce.
Quickly gunning the chopper into life, I pulled up into the sky. My co-pilot moved to the rear to try and fix our radar, which had been on the blink since the attack earlier. Flicking a switch on the dash, I opened a band to the Phoenix Command units on the battlefield.
“This is Iain Keers. The enemy are advancing on the capital. I see Gates Schellinger and a load of the USMC moving North East alongside the riverbed. Both Tanks and choppers. There are two artillery placements I can see. Regroup one mile south of the Capital and hold the bridge. I will be coming from the West, and Ernst is on his way too.”
The announcement heralded a few responses, but mostly people seemed to be too concerned fighting for their lives to acknowledge the orders. As I flew Eastwards, a few other choppers fell in on either side. The American tank column was now on our right, as we both moved parallel to one another towards the capital. A few artillery units fired flak in our direction, but the worst we suffered was the rattling as explosives went off around us.
As we reached the rallying point, we saw that most of our thin line of troops had already arrived. Antonio and Kibla were both there, though their vehicles were heavily damaged. Ilija was with them, and waved upwards as our little group of choppers moved in to land. Around the trio was a horde of Brazilian and Argentinean soldiers, laughing and passing round beer. For them, today was a day of victory already, and they were in high spirits. Off to one side, the British army waited, already bloodied from two battles today. Royal Engineers swarmed over the vehicles, checking everything was in order. Quartermasters were throwing fresh weapons to soldiers and healers were applying whatever field dressings were available. Amongst all the chaos was a tank, and leaning out of the tank was James Woosh, a bottle of some spirit in one hand and a rifle in the other. He seemed to be singing loudly.
Opening the door to my chopper I jogged over to Antonio’s tank. Climbing on top, I waved for silence.
“Get back in your vehicles. The Americans will be here any second. This is not a chicken hunt like before, this is a pitched battle- it is do or die! And I say we do and they die!” This corny line got a few cheers and laughs, and everyone quickly jumped into their vehicles and readied their guns. Infantry soldiers jogged into the bushes, and tanks took up positions along the ridge. The helis began to take to the air, though this time I didn’t join them. Climbing up onto a tank, I saw the first of their armoured column crash through the trees. Jumping into the cockpit, I grabbed the radio.
“All units....FIRE!”
All at once it seemed like the earth itself opened up. Mines planted by the infantry combined with blistering artillery fire threw the earth skyward. The front most tanks of the enemy column were torn to pieces, and barely managed to get a shot off. Blocked by their wrecks, the tanks behind couldn’t get a clear shot. Still, we were taking casualties. A few hundred yards to my left a tank shell hit a troop carrier dead on, and only a few men scrambled from the wreckage in one piece. Both armies helis were locked in a deadly dogfight above us, and the howling of failing and over-throttled engines was the only warning we had someone was coming down. The battlefield was a murky mess of tangled men and metal, and visibility was only perhaps fifty metres.
Finally the US troops shifted their broken tanks and began to advance again. The smoke cleared, revealing at least thirty heavy tanks to our fifteen. Still we fought, though it was beginning to look hopeless. The only good sign was that our choppers still held the skies, though barely.
Then suddenly the entire south flank of the enemy tank column erupted. Ten or twelve tanks were destroyed straight away. From the riverbank came Ernst with a full dozen heavy tanks. It was all we needed. As the enemies moved to meet the new threat, our infantry burst from hiding and ran recklessly towards the tanks, hurling Molotov cocktails and packs of explosives. One thrown Molotov missed entirely, but hit a covered truck, setting it ablaze. The truck must have contained the Tank column’s reserve weapons, because the ensuing explosion lit the sky like the sun. Over the charred wreckage that was the tank column’s centre, allied forces swarmed.
The Americans had been defeated, and were withdrawing from the battle.
In the distance, the sun had just began to light the sky. It had been almost six hours since the beginning of the battle, though it seemed like minutes. The line had held, and Belfast was safe once again.
Hail Phoenix Command o/
Hail UK Command o/
Iain Keers
UK President
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Comments
pertamax hail phx!
soooooooo maaaaaanyyyyy letters
Buaa
You should write a novel!😛
luv u <3
p awesome
o/
HAIL PHOENIX
Stopped reading the moment I realised it was some lame RP style novel..
<o
Heil Ernst!
o/ Phoenix
Good one Iain it was close battle indeed but once again we got ourselves up from the ashes...!!! Congratulations all...!!!
Hail Phoenix...!!!
Hail UK...!!!
I don't even need to finish reading this article to h8 it. It glorifies war. Yes it does say "War was not something anyone won, rather a case of who lost the least badly", but after that it gives the impression of something like "war may cost lives, but hey it is something where people become closer (in a non-homosexual way😛) and it's actually only bad for the losers". There are no good sides about war. It is full of despair and death and that is really all there is to it.
Erm Samu-L do you realise this is a game? Nobody actually dies? So yes it is quite fun and harmless. If you don't want to play a war-game you're in the wrong place.
attitude is something that also belongs to RL as well as something that can be passed on in a game. If somebody were to spread propaganda for fascism would you say "hey it's just a game!"?
OK I'm not going to waste time arguing, but if you honestly believe that you should delete your account, stop playing any war games you might own- if you own GTA you might as well burn it. And so on. If you can't distinguish between a character fighting on a game and real life war then you have something wrong with you.
samu-L: I've played nearly three years, no one's died yet. 😛
WAR IS GLORIOUS.
tl;dr
War is Very Glorious indeed
Shift yer *RSE, McNab.. here comes the new boy!
BYNALMA ( But You Need a Lot More Acronyms )
Did you know that the US army uses ego-shooter games to raise the killing-intent of its soldiers. I was never talking about this game I was talking about how you were glorifying war in general.
To the ones who said that war is glorious: by now your brains should be slushing out of your nose while being ashamed of themselves, because this is what a brain should do after it has thought BS like that.
@samu-L
War is glorious, prove me wrong. It brings riches, i.e gold, oil.
Like I said Samu-L
"OK I'm not going to waste time arguing, but if you honestly believe that you should delete your account, stop playing any war games you might own- if you own GTA you might as well burn it. And so on. If you can't distinguish between a character fighting on a game and real life war then you have something wrong with you."
I think if you're incapable of distinguishing between war IRL and moving a man around a game board on a game then you should throw away all of your games. Even chess. Also, despite what you might think, soldiers aren't evil murderers, they're ordinary people. And I don't appreciate the comparison.
I really don't get after action reports, sorry. Which, I suppose, is strange given that the actual outcome of the battle is as suitable for novelization as any fictional battle...
Great deion Iain. Good to know how it turned out in the end and appreciation to our allies. Brave effort by the Yanks who would be in the early to mid evening by their timezones, meaning we (in the UK) need to be up late to combat them. i was only around for 15 minutes but hey - i was there.
Huzzah !!!
"@samu-L
War is glorious, prove me wrong. It brings riches, i.e gold, oil."
Sure I can🙂 Innocent people die in wars. It's as simple as that. Lemme guess, u r an American IRL.
@Iain Keers,
Of course I can distinguish between a cyber board-game and RL, but what you are writing about soldiers sitting together around a campfire is a glorification of war. In this game war is just funny little figures moving around on hex fields, but we should never forget what it is in reality while playing this game. In your story you are describing it as if it were a RL war situation and you are glorifying it. This may be a surprise for the ego-shooter playing nerds in here, but some people get offended by that. War is horrible period.
And btw there are people in this game who write articles about peace even though they wouldn't need to do it as this IS a war-based game. If you keep telling me that I'm not able to distinguish between RL and eRep you didn't get the meaning behind my comments.
STupid trolls can be kept for oneself k🙂
If you get offended by it, don't read it. I write articles so people can get enjoyment from them, and I think a lot of people like this sort of thing.
It might also surprise you that a lot of people reading your comments probably are soldiers, or have been trained as one. And no most of them don't glorify war. But most of them will be able to empathise with the stuff in this. The boredom before a fight. The terror and shock during one. The sense of glory and victory you get when you come through in one piece.
If you want to be a pacifist, fine. But don't attack a piece of literature on an online browser-game, go and protest somewhere that matters, like outside your government buildings.
Voted and subscribed, Iain Keers' reign as PM has seen Britain become great once more!
Nicely done, Mr. Keers.
@ samu-L : the guy wrote a fictionalized account of a battle in a *game*, dude. Do you protest every TV show, every movie that attempts to portray the emotions in/of battle and victory?
And what's being an American have to do with anything? All nations glorify victory in war and battle. Where are you from?
Kill all humans!
Ohyeas