1895-1920: America's rise to Empire

America in the Age of Imperialism (1895-1920)

In 1895, The Spanish colonial empire is in a state of total decay. Cuba is in revolt. The city of Nuesvistas in the Philippines harbors revolutionaries, who plot to liberate the islands from Spanish rule. The Spanish fleet stationed at Guam is obsolete.

The President of the United States, William McKinley, sees an opportunity to increase American standing in World affairs, and orders The Army, The Navy, and The Marine Corps to come up with a plan to take Spain’s empire, and begin a rise to Imperialism.

It is decided that the Army would be the leading force in the Atlantic campaign (Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Canary Islands, and Sidi Ifni,) while the Marine Corps would provide most of the ground forces in the Pacific.

In 1895, America is on the rise. The scars of the Civil War are fading, the west has been tamed, and the industry is building. With the last frontiers gone, Americans begin to look outwards. Expansionism comes into play. America has had its taste of empire. Its people have decided that they want more.

Corporal Collin Sullivan, U.S. Marine Corps, 1st Battalion, Pacific Force

Sullivan had never been to San Francisco before. Raised in Boston, the son of an Irish immigrant and the daughter of a wealthy banker, the west coast had always been some far away place to him, a part of the ‘wild west,’ a place where anyone could make a fortune. The streets were narrow, in some places they were covered in horse manure from the civilian trolleys. The Battalion was marching on both sides of the sidewalk, two abreast, many of them looking around like Sullivan was. He smiled slightly, thought, The folks at home would love to hear about this.

Sullivan was about 20. He stood at 5’9, and was stocky, tough. He resembled his Irish father, red hair, brown eyes, an angular face. Like the other Marines marching to the docks, he was dressed in a khaki uniform, cotton. He wore a cap similar to those worn by navy officers, also khaki, and this one bearing no insignia, Navy, or Marine. A pack hung off of his shoulders, as did his Krag-Jorgenson rifle. He had copied Sergeant Pope, had slung an extra bandoleer across his muscular chest, thinking the extra ammo would be needed.

He had worked hard in a factory most of his early life, but his mother had seen to it that he had gotten an education. However, he had skipped out on college; the other guys, the sons of his father’s friends, weren’t going, so neither would he. His father had urged him to join the military, but the enlistment in the Marine Corps at 18 had been a surprise to everyone. His mother’s worries had been placed to rest by his father, who was ecstatic.

Training had been hard, harder than he had predicted, but Sullivan enjoyed the challenge, and worked hard to improve himself. He soon became one of the toughest men physically in his company. The same applied to marksmanship training, where he had qualified as an expert with the Krag, and had qualified with the M1889 Navy revolver. The Sergeants running the camp had noticed how hard he had worked, and promoted him, made him Pope’s second in command of the squad. As with before, he worked hard, and he knew the other Marines in 1st squad believed he could be relied on.

While they had been told to act as though at a drill in training, there had been a big lapse in the discipline of the march. Almost all of men were from the east like Sullivan was, and he could tell many of them were thinking the same things he was. He looked to the front, saw Pope looking back, a look on his face, a silent order.

“Eyes in front Marines!” Sullivan shouted with a tough, alert voice, not too deep, but deep enough, with just the right amount of Irish accent, and other men, Corporals and Sergeants began to take up the call, embarrassed at even such a minor breakdown in discipline. They knew this wasn’t going to be a regular station in Hawaii or Alaska. They were too heavily armed. The Officers knew for certain, and the Sergeants and the Corporals were guessing, but they all had the right idea.

They were going to war in the Pacific.

They reached the docks, began filing up the small gangplanks onto the large steam transports, single file. Each transport held roughly a company, 150 Marines. Sullivan’s company was the second transport, and he was amongst the First Marines on board. Like Many of the men who had been in the Corps for a year, Sullivan had served on board Navy ships, and unlike some, he had rarely had an issue with sea sickness.

The steam transport was huge, but dirty. Grime and rust seemed to cover every inch of exposed metal. Sullivan looked at it, couldn’t help but to think, We’re going to war on this derelict?

Most Marines went below deck to stash their packs, and Sullivan followed, tossed it onto the closest bunk, one at chest level. He kept the Krag and his .38, a gift from his grandfather, his bayonet, and his ammo. Sometimes sailors would start trouble with the Marines, acting like there was something to prove, and Sullivan had been in long enough to know that sometimes the fights got out of hand. During a stop in Morocco, Sullivan had once seen a sailor get beaten into unconsciousness during a brawl between the ship’s crew, and its Marine guards. The trip back had been full of tension, long nights of standing watch with the .38, waiting for a reprisal.

The transport cast off, following the first ship. Sullivan stood at the railing, watching the United States disappear in the horizon. One of the Marines, a 1st Squad guy named Contadino, stood next to him at the railings. Contadino was a short guy, the product of two Italian parents living in New York, about 5’6, dark, and thin. He was more wiry where Sullivan was stocky. He was known for a big nose and a loud mouth.

“Where you think we’re going, eh, Corporal?” He asked.
“I don’t know. Hawaii, maybe. Not sure.”
“Well yes, we’re going to Hawaii, but where are we going? I heard one of the officers talking about it. Says we’re going to the Central Pacific. We got anything in the Central Pacific?”
“Nothing I know about.” Sullivan exhaled, looked around. They had been out at sea for close to an hour. America was a faint speck on the horizon. Most of the Marines were sleeping, talking to the sailors, or writing letters. New men, a new Corps, he thought.

The transports arrived at Hawaii, waited for several days, and even more ships arrived. The Pacific Fleet was gathered, at its full strength. Three full Marine Battalions had been gathered, two Army Infantry Battalions, a Cavalry Battalion, and a battery of the new Sims-Dudley Dynamite Guns. America’s Pacific Expeditionary Force.

The Invasion Fleet stockpiled supplies for several days. Several steam transport ships had been left empty, and were loaded with munitions, supplies, and bandages. And America’s Invasion Force first learned about their task.

…

“Guam: its about 225 square miles. Southern half of the island is mountainous, and wooded. The northern half is flatter, but just as densely covered. Marines are taking the lead, we’re landing here, at Tumon Bay; it’s at the west coast of the island, just north of the capitol city itself, Agana.” The Lieutenant pointed at a map with a stick, showing all the features and plans. Sullivan watched, absorbed the details, the room quiet.

The platoon was off the boats for now in Honolulu. The Lieutenant went on with the briefing.

“We do know that the Spanish have recently moved maybe two battalions onto the island, with an additional two native battalions. We expect the Spaniards to resist, but we aren’t expecting the same from the natives. Regardless, we’re going to hit that bay hard. The whole battalion, 600 Marines. The Army will keep one of their Battalions off shore as a floating reserve.”

Contadino leaned over, whispered, “Of course they’ll wait till we’ve done all the work.”
“Shh…” Sullivan held a finger to his lips but didn’t look at him, kept his eyes on the map.

The Lieutenant finished the briefing, and the platoon filed out of the warehouse, marching back to the docks, passing another platoon as it moved to the barracks. Sullivan was quiet. They were going to Guam, the Mariana Islands.

He collected his pack and his .38. The rifle was onboard, along with the ammo. The company commander, Captain Morgan Galle, was waiting on the deck, making sure no one tried to sneak away for the night.

Galle was a tough man, piratical at heart, about 6 feet tall, average build. His large nose had been broken numerous times, was crooked at first inspection, but seemed to work with the rest of his hard, lean face. He sported a thin moustache, no beard. Sullivan had heard of the man, heard rumors of the massive brawls that had been started by his Marines, often with him leading them. But now he was serious, couldn’t afford any of his men injured on shore leave before they shipped out.

Sullivan fell into line, and marched up the narrow walkway, back onto the stinking ship, the smell of men who had gone too long without washing. He breathed in, from his mouth, and climbed into the bunk, exhausted. Guam, he thought, How will I do?

After 5 days of preparing and stockpiling, Commodore George Dewey received his orders to lead his task force to war. The fleet set sail, going directly east, and then turning south, towards the Marianas. The Spanish Fleet was ordered to withdraw to Manila, and Dewey’s Pacific Fleet arrived off the coast of Guam 12 days after setting sail, unmolested.
…

The boats were lowered with a splash, and Sullivan watched as the men in front of him tried to climb down nets on the side of the transport to get into them. They were small wooden rowboats, could carry maybe 6 or 7 men before being in danger of sinking. Sullivan was carrying a full load, 130 rounds of rifle ammo, the bayonet, and some hard tack for the first day.

They had watched duals between Spanish coastal batteries and the Navy, but had seen no real fighting. Sullivan was eager, clenched the rifle in his hands, thought anything is worth getting off this damn boat.

He went over the side next, and struggled down under the weight, made it into the boat and grabbed an oar, began to row once it was loaded. Contadino was ahead and to his right, next to Ira Keyes, another of the longer serving men. Pope was at the front looking through a set of the new binoculars. Everyone else were new men, not members of the ‘Old Corps’ like the four of them were.

Rowing wasn’t unusual for any of them, ‘Old Corps’ or not, and the boat touched the sandy shore after close to ten minutes of fighting with the waves. Sullivan looked around. Most of the landings were like theirs, men walking ashore in knee deep water. Some boats had overturned, the marines struggling ashore, but there were no real problems.

“Sullivan! Get them moving!” Pope yelled, and Sullivan turned, motioned forward, towards the heavy jungle up ahead. They formed a loose line and began to walk, rifles held out at the ready. Pope glanced back several times as they entered, ordered them in closer, to keep site of one another.
The jungle was new to most of them, tough to move in. Sullivan could barely see more than 10 feet ahead of him, fixed the bayonet, felt a tenseness, could feel eyes on him. The tree tops rustled, and Sullivan could see what he knew to be monkeys moving in the tops. They watched the Marines moving below them with a strangely human interest, followed them as they moved.

“Damn…where the hell are they?” He muttered to himself, poking into the bushes with the bayonet. Of course, they’re probably in the capitol, Agana.

“Hey, Corporal?”
“Keyes?”
“There’s smoke up ahead, lots of it.”

Sullivan looked, could see the sky through breaks in the canopy. There it was, damn Keyes had good eyes he thought.

“Sergeant Pope, what do you think they’re doing?” he asked
“Listening to us with how loud you two are talking. Shut your mouths.” A slight pause. “Corporal, we’re going to move up and investigate. Private Dawls!”
“Sergeant?”
“Run back to Lieutenant Donavon, tell him what’s happening.”

Dawls, one of the new men, bolted off, disappeared in the jungle. Pope gathered them around him, glanced into their already sweating faces, and slapped a mosquito.

“We’re gonna move in a single file line, stay in sight. You see anything that ain’t a monkey and has a weapon, shoot. We have no idea how the civilians will react to us.”

He got up, went first, followed by Keyes, two of the new men, Contadino, Sullivan, and the final new man. Sullivan panted, in the heat, took a quick drink from the canteen. They crossed a small road, a donkey path, one at a time, glancing both ways. There were boot prints, obviously military, but no one in sight. Sullivan dropped to a knee and aimed to the south side of the road, and covered Contadino as he crossed, the small man keeping low to the ground. The new guy came up next and dropped to a knee, imitated Sullivan, as the Corporal scrambled across, waiting for a shot to ring out. He stumbled into a small ditch with the others, and the last guy came across.

Pope glanced north and south, cursed slightly. “We should set a watch here, or something…volunteer?”

One of the new guys glanced around, his face shiney with sweat, raised his hand.

Pope nodded, said “Good man. You wait for the rest of the platoon. You see anything that isn’t a Marine, make some noise with that rifle and run like hell to the beach. I don’t want one of my new men getting killed on the first day doing something stupid.”

He nodded his head, didn’t say anything. Pope turned, glanced to me, said “Lets go, Corporal.”

Another update tonight

nice read. Keep it goin', pal.

@Topgun-Thanks, i'm hoping this one'll turn out well

I have temporarily lost the password to 502nd, and I'm not receiving the e-mails saying it was changed so i'm using this as a temporary SN

Major John Butcher, U.S. Army 21st Cavalry Battalion

The landings onto Cuba had been easier than expected, the boats bring the horses with little to no trouble. Butcher had expected some problems; few of the animals had any experience with such confined spaces, were used to the plains of the Great West, and the same was true of the riders.

Butcher’s battalion had been stationed in Arizona during the Apache wars, and Butcher’s cavalry troops, men made up from the local areas, had earned a reputation for getting tough jobs done. It hadn’t been uncommon for the horsemen to find themselves confronting a larger enemy, and still find a way to win. Butcher himself had gained a reputation as a tough commander, an officer who gave a lot to his unit and expected as much back.

Butcher had been in the military his whole life. Born in 1859 to a captain of the Massachusetts National Guard, his father had joined the regular army at the outbreak of the civil war, and was wounded at Gettysburg with the rank of colonel. He stayed in service, and his family was moved from base to base with every new assignment. Butcher didn’t disappoint his father, and went to West Point in 1877. He graduated as a captain, and went on to lead a cavalry company in New Mexico, before his promotion took him to Arizona, and his battalion.

It was this background that led Butcher’s troops to Cuba, as apart of the U.S. invasion force, the only American cavalry unit on the island for the first full week. His unit had just arrived, had landed after the infantry had already pushed inland. And before him was his first assignment on foreign soil.
(More later tonight, at work so kinda busy)

(Cont.)
Butcher read it, surprised. He glanced at the courier who had brought it. The man only stared back, said “Only the officers of your unit can be told the true nature of these orders, Major. They’re the general’s orders.”

“We’re to attack the men who have been fighting the Spanish since before we got here?”

“Those same men have already attacked American troops.” The courier told Butcher, his face impassive. “You have your orders. Go to Nuevitas, capture it, and rout them. The 11th Infantry battalion is providing support.”

Butcher opened his mouth, held back the words. “Very well. Tell General Morgan we’ll do it.”

The courier nodded and left. Butcher stood up, took off his hat and set it on the small table. The heat was incredible, and already he knew it would be a miserable campaign. He walked out of the tent, motioned to a nearby man, Sergeant William Kelley.

“Go find the officers, order them to prepare the companies and to assemble at my tent. We have our orders.”

Back, but stuck in Lexington for the week, so dont expect an update till Tuesday. Sorry.

Any feed back?

Thomas Bastion, Madrid, Spain.

Bastion leaned back comfortably, took another drink of coffee. It was a hot day, the heat rising off of the adobe brick side walk, but Bastion was comfortable, and more than content to finish his drink and wait for his target.

Thomas Bastion was a patriot, in every sense of the word, despite the fact that he lived out of his home country. And when his government had come to him at 23, and asked him for help, he had agreed, had gone through rigorous training on how to be invisible, and gather information, and kill, for his country. He had learned how to make bombs, change his appearance, and disappear into any corwd. He was, in essence, one of the first true spies for the American Government, a paid man, not a volunteer, though he would’ve happily done so.

Now 32, he was known as Felipe Rosario, a resident of Madrid, and a simple book store owner. He was of an average height, 5’7, and average build, at least at first glance. He was wiry, but tough. While not especially distinctive, he was known to be somewhat of a successful womanizer.

In his suit pocket was a small fighting knife, and a double barreled deranger was tucked into a small holster on his ankle. But today, he had bigger game in mind, and so carried a Mauser pistol, watched the door from across the road, waited.

The waiter came, took the empty cup away, leaning over to do so.

“He’s leaving.” He whispered, Spanish.

“Very well, my friend. Thank you” Bastion replied, flawlessly. But kept his eyes on the door. Sure enough, it opened, and a small group of men came out, two soldiers and a smaller man in the middle, dressed in the uniform of the Spanish Navy, an officer.

The man was Antonio Guiterrez, a man who had important information on the whereabouts and orders to Spain’s navy.

Bastion stood up, dropped a large tip onto the table and began to move, following the men from the opposite side of the street, watching them. He slipped his hand into his pocket for the Mauser, his other hand took a small scarf. He wrapped it around the barrel, and crossed the street, moving quickly, steadily.

He moved behind the first guard, six feet away, and raised the mauser, fired into the base of the skull, the scarf muffling the sound. It carried only about a block and a half. The second guard turned, brought his bayonet rifle to bear, Bastion dropped to a knee, raised his right arm and squeezed the trigger, put a round into the man’s right eye, a second into the forehead. He went down and Bastion moved up, grabbed Guiterrez, and dragged him into a nearby alley, kept the pistol to the back of his head.

The streets had cleared in a wave of screaming yelling people. Though the Mauser had been muffled, everyone around had clearly heard it. Bastion continued to pull Guiterrez away, shoved him further back and pointed his pistol at him, said calmly in Spanish “If you move, I will be more than happy to kill you.”

Guiterrez stopped and glared at him. “You killed my guards.” He accused. Bastion scoffed, kept the pistol leveled calmly.

“I did as I must. You’re carrying papers to a meeting. I want them.”

Guiterrez’s eyes widened, “How do you know of those papers?”

“I’m informed by a source near to you. I want those papers.” Bastion was lying, had purchased the information from a simple clerk who was no where near Guiterrez’s inner circle. He enjoyed toying with the man, could see him thinking of those he trusted, trying to find the traitor.

“So you’re an American then? A spy? An assassin?” Guiterrez’s eyes narrowed and he hissed out the last word.

“No, I’m but a soldier for hire, who intends to make a great profit. Many in Europe wish to know of Spain’s decay.” He laughed as the Spainard’s eyes narrowed even more, angry at insult to his country. He opened his mouth and Bastion interrupted him. “Give me the papers.”

Guiterrez didn’t move for a full minute and Bastion lowered the pistol and fired it into his foot, the shot ringing in the confines of the brick alley. Guiterrez fell, screaming, holding his foot, his hands growing slick with blood.

Bastion walked over and grabbed the small suitcase, opened it up. They were the papers. He smiled at the moaning Guiterrez, began to walk away, dropped the pistol.

“We’ll find you. You will beg for death.” Guiterrez promised in between breathes. Bastion laughed lightly.

“You cant stop me.”

nice storytelling.

Sorry for the long delay. Schools being tough, and I haven't had much access ot a computer. an update this weekend certainly

Corporal Collin Sullivan, U.S. Marine Corps, 1st Battalion, Pacific Force

Sullivan and Keyes walked into the burnt village, looking, watching. Sullivan came to a body, poked it lightly with his bayonet.

“Civillian. Dead.” He reported to the rest of the squad moving up behind them. It was a woman, Sullivan could see, short and dark skinned, but with slightly Asiatic features. There was no visible wound on her body.

“What happened to her?” Contadino asked, coming up beside Sullivan. Pope moved ahead just a bit, looked around.

“The Navy I think. Some damn big craters here. Probably just pounded the jungle, and these people got caught up in it.” He looked at the body. “I’d bet she died of shell concussion.” He shook his head at the waste and ordered them forward.

Sullivan turned to Keyes. “I don’t like it. We came to liberate these people, and the Navy blows their town all to hell. It ain’t right.”

“War isn’t right, corporal.” Keyes replied, looking to the right. What the Navy hadn’t destroyed, had been burnt, by either shell fragments, or, from the boot prints, Spanish troops. They were moving south. Pope ordered them to halt, and Sullivan dropped to the ground, his face covered in sweat from the heat of the jungle and the fires. He could smell the sickening smell of burnt flesh.

He had pulled out a new contraption, a tin of canned food, when a he heard a slight squeal, something metal being moved. And in the next instant, his world erupted in a hell of gun fire, bullets spraying them, killing Keyes and one of the new men in the first volley. Sullivan dropped, realized he was on the rifle, covering it. He swore and rolled to his right, freeing it.

Gun fire poured out from the jungle, and Sullivan blinked, couldn’t believe it, It was coming from one position. The shots sounded like a child running a stick along a fence, continuous, rat-a-tat-a-tat-a.

“Machine gun! German Maxim!” Sullivan could hear Pope yell it over the noise. Sullivan was behind a small burnt corpse, a child of maybe 13. Bullets hit the body, thudding, and Sullivan went on his side and vomited, the smell overpowering.

“Fire! Open fire!” Sullivan could hear the shout, one of the Marines yelling it. Sullivan pushed himself up, took aim into the brush, squeezed the trigger. The Krag barked and jolted, but Sullivan kept it steady, worked the bolt mechanically, his training pushing the fear back. He raised it again, aimed more carefully, and again squeezed the trigger.

He went through the next three rounds, and pushed another five into the rifle, one by one. He repeated the process twice, and, with a full rifle, dashed from behind the body to a shell hole from the Navy, reached the water filled bottom. His legs sank in the mud as he propelled himself upwards, coming out on the other side. The Spanish had to have seen him, but couldn’t react, too busy with the others.

Sullivan aimed the rifle and fired, killing the gunner, a single clean round through the jaw from 20 yards. Another man moved to take it and Sullivan fired again, hit the Spaniard in the chest. The other three raised their hands and began to shout. The machine gun sat there, silent, steam issuing up from the water jacket. Pope and the others moved up, kept the rifles pointed at the prisoners.

“Good work corporal.” Pope said, looking at the dead man, and they dying one at Sullivan’s feet. Sullivan watched him, and felt the regret. But all he had to do was look at Keyes lying dead, half of his head simply gone, to drown out the feelings. He turned and left after the man died. The Spanish American War continued on.

Hey,

Just love this story. But I have to ask some questions.

1. What year is the US landing in Guam?

2. How accuate are you trying to be with the weapons used?

3. Are the weapons you are using in the Mod techs?
(I haven't been able to download this Mod.)


Blaze Injun

wow bro, great story. very descriptive

Blaze Injun said:

Hey,

Just love this story. But I have to ask some questions.

1. What year is the US landing in Guam?

2. How accuate are you trying to be with the weapons used?

3. Are the weapons you are using in the Mod techs?
(I haven't been able to download this Mod.)


Blaze Injun

Click to expand...

Thank you very much, to both Injun and Crimminal, Its greatly appreciated

And to answer your questions

1. The American invasion is occuring in 1895 (The scenario is set up into Weeks, so I believe its myabe twenty weeks into 1895)

2. I'm trying to get as accurate as I can with the weapons and clothing of the era. I have made one mistake with the C96 Mauser, which I had used a year earlier. This was more because I don't have quite the knowledge of this period as I'd like, and it was the only automatic pistol I could think of. However, The Krag-Jorgenson Rifle is accurate, as is the German Maxim machine gun, and I'm going to keep the weapons as accurate as I can, which will include upgrades and replacements (ex. the M1903 Springfield replacing the Krag.)

3. Sadly, apart from the Machine Guns, they are not. I'm just using them for a degree of extra accuracy. I'd still rate it as the most entertaining i've played in a very long time

I'll get another update in tonight. Poker night at my house so i'll be a bit busy.

Major John Butcher, U.S. Army 21st Cavalry Battalion

During Spain’s long rule of Cuba, brutality had been commonplace. And, as the American troops were discovering, the brutalized had themselves become brutal. American infantry with bayonets had had to keep raging mobs from massacring Spanish prisoners of war.

Nowhere was this brutality more evident than in Nuesvistas, the capital of Cuban resistance forces. A battalion of American ground troops had approached to enlist the aid of the rebel troops a week after the landings, only to be attacked. Of 800 men, over 100 were killed and many more wounded. The few captured had been killed, the rebel troops in a state of frenzied blood lust.

The commander of the invasion force, General James Tompkins, had decided that such a hostile threat to the flank of his army could not be tolerated, and so the cavalry had been ordered to reduce and destroy the rebel forces. The 21st Cavalry, and its sister unit, the 22nd, had been ordered into the breach.

…

Butcher’s troops had been told the objective, and had accepted it. American troops had been attacked first. It was that simple. They were now spread out in a low ravine, moving slow in the dark, the men maneuvering the horses carefully in the dark. Butcher’s battalion had collected weapons, munitions, and supplies, and had left the beachhead quickly.

On his left, a hundred yards away, were the 400 hundred men of Major Berlin’s battalion, the 22nd. Butcher had positioned his cavalry to expect an attack to his weak right, had placed both Captain Stockton’s A Squadron, and Captain O’Hara’s C Squadron on the right, with Captain Vater’s B Squadron and Sergeant Kelley’s Recon Squadron tying in with the 22nd.

Butcher’s men were armed with the Krag, the carbine version, and revolvers mostly, though the saber was still a common sight in his unit. They were dressed in the new khaki that had been adopted by both the Army and the Marine troops.

Off to his front, in Stockton’s squadron a flurry of shots rang out, answered, and then nothing. The horses jerked slightly, and Butcher peered into the darkness, could see nothing. A rider came to him from the front.

“Sir, we ran into a small group. Request permission to pursue.”

“Dammit, go after them!” Butcher hissed, turned to his messengers. “Tell O’Hara to follow after Stockton. You” He pointed with his pistol “Inform the 22nd and bring in the Recon squadron. The rest of you, with me”

He spurred the horse forward, the cavalry moving with him, seemingly coming alive. More shots rang to his front, and were answered by even more, then screams of charge as Stockton tore into his enemy. Stockton was an aggressive commander, but skilled, seemingly born for the cavalry.

Butcher met up with O’Hara, the Arizonian skillfully rolling his troopers around Stockton’s and the enemy’s left flank. Butcher could see the muzzle flashes to his left, the Cuban rebels retreating. Even further away, he could hear the 22nd engage the enemy, his own B Squadron engaging the Cubans. The Recon squadron moved up, Sergeant Kelley moving to him immediately.

“Sir?”

“Follow me, we’re moving to the flank” He said, moving behind the wave of C squadron men. The sun was rising, and in the very faint light, Butcher could see the enemy retreating, the skyline of Nuesvistas in the distance, separated by sugar cane field and jungle.

Butcher turned to his cavalry troops, the 50 men of the Recon squadron, his pistol pointed upwards, the classic cavalry silhouette.

“CHARGE!”

Thomas Bastion

Bastion boarded the small ferry to Spanish Morocco, showed the Spanish troops his papers, identifying him as a French lawyer from Toulouse. The soldier looked at them, then grunted, waved him on. Bastion paid with a gold bank note worth $10, and within the hour the ferry had left, passing the rock of Gibraltar. He could see the guns of Britain’s Royal Marines even from this distance, couldn’t help but to think of the misery that would have to be endured to capture it.

The ferry arrived in French North-West Africa, and Bastion requisitioned a spot on a small caravan going to Sidi Ifni. The caravan owner looked at the papers, and nodded to the British author, waved him on.

Bastion had safely sent all the papers he had taken from Guiterrez, and now was on to his next assignment, preparing Sidi Ifni for its American liberators. Though he had told Guiterrez that the Spanish government couldn’t stop him, Bastion had never liked to gamble when it came to his life or his country. And so, he had quickly fled Madrid, and then the Spanish mainland. The Mauser had long ago been disassembled and thrown away.

After two days in the desert, Bastion’s caravan arrived safely in the Spanish colony. Bastion stuck with his façade as an English author, and the guard let him enter without a problem. Sidi Ifni was surrounded by hilly, uneven ground, and soon the wagon became too uncomfortable, the American agent preferring to ride a horse than sit in the back. He purchased one from a farm and left the caravan. Another day on the road preceded his entry into the city.

Bastion left the horse at a local stable, and went to the Hotel Continental, where he booked a room under the name of Guy Juin, a French banker from Caen.

“Enjoy your stay, sir.” The receptionist said, in French.

“Thank you.” Bastion replied fluently, with no trace of an accent. He took his key and left, going towards a small café he knew of, where he was planning on meeting a very important man

…

Bastion entered the building quietly, attracted no attention. He immediately spotted his contact, a man in a small chair with a thick snowy moustache. He was older, had enough weight to be considered fat, but seemed to be dignified, even from across the room. Bastion took the seat across from him, held out his hand.

“Thomas Bastion. A pleasure.”

The other man took the offered hand, shook it vigorously.

“A pleasure indeed, sah, a pleasure.” The man answered, a British accent. “I heard about what you did to that chap in Madrid. Good show. Have to show a bit of brutality.” He nodded, waved a waiter over. “What’ll you have, Guy?” he asked. Bastion hid his surprise that the man already knew his current alias. Of course he would, Bastion thought. He was the most well connected man in the city.

“A coffee.” Bastion answered with a stiff French accent, instantly changing his demeanor. The waiter left, and the man laughed, impressed with the change.

“Very good. Exactly like the last Frenchmen I met, if I may say so. I’m André Montgomery. Friends call me Monty.” He said by way of introduction. Bastion nodded, leaned forward, and Monty took the cue, cut straight to business.

“So, what do you want sah? To raise hell for the Spainards when your men are landing on our beaches?” Monty asked in German, clearly a language that would almost certainly be unspoken by most in the area.

“Maybe. For right now, my government is more interested in paying you to…requisition weapons for the locals who’d help us stop the Spaniards.” Bastion replied in the same language.

Monty sat still for a second. “You know, we did the same thing in China once. Gave weapons to anyone who’d oppose the ruling government. Made our takeover of Shanghai and Hong Kong very easy mind you. Do you know who we spent the next 8 years fighting?”

Bastion shook his head.

“Those same bastards. Turns out, liberators often become occupiers, and occupiers quickly become oppressors. This plot of yours will backfire, I believe.” Monty said, looked hard at Bastion. “I’m telling you out of respect. You and I seem to be cut of the same cloth, Bastion. Do you want to go through with it?”

Bastion thought about it, nodded. “They’re my orders. Who am I to disobey them?”

Monty laughed, nodded. “Who indeed? I felt the same way. Follow the orders of our officers, our superiors.” He shook his head. “Bastion, the greatest value in men who do what I’ve done and what you do is independence. We have to act independently, be flexible.”

Bastion nodded. “So you have an idea?”

“Yes, I do. Tell me, why arm men to fight when there’s no reason to fight at all?”

Bastion looked at Monty, and the man continued.

“I’ll purchase the loyalties of the colonial Garrison. They’ll mutiny, and the Spanish troops will be caught between American soldiers from the sea, and the local garrisons.”

Bastion thought about it, nodded his head. “And what do you want?”

“I want twice the payment, and I want some favors from you.”

Bastion nodded, knew that Monty could be trusted. The two men shook on it, and Bastion left knowing he had quite possibly saved many lives on both sides.

this is sweet i totally missed it, too. well done 502nd PIR

i've seen some pics of US Marines in the P.I. wearing all blue. i seem to recall Littleton Waller and his crew of Marines on Samar. however, my memory might not be totally accurate. the volunteer infantry in cuba in '98 did indeed wear khakis. and the vol cav were indeed made up of westerners and ivy league easterners. iow, a very motley crew. i also seem to recall that the cav went onto the island primarily as a mounted cav force but fought mostly as dismounted cav. of course, just a small sidenote

and yes, Krags were the issued rifles for US troops until the springfields came along. however, the spanish mausers were a little better b/c they fired w/ smokeless powder, a big advantage at the time.

disease accounted for more than 50% of the casualties during the Spanish-American war.

the real spanish garrison on guam during the S-A War was light. i recall that there was but a company or so of spanish marines and they were asleep when the USN began bombarding the island (!)

the heart of the philippine resistance during the S-A War and subsequent Philippine-American War was in Cavite (which is now Kawit). i wasn't able to place it on the map though it's about 25-30 klicks SE of Manila along the coast on Luzon. and it was the hometown of Emilio Aguinaldo, the rebel leader/1st president of the Philippine Republic.

i look forward to reading about the siege of San Juan, too and the other theatrics. well done!

ps-you should note the week and year on each post to keep us up to snuff.

El Justo said:

this is sweet i totally missed it, too. well done 502nd PIR

i've seen some pics of US Marines in the P.I. wearing all blue. i seem to recall Littleton Waller and his crew of Marines on Samar. however, my memory might not be totally accurate. the volunteer infantry in cuba in '98 did indeed wear khakis. and the vol cav were indeed made up of westerners and ivy league easterners. iow, a very motley crew. i also seem to recall that the cav went onto the island primarily as a mounted cav force but fought mostly as dismounted cav. of course, just a small sidenote

and yes, Krags were the issued rifles for US troops until the springfields came along. however, the spanish mausers were a little better b/c they fired w/ smokeless powder, a big advantage at the time.

disease accounted for more than 50% of the casualties during the Spanish-American war.

the real spanish garrison on guam during the S-A War was light. i recall that there was but a company or so of spanish marines and they were asleep when the USN began bombarding the island (!)

the heart of the philippine resistance during the S-A War and subsequent Philippine-American War was in Cavite (which is now Kawit). i wasn't able to place it on the map though it's about 25-30 klicks SE of Manila along the coast on Luzon. and it was the hometown of Emilio Aguinaldo, the rebel leader/1st president of the Philippine Republic.

i look forward to reading about the siege of San Juan, too and the other theatrics. well done!

ps-you should note the week and year on each post to keep us up to snuff.

Click to expand...

Thanks a million, its nice to have the support of the creator.

I have taken some liberties with history, such as the uniforms. I figured militarily the blue used by the Marines and regular Army wouldn't work in the jungle, and for some reason I had khaki in mind when I started. And yeah, the cav would eventually have to dismount, as I just couldn't see horses charging up a hill working too well

and I wanted Sullivan to have a slightly different baptism by fire, and since I played with units at the battalion scale (ex. 1 unit=1 battalion) i had to make the Guam garrison bigger.

And as for the weeks, up until I get into 1904, this is almost purely from memory I kinda came up with this later in my game. so sorry everyone, no game screenshots until then, as I dont want to give away future events.

Thanks a whole bunch for the enthusiastic support. Its greatly appreciated