Ron Bleac
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Thread music.
From the desk of Oberkommando Der Wehrmacht.
Guten tag, my most esteemed colleagues from zhe great lands of zhe internetz. WWIIOL is a World War 2 based MMOFPS similar to Planetside, except less shit.
It is a time of great crisis. The Axis team, having dispensed great misery on their enemies, are still losing the war. We need YOU to bolster the ranks of the German Wehrmacht and win the war back.
Volunteer today! And receive a sum of 200 Deutschmarks. Express your willingness at your nearest recruitment center.
WWIIOL is a real time MMOFPS with over 6000 players competing daily on a map the size of Western Europe, stretching from Dunkirk to Frankfurt. Created in 1999, WWIIOL has lasted for nearly a decade and has constantly developed in a better direction. With a playerbase that reaches across the globe and expands daily, it offers a unique communal experience. Ever wished for the SL military community to be less full of drama, shit and YIFFYFURACTIONYFURACTIONYFURACTIONYFURACTIONYFURACTIONYFURACTIONYFURACTIONYFURACTIONYFURACTION? Well now you know where to find it.
As a note, all of the tanks and infantry you see in those screenshots are players. They're not AI. WWIIOL is pretty real when it comes to squadplay, so you'll see stuff like that happen regularly. It's a game that relies on co-operation very heavily.
WWIIOL has a two week free trial that you can find and download with little trouble at: Battleground Europe
I'm too tired to type up a huge paragraph about this, but hey. Aryte played it before he created the Ordo. That has to mean something, right?
SO SIGN UP TODAY AND THROW YOUR LIFE AWAY. S! Team Axis!
P.S
Join my Div. and Kg! I recently became an officer for the Axis High Command.
Wehrmacht (German Army) / 3 Panzer Division / 3. Kampfgruppe (3PzD3Kg)
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The text itself could be even more "descriptive" if I could include the dozens of illustrations that he's made by himself. Photographs, AAR's and other attached notes will be made available as he works his way through his memory. He has about 30 or so photographs taken in 1939 alone, with several dozens more all the way to the end of the war.
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Astra swarm:
Flight lead: Trinity Heckroth (Holds orders)
Pilots:
Sebris Montpark (Holds orders)
Disembodied Hand (Holds orders)
Fox Cheri
Dascede Aluveaux
Vix Venera
Wulf Lykin (Holds orders)
Drasamax Python(Holds orders)
Those who hold orders are meant to brief and explain the goal and strategy of the operation to those who do not have them. Order holders are also to be considered "senior in authority" over those who participate in the raid, meaning that if they are the only person who holds orders in the air raid, they are automatically designated as the commander of Astra forces in the field. Further explanation within the notecard sent to you.
Note: In case multiple people with orders are present, the most senior in rank holds authority.
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The following people have been selected:
Huttser
Corsi
Arokh
Steeltael
Your orders have been sent to you.
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We were seated in an underground dugout just after exchanging guard with JRI./2C. It was a quiet winter morning with the sun barely dipping its skirt on the treetops. It was eerily quiet. About 300 meters to our absolute North lay a near identical set of trenches, mirroring our construction. Those dugouts were Soviet. The snow around the trenches was fresh, it had come down last night. But even virgin snow was unable to cover the scars of battle that littered the area. Craters, mangled barbed wire and trees that seemed to have exploded from a high density artillery bombardment. The particular set of trench we were in was rather simple. The main dugout was L shaped and pointed breast first towards the enemy, with the quarters on the Southern end of the trench and with the fighting positions on the front and on the side. It was smart construction: Any attacker assaulting us from the front would be trapped in a deadly field of enfilading fire from a concrete casemate placed right outside the trenches. The casemate was, however, very hastily constructed. The wooden scaffolding had not been removed and it was half finished, but it provided enough frontal cover that it was considered ready for use. Inside the casemate was a Maxim machinegun set up on a wooden log with the primary leg of the tripod dug into the top. The two front legs were rested against the concrete, giving the machine gun a level field of fire.
No mans land between the trenches consisted of about 300 meters of largely open ground with a frozen river in the center. From what we were told upon our arrival, Soviet troops had attempted to cross the river multiple times with heavy casualties, but failed to penetrate our defenses. As I peered over the parapet through a periscope, we could make out these dark, eery lumps buried under a thin sheet of snow. The dead told their own tale, you could tell where the assault had begun and where it had ended. The last body was twenty meters to our immediate right, behind the previously mentioned casemate. Behind that body was a group of another 30 Soviet dead. There were no Finnish dead in no-man's-land, we were ordered not to counter-attack but to hold our positions. At all costs. Word from above to our battalion HQ suggested that the Soviets were going to mount a strong push in the area to secure access to a network of bridgeheads across the river, from which they could safely transport infantry and goods. For tanks they would require a pontoon bridge, the river's ice was too frail to support an armored assault.
Me and Hänninen were given the first night of guard duty after a day of maintaining equipment and mending broken sections of the trench. Our duties included replacing logs shattered by artillery shrapnel and shell. In addition to which, we were meant to rewire an "alarm bell" system to the main quarters. In case of an attack during the night, or even during the day, we would send out a "silent alarm" by pulling the string. It was an easy, intuitive system with little risk of discovery in case of an enemy attack. On our way to the primary dugout, the Soviets lobbed a few artillery shells behind our lines in an effort to catch possible resupply efforts off guard. They didn't kill anyone, but they certainly shook the hell out of us. We thought it was heading right for us, but the tell-tale whoosh passed overhead. Hänninen, having heard an old wive's tale about cannon shells leaned over and whispered to me: "If it passes, it screeches. If it's for you, it just exhales." He patted me on the back with his mitted hand and pointed towards our observation post: "There."
After a minute or two of shuffling through thick snow that had built up in the trench, we sat ourselves down in a small wooden cubicle without a top. On the walls were "weapon slits" where one could take a look through, or use the periscope provided. We preferred to look through the slits, as any source of light would possibly glint off the periscope and reveal our position to the enemy.
It wasn't long before morning came. It was a rather boring night with occasional movement from the other side of the field, but nothing in our direction. Hänninen, having warmed himself up by pressing up against my side got up first and picked up his rifle. He dusted off his winter "jumpsuit" camouflage and straightened his helmet out. He motioned for me and pulled me up, pointing me in the direction of our quarters. On our way back through the connecting trench we met up with Järvi who greeted us in his typical cheerful fashion; "Bloody cold night you guys had, have a feeling the day's going to suck just as hard." I patted him on the shoulder as we passed and briefly shared a moment, just him and me. I looked at him and gave him a push back in the direction of the guard post, an unspoken "be careful out there" sneaking between us. Nobody wanted to admit it, but we were all scared to death. Day guard generally only had one person unless we were on elevated alert status, so Järvi was alone.
A number of things could happen when you're in a guardpost alone: The Russians regularly sent out "guard-snatch" patrols that dug their way through the thick snow and knocked the guard out as silently as possible, then dragged him over to the other side of no-man's-land without anybody noticing and interrogated them there, before putting them in front of a firing squad. If you were lucky, you'd end up as a prisoner of war, but if you weren't so lucky they'd accuse you of being a spy and then shoot you on the spot. At least these were the horror stories told by the previous company who had been in our position. We never found out how they knew what happened to prisoners, but their casualty counts were quite high so we trusted that they knew better than we did. We were still green, after all.
It was shortly before mid-day when the night guard was resting inside the quarters. The previous company had outfitted them with wooden lavets laid across from top to bottom against the walls, sort of like improvised beds so that nobody would have to sleep on the floor. The quarters was safe, the logs surrounding us were at most points at least two meters deep covered in about 3 meters of earth. That would easily stop most artillery shells, but a direct hit from a large one would kill off everyone inside, depending on the warhead type. In exchange for safety, we traded personal hygiene. There was very little in the quarters to keep clean and mostly we just concentrated on the important things: That being, staying alive. We knew that in a highly active combat zone like this we would eventually be replaced. You couldn't wash outside, because if you did you'd freeze up. It was something like -25 Celcius at the time, during day. The temperature dropped even lower during the nights.
We were conversing about food. Dreaming about home, or our girlfriends, for some of us our wives. We had a pretty fun time discussing our personal fantasies about what life would be like when we returned home, or if we'd all come back home in one piece. A man from the back of the room who's name escapes me at the moment said something along the lines of "They may take my legs, but they'll never take anything above that, and god help them if they do." He said, mumbling from a state of half paralyzed sleep and upbeat activity. Everyone was sort of in a daze, dazed at the fact we were finally knee deep in it. Dazed at the fact that there was somebody on the other side wanting to kill us and that our primary objective out on the field was to kill them before they got you. Oddly enough nobody seemed to have a problem with killing. Some of the guys said things like "If you're having a hard time shooting people, imagine you're shooting uniforms. Imagine they're just paper targets that shoot back, but personally I prefer treating them with the same dignity they give us: Recognizing us as human beings." At which point, the room erupted into a lazy, drawn out chuckle that seemed to last for seconds. Occasionally somebody would start laughing without actual warrant for it, having remembered a joke told many days ago.
Pekkarinen was sneaking out of the door at the time, he was tasked with relieving Järvi. He opened the heavy bolt locked wooden door and stuck his head outside, keeping it well below the parapets to avoid drawing any attention. He left the door ajar as he ventured to get his rifle from a nearby improvised rack. Then abruptly threw himself back inside with great haste. "Everyone on the floor!"
I rolled off the lavet and hit the floor face first.
It felt like the ground had split open. My ears were ringing and it felt like I had been lifted into the air, my entire body was vibrating like an electric razor. It was like as if I had been placed in a giant church bell and someone drove a truck into it. The noise was terrible, it was as if my head was being split open by two extremely angry construction workers armed with iron bars, beating my head in blow after blow. Slowly, but surely the world began coming back to me but the shaking and great noise didn't stop. It was like something out of a movie: The ground was moving underneath you and things were falling off shelves, the lights were flickering. An oil lamp fell over against the wooden floor and set it aflame, but Heikkilä smothered it with his body. I got on my knees and tried to crawl forward, reaching for whatever might have fallen off my person in order to get some order into what was happening. The shaking still hadn't stopped, it was like an earthquake. The pounding in my ears grew greater and then finally, pop.
I felt something warm run down my cheeks.
"Kontiola, you're bleeding!" Heikkilä screamed over the noise and tackled me back to the ground and gave me a quick physical with his swift hands. He ran his fingers and palms against the back of my neck and against my head, feeling for puncture wounds. But he found nothing. He leaned against my face, his nose almost touching mine. He was screaming, but I could barely tell what he was saying. "Your ear drums! They've burst! You're OK!" He bellowed. Several others in the room were in the same condition. Blood and clear fluid was trickling down their faces. Many of them had already reached for their helmets.
And then it was over. Dead silence as we had experienced several days before. For a minute we didn't do anything, but then someone screamed. "Järvi's still out there!" Morane, a strong bulky individual from the Karelian Isthmus was the first man standing. He screamed as he went out of the door, "Everyone into the trench! Take your battle stance." Scores of men began pouring through the small doorway, grabbing their rifles from the rack in the doorway. One by one the rack emptied. It must've taken less than 20 seconds for all 25 of us to pile out of the building. Other bunkers in the area were already doing the same. The entire company was out in force, but stretched across defensive positions that in total spanned over 4000 meters of ground from all sides. There was smoke in the air, it burned my nostrils. Chordite? Or battle gas? Either way, into the trench we went. I was the first man to round the corner to the guard post. Inside, I saw Järvi pressed up against the wall shaking like the devil had possessed him. I tackled him to the ground, "Järvi! Are you hurt? Is everything OK in there?" I repeated my questions several times, knocking on his helmet. Järvi finally snapped out of it and nodded, "I'm OK."
Morane came down the same pathway, motioning back towards the main trench. There was a great ongoing commotion in our positions with men scrambling to find their friends or what equipment they had left in the trench. Suddenly this was it, the real deal. We had just received our first shower from enemy artillery with many more to come, but what came next none of us could expect.
A dreadful whistle.
"Hit the dirt!"
Ka-bang. Bang. Boom. Woosh. More artillery grenades pummeled our positions. It was an inferno of fire from what I assumed were heavy guns several miles East. And the shells were landing close to their intended target: Us. We squealed as we buried ourselves against the bottom of the trench. Each man placed his hands against the back of his neck and prayed for dear life. The second barrage was over as soon as it began and we all got back up again, clustering through the path. "Find a spot and stick to it!" Morane growled, now in his element. Morane had already seen action in the civil war and was our most senior NCO at hand. Our Lieutenant was nowhere to be seen. In the trench I encountered my very first experience with death. A man was still pressed up against the side of the trench, grasping the back of his neck. I knocked on his helmet and tried to turn him around, but quickly put him back down again. My mitts were covered in blood. Black blood. You usually think blood is red, but in great amounts it looks black. The snow on the bottom of the trench began to change colour, taking on a purplish and clarette color. Heikkilä stopped by and pressed his fingers against the fallen man's neck. "Dead." He declared and moved on, rifle tightly pressed up against his side. I moved on quickly and followed him.
Morane was still screaming. "Man the casemate! Man the gun!"
A faint voice from inside the concrete structure screamed in reply: "Gun is manned, locked and cocked!" I took my position right next to the casemate and laid my rifle against the parapet. I pulled the bolt to the side, pulled it back and loaded it with my first stripper comb, and then pushed it back in again. I was ready.
Morane was scanning the front line with his pair of binoculars, eyeing the moving snowdrifts and watching the treeline in front of our trench. "Hold your positions! Hold them!" Some men at the front began singing:
"This oath we have held true, we've pushed against the foul east.
All of us who could hold a spear, pike or sword.
And we'll hold onto what's ours, now and forever.
The shackles of slavery shall never weigh us down.
We'll die in battle, that we wish to show.
This oath is unbreakable.
This freedom can't be shattered."
Halfway through the first stanza we heard a mighty roar. It was almost like an animal, like a bear that had just been shot. And it grew stronger, and worst of all: We felt a tremor. A constantly growing, expanding tremor. We began lifting ourselves over the parapet to see. Out of the forest line in front of us zigzagged an ever growing stream of men onto the icy river, forming a steady front. They were about 20 meters across the ice when our machine guns began firing. Tak-tak-tak-tak, taka-tak-tak. Short, lethal bursts of fire sprayed across the entire front. But even over the constant gunfire, we could hear them screaming. Howling for our blood, they came across like a merciless tidal wave of grey and brown-clad infantry. We could see their pointed bayonets, I could feel my gut turn upside down. I wanted to vomit. There must've been hundreds of them.
The man at the front of the assault screamed something unintelligible, but we heard his voice clear as day. Like a sabre through flesh, it cut our ears.
And simultaneously, Morane howled a reply. Not to them, but to us.
"Fire at will!"
I felt my finger squeeze the trigger. Bang. My hand reached over to the bolt to load another round into the chamber. It was like I was an automaton, I didn't have my own free will. I lined up a man in my sights and closed my eyes. I forced them back open again, then pulled the trigger. A white puff erupted from his chest and he fell over, disappearing into the cloud of men who were still advancing undeterred by our fire. And we just kept pouring fire into them. They didn't seem to care or even feel their casualties mount, but we knew that with each round poured into the mass of men our chances of hitting them grew greater. Return fire scittered off the trench parapets and pinged off the frozen stones placed to support the logs. The Maxim gun to my right kept firing, but his bursts stretched longer. With each pull of the trigger I could feel myself growing tired, but my fear forced me to go on. They were now across the river and closing in on us, coming uphill through the unbearably thick snow with pure, unwavering power of will.
Morane and a few others were emptying entire magazines into the advancing force from their submachineguns. Burst after burst, they sprayed what little was left of their valuable ammunition and then switched over to hand grenades. They began lobbing them down the hill. Thud. A scream. Another thud, more screaming. And then silence.
The attack had stopped. I had just shot a man, maybe more. I wasn't sure. But I sure felt great about it. I learned to instantly regret it. I took a peek over the top of the trench and was visibly disgusted at the sight. Dozens of bodies littered the foreground of the trench, some were still moving. Wounded. Across the river, I saw another few dozen men retreating back into the forest. Sporadic firing still erupted throughout the line, but Morane calmed us all down by ordering us not to waste ammunition on retreating troops. Their fight was over. For today.
Out on the icy river we all observed a dark figure crawling towards our lines. He was screaming, lifting his rifle at us and bellowing what with little strenght he had left in his lungs. He was screaming for Stalin, still desperately flopping through the snow like wounded seal. He must've screamed for a good few hours, then sank into eternal silence.
On my return back to my quarters, I took a look at my watch.
This entire ordeal had lasted little more than 15 minutes from the impact of the first shells.
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As seen in the previous thread.
MINIMUM RANK REQUIREMENT OF E-3 WITH COMPLETED FLIGHT TRAINING.
NAME:
RANK:
BRANCH (PRAETORIAN GUARD/ASTRA):
PREVIOUS RAIDS LEAD WITHIN THE PAST THREE WEEKS:
APOSTLES? (Y/N):
FLIGHT LEAD? (Y/N):
OTHER COMMAND ROLES? (Y/N):
DOES CURIA LOVE YOU? (Y/N):
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Operation Dresden will be here soon. I need leaders, at most 5 but at least 2.
Here are the requirements:
- A minimum rank of E-6.
- Preferrable involvement in Terra. (If you're Astra that's fine too. <3)
- Previous raid experience.
- The ability to follow orders.
- The ability to carry responsibility.
- You need to fight hard.
- And fight harder.
- You MUST be a leader and be able to control high stress situations.
If you think you fill the above criteria, post in this thread in the following format:
NAME:
RANK:
BRANCH (TERRA/ASTRA):
PREVIOUS RAIDS LEAD WITHIN THE PAST THREE WEEKS:
ALPHA SQUAD? (Y/N):
COHORS LEAD? (Y/N):
OTHER COMMAND ROLES? (Y/N):
DOES CURIA LOVE YOU? (Y/N):
A list will be posted in this thread for those who receive a command role. For those who do not receive a command role, don't worry, there'll be plenty of fights to come.
- A minimum rank of E-6.
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"Miklagaard* has been our home, for 20 years or more. We've lent our axes, spears and swords in service of the Emperor."
*Constantinople. Picture from the Skylitze Chronicles.
The Varangian Guard (also known as the "Varyag Guard" and the "pelekyphoroi barbaroi" in some scriptures. The latter translates to "Axe bearing foreigners") was the elite bodyguard unit of the Byzantine emperor. Providing 24 hour protection, they served a multitude of roles: Investigating treason, heresy and sometimes even police duty. Not only are the Varangian guard a police unit, they were also used in battle several times throughout their existence. They were noted for their extreme brutality and choice of weaponry: In particular, their trademark Nordic battle axe (Note: See the picture above and note the large presence of polearms.) They fought where the battle was at its fiercest and turned the tide. Well equipped, the Guard relied primarily on their extreme strenght and will in battle, often seen plowing their way through lines of hostile infantry in brutal head-on charges, using their axes as giant meat cleavers. Contemporary Byzantine chroniclers note with a mix of terror and fascination that the "Scandinavians were frightening both in appearance and in equipment, they attacked with reckless rage and neither cared about losing blood nor their wounds". The Varangian guard was composed of several ethnicities, but they were primarily of Scandinavian origin with large amounts of members from Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Finland and Rus' areas. They were men from every major religion: "There's men of the cross and the hammer, a few of the moon crescent."
The Varangian guard was also given extreme liberty in how to arrange their armor and armament. But most famous is the following:
Note the equipment: A large mail hauberk covers his chest and arms, but it ends before the elbows. This was due to the Byzantine armor and local troops being shorter than that of the Varangians. Exceptionally tall Byzantine troops, along with the Varangians preferred to fit small metal strips on their forearms to allow for better protection and movement. In this picture, the Varangian warrior (portrayed by a re-enactor) is holding a Danish, single edged battle axe. Under the mail armor, the Varangian wears a large and thick woollen overcoat. It's no doubt hot, but gives extra protection against blades or tipped weapons such as spears or arrows. The helmet is of typical Nordic construction, with runes carved onto the nose plate. The leg greaves are of the same construction as the arm plates. By average, a Varangian warrior carried heavier equipment than regular Byzantine troops. Varyags would also use weaponry from Byzantine armories, preferring the Byzantine stabbing swords rather than the broad Nordsword that recruits from Nordic families often brought with them as protection. The reason for this is that a stabbing blade penetrates armor easier and is lighter, which gives the user higher ability to maneuver.
Whilst the Varangian Guard acted as an elite combat unit and personal guardians, they were noted for holding a loalty to the Emperor like no other. When the Emperor was alive, they would protect him to the death in battle and die clutching their polearms. Their extreme loalty did not stem from chivalry, but the fact the Emperor was paying them a large sum of money. That money being from his personal treasury. You see, when the Emperor died the Varangian guard the right to "sack the palace" and take as many valuables as they could carry and travel back home to Scandinavia, leaving most of them wealthy men. This prompted even more youth from the North to enlist in the Guard upon the return of old veterans, keeping the Guard in constant supply of new blood.
But the Varangian guard was not *always* the most loyal. Their loalty was to the throne, or at least the current occupier of that throne, not the Emperor himself. In 969 when Emperor Nikephoros II was assasinated, a servant called over the Guard for help. Upon arrival, the Emperor lay dead in a pool of blood with his assassin standing over him. The Varangian guard bowed to the assassin, proclaiming him the new Emperor John Tzimiskes the first. And then promptly sacked the palace because that's what Vikings do.
In 1071 when Emperor Romanos IV Diogenes was defeated by a foreign Sultan, most of the Varangian Guard sacrificed themselves in battle so that he could escape. They fell to the last man but had prior to the battle left a small contingent of Varangian Guards protecting the palace that was within Constantinople. Before the Emperor could arrive, his stepson John Doukaé ordered the remaining guardsmen to arrest the Empress and proclaim his brother Michael, Emperor. The Guard who had to obey the orders of Imperial blood did so and deposed the absent leader and crowned Michael, declaring him "Michael VII, his holiness." And then got really drunk.
In another bout of violence the Guard also rebelled against another great big jackass Emperor called "Nikephoros." Nikephoros, being a filthy cookie like he was blinded one of the Varyags favourite Generals: Nikephoros Bryennios who had revolted against the throne. They fought with great passion and in a fit of rage but were suppressed by large amounts of local troops. After being defeated by the locals, the Varangian guard asked for a pardon, which they were graciously granted by the same guy they just tried to behead. They were from that point on referred to as noble savages and continued to serve as personal guardsmen.
A number of historical sources testify for the existence of the Varangian Guard. In fact, several runestones in Sweden have Byzantine crosses carved onto them in memory of those who left for the Guard and never came back. Several inscriptions and preserved historical records even conserve the names of future Guardsmen who left for Constantinople, or men who served with them and died in battle. Men such as Ásbjôrn, who left for Constantinople in 1010 and died in battle against the Turks. Or men such as Ásgautr who returned, but went back to live his life with the Guard. Haraldr broður Ingvarrs (Haraldr brother of Ingvarrs), died in battle in Serkland. And his brother Ingvarr, who "died in the East." Or the most famous of them all: Haraldr harðráði, who fought with the Varangian Guard from 1032-1042 and later on became the King of Norway.
The Varangian Guard disbanded when the Byzantine Empire finally fell, but most of its member base scattered into Europe, or remained in the service of local states.
In modern media the Varangian Guard is featured extensively in both Middle-Eastern and Scandinavian music. Particularly, of the Viking metal variety. The Finnish Viking metal band Turisas recently released an album called "The Varangian Way" in which a song titled "A Portage to the Unknown" tells the story of the previously mentioned Ingvarr and his ship crew.
[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpIIAffYstQ&NR=1
We've sailed across the sea
Rowed for miles and miles upstream
Passed by Aldeigjuborg
Seen Lake Ilmen gleam
Ingvarr took the lead
After Holmgard as agreed
What the end of Lovat meant
Was soon to be seen
Another song titled "Stand up and Fight" is a direct tribute to the Varangian Guard. Note the presence of the Byzantine palace in the album art.
[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmLXC-87TUE&feature=related
The pouring rain sticks my hair to my face.
An empty gaze is all I have left
The stars that once lead my way
Have dimmed
The sky turned grey.
The path once so clear
faded away.
Blessed are the days
when life is intent and clear
No falter or doubt
I know the way
They are the days I hoped
I'd have never stepped from this road
The spark I once had seems to have died
STAND UP AND FIGHT
Stand up and look into the light
pushing the clouds away
Stand up and fight
Stand up and see the sky turn bright
Fight for a better day.
What a relief
It would be to end this all
How easy to fly the white flag
And deliver
But should I run today just to die another day
Give up now and every fight has been in vain
Chorus
Get up! You've made it this far!
No loser you are!
One more time!
One more try!
Charge their lines!
The pouring rain sticks my hair to my face
Chorus
Another viking metal band Amon Amarth has paid tribute to the Varangian Guard in a multitude of albums. One of their most popular beats, titled "Varyags of Miklagaard" features quotes from Varangian and Byzantine scriptures.
[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hq-ZD6LcPww
Miklagaard has been our home
For twenty years or more
We've lent our axes, spears and swords
In service of the emperor
We are loyal warriors
That's the oath we gave
To protect the emperor
Even to a violent grave
Our loyalty was always firm
We kept our given word
On these southern battlefields
Our northern war cries roared
Battles have been fought
Many gave their lives
But all who died by axe and sword
Were called to hall up high
The Varangian Guard lives on amongst dozens of other elite guard units around the world. Mostly in music and art, or literature, but recent efforts of multiple re-enacting organisations around the world have proven fruitful and multiple little "Varangian Guards" are located around the earth. One in Brazil, one in Istanbul (Constantinople), several in the United States, several more in Russia, one in Australia and Sweden.
As a note and a quick edit, if any of you ever get the chance to go to Istanbul, go. It's a beautiful place where two worlds meet, East and West combined into a great city. First man to go to Hagia Sophia and find inscriptions by the Varangian Guard wins. Look for "Hjalmarr was here 1066!" and "Bjorn likes men, haha."
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Here's an excerpt titled "Replacements."
At this point in the book most of the "characters" have already been introduced and reserve refresher training is already over. His company is being moved to the front to resupply and relieve troops.
"Replacements."
At the Kollaa front. 6th of December, 1939.
The battle of Kollaa would be my first taste of 'true' battle so to speak. Kollaa is a small stretch of road network on Finland's eastern border, where the Soviet army threw itself against our lines in an effort to secure further access to proper networks upon which troops and goods could be transported. It was a struggle for supply lines and ease of transport, but what makes Kollaa so critical is the fact it's sort of like a bolt lock on a door. If they break the lock, they will break into the house. Some of the men I recall saying things like: "If we break here, the war is lost." At the time, it certainly seemed like it. Nobody really talked about it, but we all knew that we were on our last legs ever since the beginning of December. I guess a more correct expression would be to say that we were on our last legs ever since the war began. All it would take to defeat us was a proverbial swift kick to the groin and a punch to the throat. All we were trying to do was cockblock the Soviet military from punching too hard, akin to a lightweight fighting a heavyweight champion in a combat sport. We were holding our arms in front of our faces and waiting for them to tire out from overpunching. The papers were all full of news about resounding victories but you thought to yourself: How long will this last? We were low on fighting men and ammunition as it stood. Our morale overall wasn't too great, but some of the guys were chuffed about actually facing the enemy and having the chance to fight. There was a general feel of excitement in the air.
The train car I was in was originally meant to transport cattle, it was filled with hay and other things you'd expect to find in a cattle car. During our period of transport we'd lie down on the hay and fall asleep as the train car rocked back and forth on the tracks. Some of us occupied ourselves with reading a book, or just silent conversation with the man sitting next to you. It could be about anything, but the favourite topics were definitely food and family. We never talked about the ongoing war. The train doors weren't locked, we could open them when we liked but for the sake of safety we avoided doing so. It wasn't light out, so we used small oil lamps hooked to the walls to give ourselves some form of a light source. Of course this meant that if we opened a door or a window, we would possibly reveal ourselves as apt targets for enemy aircraft. So we didn't, but sat there in the darkness not knowing what time of day it was.
After several more hours, the train screeched to a halt. The hiss of steam venting out of the locomotive and the repeated clank of metal parts suddenly stopped. Then we heard somebody reach to the door on the side of the car and sure enough, it opened. The sudden flood of bright daylight hurt my eyes and I squinted to see what was outside. The man who had opened the door peeked in. His cheeks were red and he had minor signs of frostbite on his nose, which he was rubbing compulsively with a mitted hand. His lapels revealed him to be a Lieutenant. He motioned to us with an arm, "Welcome to our frozen winter wonderland, home of the great 4th Army Group! Dismount." Slowly but surely all 30 of us stumbled off the train car with our equipment, in various states of awareness after a good nights sleep.
As we stepped off the train and into a white winter wonderland, one would've thought it was not war at all. It was a sight for sore eyes after about 7 hours straight of train and road march. The station we arrived at was rather small: A wooden house built beside the tracks served as a station house, but it had been commandeered by field engineers and our headquarters to serve as a long term command point. Outside the station house, groups of civilian and soldier alike milled about minding their own business. Dispersed companies of men wandered, doing what one might think anyone in their situation would do. Some were cleaning their equipment and maintaining their field dress, others were just out to get a bite of something before being moved on to vehicle transport or another long march. This would be their last bit of free time for a long while, so they were making the best out of it.
Me and Hänninen paired up and created a short term battle plan. One, we'd find food. Two, we'd try and find the nearest female company within a 100 kilometer radius. And three, we'd be back before the company was to be ordered into inspection at 11 AM. Most of it was yet to arrive, so we had good time on our hands. The time was now 9 AM. As me and Hänninen conversed, Järvi walked up from our rear. "Whereabouts are you guys headed to?" He asked from beneath his thick fur hat and scarf. Now, Järvi's not a bad guy, but he has a tendency of being an unnecessary annoyance and troublemaker, especially on a full stomach or when under the influence of alcohol. Like all of us, Järvi was not wearing any equipment but was in civilian clothing. The only thing identifying him as a Finn and a soldier was his white and blue cocard which he had pinned to his hat, in addition to the great big service rifle slung around his back.
"We're going to get something to eat."
- "I'm coming with you, I love food. Besides, food means water. And I need water, warm water, snow just won't do."
We looked at him curiously. "You thirsty or what?"
Järvi shook his head and lifted his right boot, displaying a monstrously beautiful crock of frozen excrement smeared across the front of the boot. "I caught this beauty when we boarded the train. I've been trying to get it off with hay and snow, but it just won't come off. Most of it's gone, but it's stuck between the cracks and it froze over again when we got out. It doesn't really matter, but I'm not a friend of poop except on the morning constitutional."
And at that moment time stopped. Our conversation was interrupted by an extremely low rumble and we felt the ground shake. Snow from the pine trees around us fell in a fine powder and a group of people directly to our left turned to face towards the East. The continuous cacophony of noise grew weaker and stronger in waves like a badly tuned orchestra accompanied by a deep howl. It felt like somebody had just grabbed my spine and squeezed it, my shoulders had locked up and my feet wanted to move but I couldn't. I was stuck watching, or rather listening to this unrelenting barrage of sound. Then with a loud series of pops and thuds, the world came screeching back to me. Literally. Overhead, artillery grenades from a nearby supporting gun detachment howled towards the front to support a defensive effort being upheld just miles away from our current position. As soon as it had begun, what I assume to be our counter-battery fire was over. They did not have enough grenades to sustain continuos fire and by the time it was all done, the rumble from the East continued undeterred and did not stop for a good several minutes.
We were just left there, standing in silence at the display of power we were just witnesses to. Soviet artillery had just, by the sounds of it landed a barrage on target that lasted for several minutes. How do we know it was on target? Our artillery replied. Even after our shells landed, they kept on firing and finished their attack on schedule. When the silence settled down, Hänninen was the first to say something.
"We're probably going to get some of that."
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Why are the ISA such an incompetent, nincompoop occupying force. THIS SERIES COULD'VE BEEN OVER IN #2. :(
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Let me introduce myself. I am the president and founder of the Anti Sir Snowmew The Great, Jr. Association. In the text that follows, I will explain why stopping Sir Snowmew The Great, Jr. is fundamental to the survival of our society. Let me begin by citing a range of examples from the public sphere. For starters, Sir Great has overplayed his hand so grossly that people are starting to realize that anyone who was sober for more than an hour or two during the last five years knows that I am shocked and thoroughly appalled that he could voice the classes of gross lies and historical misrepresentations that he so often does. That's pretty transparent. What's not so transparent is the answer to the following question: What provoked him to foment, precipitate, and finance large-scale wars to emasculate and bankrupt nations and thereby force them into a one-world government? A clue might be that he maintains that annoying, stroppy showboaters are more deserving of honor than our nation's war heroes. That's not just a lie but is actually the exact opposite of the truth—and Sir Great knows it. Why is Sir Great deliberately turning the truth on its head like that? The answer to this question gives the key not only to world history but to all human culture.
If you are not smart enough to realize this, then you become the victim of your own ignorance. Sir Great has it all wrong; he sometimes uses the word "piezocrystallization" when describing his dissertations. Beware! This is a buzzword designed for emotional response. We must lead us all toward a better, brighter future. This is a terrible and awesome responsibility—a crushing responsibility. However, if we stick together we can can show the world that I can really suggest how Sir Great ought to behave. Ultimately, however, the burden of acting with moral rectitude lies with Sir Great himself.
The acid test for Sir Great's "kinder, gentler" new memoirs should be, "Do they still create division in the name of diversity?" If the answer is yes then we can conclude that Sir Great insists that his drug-induced ravings enhance performance standards, productivity, and competitiveness. That lie is a transparent and strained effort to keep us from noticing that if he opened his eyes, he'd realize that he enjoys the sense of control that comes from forcing someone else to do things the way he wants them done. Sir Great has been going around claiming that the bogeyman is going to get us if we don't agree to his demands. When challenged about the veracity of that message, Sir Great attributed its contradictions of the truth to "poetic license". That means "lying". Plainly stated, he speaks like a true defender of the status quo—a status quo, we should not forget, that enables him to rifle, pillage, plunder, and loot. Let me conclude by expressing the hope that by reading this letter you have learned the life lesson, "Always face our problems realistically, get to the root of our problems, and be determined to solve them."
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After many years, my grandfather's finally opening up about his full experiences during the Winter and Continuation Wars. In his book "Dead Youth" he'll be writing about several things, mainly the psychological effect of war on him and his friends. But the physical effects and his experiences as well. About foreign volunteers, about mass mobilization for war and what it was like for him. About what it felt like and how he felt after he got out. About his scars, physical and mental. And most of all: Seeing his friends die again, every single night for the rest of his life. His consistent and repeating nightmares where he tries to save them, but is always too late. It's not a book about regret, or a book about hate. It's not anti-war, nor pro-war. It's just war in its purest, most brutal form. It's about how it corrupts you and destroys your soul, crushing every bit of human emotion that might exist within ones heart.
War changes people, this is his way of saying how he changed. And what made him change. From day 1 all the way until he was critically wounded and how he lived after the war. It's a book about how he hates himself for taking so much life, but yet enabling himself to go on and bear the weight of the sons he took away from their families. Or the children who'd never see their fathers again. But every cloud has a silver lining.
This book doesn't just recount his personal experiences, but it also has a very important message about all the destruction and death. The fact that we all bleed the same. He makes no differentiation between communist, socialist, capitalist or the Soviets and Finns. To him they're all men fighting for their lives, sent to the front to die for worthless ideologies.
It's literally just war, with nothing uncensored and nothing omitted. How he tried to comfort his dying friend and how he remembers those who have been left behind. And those who disappeared into the fires of war never to be seen again by human eyes. And the fantastic officers and NCOs who helped him during the war with their exemplary leadership, even after it. He made a lot of friends. But lost even more.
He has, graciously given me permission to translate and post some excerpts from the book on the Ordo forums. I'll be updating this thread regularly with snippets of the text as he writes it and sends it to me. Hopefully, it'll be a learning experience for all of us.
#1.
[* Signifies a translator note.]
Introduction. Page 1.Dead Youth is a strictly apolitical book. I support no political ideology, or any side. All I want to write about is war. This book is a way for me to let out all the pain inside that lasts forever. It'll never fade away and will be with me until the day I die. War leaves wounds, physical and mental wounds. Wounds that are bandaged but never heal. You can change that bandage and clean the wound out, but it'll eventually be infected again. It'll haunt you in your worst nightmares and in your best dreams. The pain will never let you rest. But with these lines of text I hope to confess my wrongdoings and try and make things right for myself again. But I know the people I killed can never forgive me, nor can their families. Eventually, this book will probably be translated into multiple languages. Maybe even Russian. If that's the case, perhaps we can all live in the mutual understanding that we were all soldiers. I know that for those families that lost sons and daughters to the war will never forgive any of us, nor will they forgive themselves. Saying sorry doesn't make it any better. But perhaps we can take comfort in the fact that even if we once fought and hurt eachother in terrible ways, we can all live in peace and never go to war again. And for those who still rest on our soil in eternal sleep, worry not, for you are now our sons as well.
This book is a dedication to the following people:
My family, past and current.
Those I lost.
Private Hänninen
Private Järvi
Private Adolfson
Private Aleksandrov
Private Veikko
Private Henttonen
Private Röpelöinen
Private Paasonen
Private Kaivola
Corporal Kaikunen
Sergeant Vilho
Sergeant Haikarainen
Second Lieutenant Luostarinen
Captain Korhonen
And those who are still here today. I thank you for supporting me. I hope you enjoy the read.
More to come as I receive it.
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[23:08] Hollowmengitus Yifu: Hey Ron
[23:08] Hollowmengitus Yifu: Got dick pics?
[23:09] Ron Bleac: No, no I don't.
[23:09] Hollowmengitus Yifu: rofl
[23:09] Ron Bleac: Also, I am going to quote that on the forums.
[23:09] Ron Bleac: Out of context, of course.
[23:09] Hollowmengitus Yifu: WOW FUCK
[23:09] Ron Bleac: ROFL
[23:09] Ron Bleac: HERE GOES
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I'm sorry about your friend, Mark. My condolences.
I think we can all agree: Fuck floods. I hope the damages will be minimal and swiftly repaired.
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Since probably most of us here have heard of Major Dick Winters through the TV-series "Band of Brothers," by HBO, I'd like to point out that he wasn't just a hero on the telly.
Here's his list of decorations.
Distinguished Service CrossBronze Star (2)
Purple Heart
Presidential Unit Citation
American Defense Service Medal
National Defense Service Medal
European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal
World War II Victory Medal
Army of Occupation Medal
Croix de guerre
French Liberation Medal
Oorlogskruis
Belgian WWII Service Medal
Good Conduct Medal
Combat Infantryman Badge
Parachutist Badge
Fun fact about his Distinguished Service Cross. It's the second most valorous reward in the military history of the United States, right after the Medal of Honor. Dick Winters was originally recommended for the Medal of Honor for his conduction of a critical assault on three, 105MM German artillery pieces at Normandy. This is known as the Brecourt Manor Assault. Still studied by West Point students today. The only reason he *didn't* receive it was due to branch quotas. Lieutenant Colonel Cole had already received one for his legendary bayonet charge, now known as "Cole's Charge."
The Brecourt Manor assault, as portrayed in Band of Brothers.
[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Irqh310Ya4E
[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWGrDAn9Fwc&feature=related
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Wonder what parachuting is like in heaven.
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R O F L
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Gen Scientist.
Commence celebratory hipthrust. [hipthrust]
[/hipthrust]
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A comment on a Call of Duty YouTube video:
Ramirez: Writes: Dear diary, today i ran to the north pole and back with a stinger on my back, destroyed a chopper with a hamburger, gave Sgt. Foley a cookie, killed Chuck Norris and 50, 561 terrorists, smashed a roach, picked up soap, saw a ghost, found Waldo, *starts to scribble angrily* gave Dunn a blowjob, fucked Shepard, and won the war with one mag while Sgt. Foley and Dunn Masturbated in the corner.
This comment received 214 thumbs ups.
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Originally in a notecard sent out by group notice, raw version here.
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Soldiers, sailors and airmen of the Ordo Imperialis.
For the past few weeks our sim has been repeatedly ravaged by early morning attacks by a group known as the Erebus Initiative. I want to personally thank those who have participated in those late night defenses. I also want to make it very clear that we have suffered in these twilight hours. Whilst the legitimacy of these attacks can be questioned, as we are but a picket force during that time of day, we have failed to defend the sacred ground of our virtual home. Our objectives have been taken by the enemy on some occasions. In addition to which, our forces, despite tenacious and near fanatical resistance, have been beaten back or pinned.
One thing is clear: Erebus is a legitimate fighting force with military prowess rarely seen on the grid. They are a proper military with a strong yet small member base. We must not underestimate their abilities, nor should we fall into a false sense of security by allowing ourselves to believe that we are invulnerable.
The truth is we very much are not. We can be hit by bullet and torn by shrapnel and we will bleed the same as any man. And when we bleed enough, we die. What makes us strong is a quality every man is born with: The will to go on, even after being kicked in the teeth. We will rise up and reach for the jugular.
During the past few days I have heard a number of complaints. That the enemy would be cheating, "Fuck Erebus," or a variety of other issues. These issues do exist, if they didn't, we wouldn't perceive them and report them to our superiors. But we can not let ourselves slow down due to this. We can not afford to let our guard down and we most certainly can't afford to make excuses at a time like this. We can not exaggerate reality.
For every inch of Titan that Erebus troops take, we will make them pay dearly! We will make them realize that no matter how early in the morning they attack us, or how harsh or strong their force, we will make resistance until we are destroyed. As long as there is one Ordo Imperialis soldier alive on our home soil, we will make resistance until that man is dead. I have heard suggestions about creating rulesets to prevent them from attacking an undermanned force, some of us have given this brief consideration.
However, I want to underline.
We will never change our rules.
We will not take anyone's bullshit.
We will not let them spit on our face and then cower behind a textbook.
Erebus can not take us head on. They are a formidable enemy during the twilight hours, but not unlike the Taliban when the sun rises. We will hold out in our fort, 12 versus 3 until reinforcements arrive in the morning. And if we run out of ammunition, we will use bayonets. If our bayonets get stuck in their stomach, we will kick them. We will bite them. We will claw with tooth and nail like a Norwegian berserker hyped up on some sort of mushrooms.
We want to maintain our image as a 24/7, year round combat force. We can not let a group shame us, or make us kneel to them due to a simple thing such as timezones. We must maintain a strong image of estate administration at all times, around the clock. But most of all, a strong image of a massive empire with brave, skilled and fanatical troops. We must be harsh, but we must be fair in our judgement and most of all, we must only use our immense power for good. We must strive to maintain positive relations with this group, through thick and thin. We must be responsible, for we are larger and have maintained a powerful and influential presence in this community for much longer than any other group out there. We are here to assist the community; not hinder it.
You all know me, so I will spare you further speech. During late night defenses the situation is essentially "This is it." If it's our time to die on the battlefield, it's our time. This is the mindset I want you to assume, a grim determination to fight or die in your position. All I ask is; If we have to give these bastards our lives: We give them hell before we do! We will hold our positions and die in them, there will be no retreat. There will be no excuses, there will be no complaints. We will throw ourselves into the pit and emerge stronger than before.
Each time Erebus attacks, we WILL counter-attack regardless of manstrenght. Even if it means the defense can only spare three men with light weapons, we WILL attack. We WILL resist, we WILL fight, and we will defend our homes on Titan or abroad, again and again regardless of their manpower, firepower or willpower!
You are all excellent soldiers in this virtual reality and it's time for you to show the enemy what you are capable of. Summon up some hate, disgust and disdain, but kill your enemy all the same! We are here to fight and we will supply them with plenty. After all, that's what we're here for.
We are a fighting machine composed of man, blood and bone. Whilst the extension of our bodies might be virtual, without touch or real breath, our intentions will still be relayed. Currently, Erebus has shown their intentions clearly. They view us as a hated enemy in combat, whilst keeping casual relations and diplomacy on another level. Whilst this sort of approach has its advantages, it's easy to make a misconception on both sides. However, with their constant early morning attacks, one can only wonder.
So we will make ourselves clear, once and for all.
The Imperator has ordered to take the fight to them. Take it to their own turf and fight there. Even if we at that time of the day may be a mere skirmishing force, we will deny them sleep if they choose to do so to us. We will deny them influence and we will not let them affect our day to day operations. We will deny them the ability to affect our morale and we will show them that we are stronger than they are, that we will continue to strive regardless of their attempts. We will show them that we may be outgunned, we may be outnumbered, but we will NEVER be outclassed. An Ordo Imperialis soldier will march to his death with chin held high if need be and we will portray that image.
I declare Operation Balaklava, a weekend long smackfest of grand proportions open for business. Starting this Saturday, we will summon up all available strenght and attack them where it hurts. Two hours per each day of constant bombardment from everything available, be it infantry, armor or aircraft. Operation Balaklava is currently scheduled to last only that one weekend, but if Erebus wants more, we will be glad to help them. I look forward to fighting them, you should too. Because fighting is what soldiers do, and you're here to portray one. So you better make good and join the fight.
And we will all have fun.
Fight the good fight!
Evocati Bleac.
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George Mayow
"We advanced down a gradual descent of more than three-quarters of a mile, with the batteries vomiting forth upon us shells and shot, round and grape, with one battery on our right flank and another on the left, and all the intermediate ground covered with the Russian riflemen; so that when we came to within a distance of fifty yards from the mouths of the artillery which had been hurling destruction upon us, we were, in fact, surrounded and encircled by a blaze of fire, in addition to the fire of the riflemen upon our flanks."
George Mayow is a hardcore asskicker from the Crimean War. He's a pretty decent warrior for a man of his age and has some experience under his belt for fighting in the short days previous to the engagement in which his name was lifted amongst the legends of hardcore asskickery. He's pretty much responsible for kicking the Imperial Russian army in their Faberge eggs at the battle of Balaclava, now popularized by the song "The Trooper" performed by English metal band Iron Maiden. On the morning of the 25th of October, 1854, George Mayow and his comrades would be faced with an insurmountable obstacle: Three Russian artillery batteries surrounding them from three sides, supported by 2000 Russian infantry, Cossacks and Cavalry. How many were George and his friends? 657. How long is the valley? Oh, let's say.. nearly 2 miles.
After a Turkish artillery battery on the Allied right flank had caved in due to pressure from Russian ass-stabbing infantry, George Mayow and his brigade was ordered to re-take the guns. Mind you, since the guns weren't spiked before the Turks routed, they had now been turned around to face the English cavalry (George and his boys.) From point 1, George pretty much recognized that this was the end. He wouldn't make it out of this battle, much less would his brigade. It was essentially suicide.
Above, a battle map displaying English and French positions against Russian troops. The English cavalry was in the valley, surrounded on all sides by super-pissed Russians.
This is jacked up, totally jacked up, thought George. But what did he do? He obeyed the order to form up the brigade in the center and prepare to attack. Without questioning his orders, George and his superior launched into the charge against Russian positions. And they got fucked up pretty bad. With ball of cannon and musket shot everywhere, the Light brigade ran up the Valley like the Knight Rider and Kit into a group of Mexican drug smugglers. "Charge the guns! Charge the guns! Stay in formation!" He screamed, leading the charge from the point of attack (the second man of the formation) and effectively holding the Brigade together. They took immense casualties. Cannon fire whipped through their ranks, splattering English dead and horse against the dry, rocky earth. But they were pretty much so jacked the fuck up on adrenaline, they kept going. The charge didn't break, nor did it falter. Through thick and thin, George lead his men right into the mouth of hell.
And survived to tell the tale.
George's cavalry smashed into the Russian guns at the end of the valley and utterly destroyed their position. The Russian gunners, having just witnessed how this group of British hardasses smashed through everything in their way to spike just a few guns, turned and ran. Only to be cut down by English cavalry who *kept going* despite already destroying the guns. On the way through the battery, George rallied the surviving men by whipping his sabre in the air and screaming like a football Hooligan at a European stadium. He whooped, he screamed, he bucked his horse and rallied 27 men who were within earshot. The rest were either dead, or still fighting elsewhere along the line. From his flank a group of 300 Russian cossacks was approaching at full gallop, with the intent of driving the British back to their starting positions: Or entirely whiping them out. This didn't really fly too well with George, who promptly ordered his short of 30 group of agro'd as fuck cavalry to meet the Russian charge. The Russians, impressed by the Englishmen's ability to fight after taking such horrendous casualties, hurried the attack and lowered their lance and sabre towards the English in a threatening gesture. Here it is, a group of 30 men against 10 to 1 odds charging into the pit. Again, and again. After a short few minutes of screaming like a madman, George and his fellows crashed into the Cossacks and routed them again.
It was time to retreat, there was nothing more that could be done. They had completed their objectives and it was time to pull back. But instead of turning and running, George ordered his men to gallop in a three ranked line BACKT THROUGH the valley STILL OCCUPIED by Russian artillery. There is a saying about going in through Satan's mouth and slipping out of his ass, but George decided to ram right back through the defense line to get back to his original position. On the way, he was confronted by roughly 500 Russian cossacks who were cutting from behind in an attempt to intercept the English withdrawal. Well that shit didn't fly either, George smashed right through them at full gallop.
Whilst George was crashing through the Russian defenses AGAIN, this time in reverse, French infantry on his flank supported his retreat. Charging into the previously occupied Turkish positions, French infantry bayoneted and shot Russian gun crews on the hill and drove them back despite facing immense resistance from forces that had dug themselves tooth and nail into the bedrock. Whilst taking immense casualties, French infantry and cavalry demonstrated great valor and determination in the face of a numerically superior foe. They bought valuable time for the English by preventing the guns on the flank from firing and then slowly performed a fighting withdrawal back to their original positions, after inflicting terrible casualties in both wounded and dead on the Russian force, and unspeakable material destruction.
So basically, this one dude, super pumped the hell up, rammed the shit out of the Russian army with 657 men against roughly 2000 and survived. For his efforts and the efforts of his men, a new award for British military valor was created. It was called the Victoria cross, originally melted and created out of Bronze from destroyed Russian cannon.
"The English fought with astounding bravery, and when we approached their dismounted and wounded men, even these refused to surrender and continued to fight till the ground was soaked with their blood."- Lieutenant Koribut Kubitovich, Imperial Russian Army
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Since we do musket battles:
What is musket warfare?
Napoleonic warfare is a time period between the years 1803 - 1815, named after famed French commander and Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte. Napoleon and his military pioneered the advance of warfare across the entire world by forcing the rest of the globe to catch up with their immense military prowess. Whilst firearms had been around for a couple of hundred years by this point, their use in battle was limited by practical problems such as acquisition of ammunition and firearm grade powder. This is where the modern media association of muskets and formations come from, even though such combat had already existed for several hundred years. Large, pike and musket armed forces appeared towards the later years of the 1700's, however, firearms on battalion or company grade had been implemented much earlier. The Napoleonic period of warfare is best known for its use of massed infantry and artillery strategy on an empire-scale, with many nations harnessing their entire infrastructure and industry into the production of weapons. Stamped steel wasn't around, and weapons were mostly manufactured by hand. There was no such thing as conveyor production or stamped steel, so immense effort went into making a properly functioning firearm. But why did the Napoleonic period, and the pike and musket period before that utilize massed infantry tactics and artillery?
How is an early firearm operated?
The process is relatively simple compared to manufacture of modern day firearms, but with the tools and tricks around at that time it was a labor intense job. Depending on the type of firearm (in this case, a "smooth bore musket" independent of type and model name) they were produced out of anything available to a country's industry, or that lone weapons hovel in the woods away from authorities. First of all, there are several types of firing actions for muskets: A matchlock system, wheellock fired, or loose powder fired muskets. Later on towards the beginning of the Napoleonic era, systems such as the snapchance, flintlock and percussion action began to appear. All of them are relatively simple.
The matchlock gun:
A matchlock system is operated by something that is called a serpentine. A serpentine is a small curved piece of metal (generally, iron) that holds a lit match. A match could be anything from a lit piece of wood to a slow burning strand of rope. On the pull of a trigger, the match would be lowered into something called a 'flash pan' that held a small amount of powder that would ignite the main charge inside the chamber. The matchlock system did not rely on a spring, but gravity. This compressed charge of powder would then explode and hurl the actual projectile out of the barrel and into the enemy. The matchlock system came along relatively early in the development of firearms, and thus, the accuracy of the weapon wasn't the greatest. A trained marksman could expect to hit his target at a distance of 60 yards, no less. To give you an idea as to why use of such an early firearm was unreliable, most bullets at the time were carved and polished out of solid stone, or created out of anything that could withstand the shock of the igniting charge. On impact, these bullets could penetrate chainmail and even plated armor. Their lethality did not come from penetration, but eventual onset of shock and infection as the bullet shattered into the flesh. The matchlock system is extremely unreliable, as in combat, a musketeer would have to ignite the flame on his match shortly before the fire order. He could not maintain the musket in a charged position for example, whilst on march between targets. This is pretty fucking ancient.
The wheellock gun:
Similarly to its younger brother, the matchlock, the wheellock gun uses spark as a source of ignition. The steel end of the wheellock's serpentine would strike against a pyrite stone held above the flashchamber of the weapon, creating intense sparks and thus ignition of the charge. The wheellock is the first self-igniting firearm. What makes the wheellock different from the matchlock (in mechanical aspect) is that it's based on a rotating system with a spring, rather than being gravity powered as the matchlock. This way, a musketeer or musketman (depending on the country of origin) could maintain a charged musket until given the order to fire. This system is still famously unreliable, as it did not contain a safety cache. Once charged, the only way to release the wheellock was to pull the trigger, or clear the powder and charge before discharging the spring. Poor accuracy, as before. The wheellock was developed around the year 1530.
Loose powder:
The simplest of them all:
Loose powder lowered into the flashchamber with a compacted charge in the chamber, with a manual ignition source. Thus, a soldier operating a loose powder firearm would have to keep one eye on his right hand, lower it into the chamber along with an ignition source, and hope that he hits his target. The disadvantages of the system should be obvious. The loose powdered musket was the first firearm utilized in the world, around the year 1480.
I'm skipping the snapchance because I'm a bum.
The flintlock gun:
Now we're fucking talking.
The flintlock gun works akin to a wheellock in the manner that the system is essentially identical with a few mechanical aspects changed for practicality. For one, the 'serpentine' no longer existed but was replaced by a pair of minute iron graspers that could be tightened around a piece of flint. Thus, the word flintlock. The flint would strike a piece of steel held above the flashchamber of the weapon, and ignite the main charge and hurl the bullet out of the barrel. Bullets, by this time had developed into iconical round balls. Thus, musketballs. Loose powder was still the primary operating system of every firearm, but sophistication, development and training had brought the firearm into a new age. An age of accuracy.. for about.. 100 yards. The flintlock gun would be in use for most of the Napoleonic era, until replaced by the inexpensive and less complicated percussion cap system.
What does any of this bullshit have to do with massed infantry tactics?
Well, my wee lad. A musket, being an inaccurate piece of shit, had to be fired en masse to ensure that anything was hit. Thus, you'd expect to see line formations of about 180 to 600 people marching on the battlefield in a three ranked or two ranked formation (depending on the amount of firepower and maneuverability desired) towards the enemy, gradually closing the range and then presenting their muskets for fire. Keep in mind, a three ranked or four ranked formation could only present fire with the first and second ranks of the formation. Thus, the amount of firepower is still extremely limited but the destruction is still absolutely terrifying.
When marching in formation and fighting in it, one must keep in mind the following: Control of fire is an absolute requirement for a succesful offensive or defensive action with muskets. Why? Consider the following scenario: Musketeer Bob is given 12 rounds and 12 charges of powder for his weapon. Musketeer Bob is marching in a group of 600 other musketeers, who are then organised into a fighting formation in battle, by companies. Musketeer Bob can load, charge and fire his musket twice or three times in the span of 60 seconds, depending on the pace of battle. Thus, Musketeer Bob can expend his entire reserve of ammunition and powder in less than 6 minutes if desired. Multiply that by 600, and your entire reserve of ammunition is essentially fucked. Musketeer Bob and his entire company are annihilated by artillery, bayonet and cavalry sabres as they can do fuck all to protect themselves.
Drilling:
Drilling is synonymous with the word training, however, Drilling specifically is the repeated exercise of an infantry unit to perform by reflex in battle. We will be examining the firing, maneuver and operation principles of a standard infantry unit in the year 1803.
COMPANY! Fall in three ranks! - Upon this order, an infantry unit (in this case, a group of 180 armed men) will fall into three ranked line shoulder to shoulder. Each "rank" contains 60 men.
COMPANY! Shoulder arms! - Upon this order, the infantry company will shoulder arms.
COMPANY! Forward, march! - Upon this order, the infantry company will march forward at a standard marching pace (depending on nationality.)
COMPANY! Halt! - This should be obvious.
COMPANY! CHARGE! Arms! - The infantry company would fetch their ammunition and powder from their belt and start preparing their weaponry to present fire against the enemy.
COMPANY! First rank, present arms! - The first rank of the company would present arms and bring their weapons to firing positions (point their blaster towards the bad guys in anticipation of a royal smacking) in anticipation of the command 'Fire.'
COMPANY! First rank, kneel! - The first rank of the company kneels down, with weapons stowed on their thighs.
COMPANY! Second rank, present arms! - The second rank of the company would present arms. The firing command is then given.
RELOADING PROCEDURE:
Prime and load!
Handle cartridge!
Prime!
'Bout!
Draw ramrods!
Insert ramrods!
Withdraw ramrods!
Return ramrods!
Make ready!
Now count all of the steps and realize how immensely complicated this entire procedure was, simply to conserve and hold back the potential firepower of an infantry unit running amock, due to concerns about ammunition.
How do infantry units fight?
Infantry units would fight by placing themselves in a position where the entire formation could present fire against the enemy, who would presently be doing the same. The attacking side would aim to present more fire than the defending enemy, whilst the enemy would be attempting to minimize loss of life whilst maximizing whatever firepower was available. The attacking side would be more concerned about destroying the enemy, whilst the defender would be aiming at maintaining that position whilst inflicting hazing casualties on opposition. The defenders, would, possibly minimize their profile by either laying down, or kneeling the two front ranks to present a devastating volley to break up the attack.
Let us examine a presented scenario between a force of 800 Englishmen and a force of 300 French, after the year 1803. We will be concentrating on pure maths, rather than a strategic or tactical approach to the scenario.
The 300 French are entrenched (in hardened positions, i.e a stone wall) in a defensive position, whilst the Englishmen are marching across an open field in front of the hardened position. At the range of 130 yards, the French are ordered to fire at the force of Englishmen approaching in a three ranked line. The first shots ring out, and the front rank of the French expends their first round. The second rank fires by standing over the first one and too empties its muskets into the enemy. The English front line staggers and a number of men fall, but continues on. Groups of wounded are left wailing in the grass as their comrades carry on through a billowing haze of powder smoke. At the range of 100 yards, the French first rank fires again. More englishmen fall, and the force of 800 has already taken around 100 casualties in wounded and dead. At the range of 80 yards, the second rank of the French presents their fire again. In a single volley, the English take a staggering 40 casualties. Their first rank begins to falter, but is rallied by the Sergeants amidst the ranks. At this range, the French can already hear the English battlecries despite the pop and crack of musket and gun. The French commmandant orders his formation to fire at will. The third rank of the French formation concentrates on reloading, and passes loaded firearms to the front ranks for fire.
The English commandant gives an order to fill in the gaps in the line. Troops from the third rank flood into the gaps in the second and first ranks. By this time, with a distance of 60 yards to go, the English first rank presents what is called 'withering fire', which is accurate shots placed in the general direction of the French with the aim of reducing their volume of fire. The French counter-act this by upping their volume and releasing their final ammunition reserves into the line. The English force, reduced to around 600 men, are ordered to double quick march. A double quick march does not equal to running in warfare terms, but a light jog in formation. 50 yards, 40 yards, 30 yards. The pile of English dead behind the formation is ever increasing, but at 25 yards the English commandant orders a full halt.
"Front ranks! Present arms! Fire!"
A thunderous volley of gunfire rips appart the French front ranks. The force of 300 Frenchmen takes intense fire and suffers horrendous casualties (-120) from this point blank gunfire and begins to falter. However, the efforts of French NCOs are awarded and the formation stays in place. The English on the other hand don't have the time to reload, as gunfire from this range is absolutely lethal. With an order to fix bayonet, the English charge into the French line and rout them.
800 / 300 + X amount of time in march -> Target
Casualties determined by:
X amount of time in march -> Target + Hardened positions
800 - 300*2per 60 sec
Time in march determined by 120 BPM by 100 yards but restricted by formation. Time to distance 3 minutes per 50 yards.
A scene of late 17th century combat portrayed in Barry Lyndon, a film by Stanley Kubrick.
It's essentially a real life RPG with lots of blood and guts. When in a gunfight, a formations fate can be determined by simple maths. A rule of thumb is that an attacking force should at least have 3 to 1 odds when attempting to defeat a defender in a solid position. Another rule of thumb is that bayonet always defeats gunfire. Thus, a formation should always strive to get itself into bayonet combat to defeat the enemy, especially when numerically superior.
The reason infantry troops were confined to massed movement was the inability of the modern (at that time) military system to supply them with a steady flow of ammunition, the inability of the musket to provide accurate fire, and the inability of warfare itself to become more mobile. Until infantry fighting begins a shift from me-lee heavy to ranged combat, formations will remain a solid basis for land warfare. A shift from muskets will be seen later when the world begins producing combustion engines and other forms of propulsion drives. Before that, the world will see the invention of the rifled barrel along with bolt and lever charged weapons. After that will come breech loaded artillery, with shell and cartridge. A drastic upping in killing power and rate of fire will drive our existence towards the mechanised slaughter house of World War I and II.
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Who's your favourite military leader? Feel free to post in this thread.
Let me tell you a story about a righteous asskicker.
Fuck that noise.
- Gaius Marius, upon seeing two of his cohorts flee from a Germanian barbarian horde.
Gaius, goddamn, Marius. Probably the best asskicker and leader that the Roman military had ever seen. He put together countless reforms that enabled the Empire to withstand attack after attack, not just when he was in command, but where-ever Roman troops set foot. And he did it all by pretty much teabagging every opponent he ever faced with his two personal legions. That's right, this guy had a personal legion. Not just one, but two. Gaius Marius was born to a pretty well off Roman family in 157 BC at a pretty little town called Rome. He lived somewhere outside of it. During his childhood, Gaius did what pretty much every male child has done at some point: Play war. With sticks and shit. He was pretty good at it, too. From an early age, Marius had developed a nick for pretty much beating the shit out of anyone who got in his way and tried to screw with him. When he reached adulthood, he did what pretty much every Roman of his class did: Join the goddamn Roman military. Within the next 12 years, Marius went from a wee little Enlistedman to a goddamn junior officer, which was extraordinary for that time period. Nobody's really sure of what rank he really was, but he had a unique leadership method that pretty much none of the pansy ass skirt wearing Roman officers during that time had:
He ate with his men.
He fought with his men.
He slept in the same barracks as his men.
And he lead from the front.
And when I say from the front, I mean it literally. He was in the front ranks, where all the action was taking place. Fighting a life and death battle with countless of barbarian hordes whilst barking orders to his runners and aides. Essentially, this guy was like George S. Patton, in frighteningly similar ways. However, what made him so revolutionary is how he used his troops. They were men at his disposal, soldiers who had signed the papers and given their life away to God and Country. Or uh, Toga and daily games. He wasn't afraid of throwing his troops into the grinder, but he would make damn sure that he was with them when he did. And he was constantly drilling the hell out of his men.
"This gave Marius time to toughen the bodies of his men and improve their morale and – most important of all – to make them understand what sort of man he was himself. That fierce manner of his in command and his inflexibility in imposing punishments seemed to them, once they got the habit of discipline and obedience, not only right and proper but a positive advantage. His angry temper, rough voice and that forbidding expression with which they gradually grew familiar, seemed more terrible to the enemy than to themselves."
-Plutarch
Essentially, he took young men and molded them into fighting machine with a proper training regime, but also a pretty righteous attitude. He was tough as hell, but fair in judgement and a good man at heart. He wasn't afraid of socializing with his dudes, and above all, always made sure that they had whatever they needed. Footwear, protection, shelter, food, weapons, access to surgeons (this was a pretty holyshit kind of thing back in the day), and that their spirits were high. He'd often times take guard duty as a junior officer and let his enlistedmen sleep and get some rest for the coming day, he took responsibility for screw ups too. What made Marius such a kickass commander wasn't the fact that he was tough, it was his general attitude towards everything. He didn't give a rats ass about discipline on slow days or when at camp, but in battle he was a heartless, concentrated killing machine. He kept his troops in line.
Later on, he proved to be a pretty cool dude when it came to politics as well. He was elected Consul 7 times, a record breaker in the Roman empire. To give you an idea of what a Consul is, it's pretty much the equivalent to our Legates, directly under the emperor. Which is funny, considering his political campaign pretty much consisted of "look at my abs. Show me your abs. My abs are harder and flatter than yours, you are a pussy. See, this is the entry wound of a javelin. Do you have javelin entry wounds or other battle scars? I don't think you do." Marius's running mates eventually just gave up, but they did respect the man, immensely. Marius was pretty much universally recognized as a political and military juggernaut who was virtually unstoppable.
Then after being elected Consul for the 7th time, he promptly fell over and died because he was just that over the top.
Marius, after militarily humping the crap out of barbarian hordes attacking Rome and Italy.
World War II Online: Battleground Europe
in Gaming Discussion
Posted
I should probably write a guide to prevent things like that. Generally, when you're moving around in WWIIOL you want to run around in the bushlines. Just follow a more experienced player, they generally know where to go without getting killed. Gunplay in the game is sometimes greatly affected by lag, seeing infantry shooting at full sprint is rare, because shooting isn't actually possible when you're 'sprinting.' By the time you see them and they see you, they've come to a halt and have shouldered their rifle towards you. It's all latency, so you have to be sure to get the first shot off. You'll find the player controls in the brigade screen in the "options" menu, visible either on the top left or top right of the screen. Defense gets base raped, yes, but that's because you're joining a defense that's already been camped by either the Allies or the Axis. What you want to do if you're a new player is get in on some good attacks, which gives you the option to maneuver rather than sit still or die trying. If you want to go for a more realistic approach to the game, find a squad to play with. There's a couple of great ones willing to help newbies.
Also, I'm generally online on WWIIOL all day every day. Thank God for dual monitors. Message me in-game sometime! Finsol20's the nickname, you'll find me on the Axis HC list. Use /hc in the chat bar to see if I'm around.