The Great War - Redeux

shady milkman

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Awright...again! I finally got my computer back after a long period in transition (just moved back to the states), so I can finally keep myself in line and maybe even include some in-game pictures. I've won by UN vote in the early twenty-thirties, but I decided to see how long it would take me to take over the world if I played honorably. Finally, after so many years of peace, France declares on me! *yussss*

Settings

Civ: Rome, customized to America

Opponents: Originally France, Russia, Dutch, England, Iriqouis, Celts, Carthage. I've killed off all but France, Celts, Iriqouis, and the Dutch.

Map: I think cool and everything else normal, but I'm probably wrong.

This game is heavily customized to make certain units (ie paratroopers, helicopters, marines) more useful. Also, pollution has been eliminated except for that produced by population. Questions, comments etc etc are very welcome.
 

shady milkman

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Outside Port Regis NB, Philippine Islands
United States of America
October 13th, 2053​


Lance Corporal James Coleman grimaced as the cramp in his ribs, the one that had before spread so gently and insidiously, suddenly stabbed deep into his torso. He felt the pain of it jabbing mercilessly into the bottoms of his lungs with every step, with every breath, but he forced himself to ignore it and carry on. Falling out of ranks would cause the entire unit to stop, and the Sergeant was forever ingraining into the skulls of his subordinates that “functioning as a unit” was important beyond all else. Falling behind, bringing the whole unit to a halt, would not only succeed in pissing off the Sergeant, but it would bring unnecessary humiliation. James knew all he had to do was keep going, keep ignoring the pain in his chest, and he wouldn’t have to be the one to stop the run.

James Coleman was one of thirty men in the 22nd Expeditionary Division of the United States Marine Corps. The 22nd was stationed at USMC Ranier, a base on the other end of the island of Kodo, the largest of the two Philippine Islands. The semi-annual “morale run” (a stupid name, James thought, since all it did was make everyone mind-bogglingly bored and irritable) was a mandatory exercise for the men of the 22nd that brought them up from USMC Ranier, through the inhospitable and aptly-named Pane Mountains, to Port Regis Naval Base, an establishment hundreds of miles away from the starting point. The journey generally took about three to five weeks round-trip and was designed to test the men to their limits and see if they were fit to remain in the division commonly accepted as the USMC’s finest.

James glanced down at his standard-issue Timex watch, saw it was almost fifteen-hundred, and silently thanked God for his kindness. Three o’clock was the usual knock-off time, when the Sergeant would call the men to a halt and have them set up camp. James took a deep breath in through his nose, trying to use the cramp remedy he was taught in the Marine Corps training camp at USMC Ranier, and turned his eyes back to the trail. Here in the wooded hills over Port Regis, it was important to keep your eyes on the ground or you could easily sprain or even break an ankle by tripping on a rock or a root or some such unassuming object. James had even had a friend who had tripped and somehow managed to impale himself on a sharp rock. The rock hit his spinal cord and he never walked again.

“Squad….HALT!”
The men of the 22nd snapped thankfully to attention as the Sergeant stopped abruptly.
“Squad…fall out! Set up camp, men.”
James let out a sigh of relief and began massaging his aching sides as he staggered over to the designated camp area. Sliding the straps of his kit bag down and stretching his raw shoulders, James looked out over the ridge they were camping on and gasped.

It was not the natural beauty of the landscape before him that surprised him, for he had run the same trail many times in his five years in the Corps and seen such breathtaking beaches with regularity. What surprised him were the cartoonish, easily recognizable silhouettes of the French-made T-19 tanks that were swarming out from the beach in the near distance. Even at that range, the T-19’s trademark bubble turret and tall, blobbish form were quite distinguished.

James was jarred back to life by the shouts of his Sergeant.
“God dammit, Coleman, what the hell are you doing? I seem to remember telling you to pitch your tent!”

Rob Baker, the 22nd Expeditionary’s Commanding Officer, was a fearsome mountain of a man who was rumored to eat puppies and, if he was angry or hungry enough, small children. At six-five and almost two hundred thirty pounds, Baker was the picture of the stereotypical Marine jarhead: big, loud, and tough. It was at moments like these, when seemingly trivial annoyances or minor infractions were committed in his presence, that Baker lived up to his reputation for savagery.

Not even looking his CO in the eye (a capital offense in Baker’s view), James simply pointed out over the ridge. Baker marched over and gazed out on the horizon, his eyes lined up with James’ finger like he was going to use the Corporal’s arm as a rifle. For a moment he was quiet, but then James heard his Sergeant speak in a small, quiet tone he had never used before.
“Oh my god…”


 

Nobody

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didnt you do somthing just like this with a sniper guy in the first picture, anyway seems great keep writing
 

shady milkman

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@ Lord Iggy - thanks!

@ Nobody - that I did. I had to abandon that because I lost everything when my computer screwed up, but I'm starting anew.
 

shady milkman

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Conference Room B4, United Nations Building, Chicago
United States of America
October 14th, 2053​


“So…what you’re telling me is that there’s absolutely no way you’ll agree to a trade? Your nation could use the resources mine can provide, and I think it would put the entire world at rest. You must admit, some of your latest military advances have been rather unnerving.”

Chairman Mike Stuart sat across from his French counterpart, a cordial smile playing across his lips that was not reflected in his eyes. Joan D’Arc, the French President, sat stiffly in her chair, her shaven head winking back at Stuart in the bright lights of the boardroom. Her expression was a convoluted one; a mixture of contempt, interest, and condescending confidence. Stuart found himself hating that face even though he knew it was probably vital to the continuance of peace to make this meeting a success. But as he spoke, he saw her expression change to one of something like pity, and he knew before she even replied that he had lost.

“Michael…I’m sorry, but you simply don’t understand. It is not in the best interests of my nation to barter with you. What we desire is more than whatever you can give. What can you give?”

Joan leaned forward and folded her hands on the table, gazing across at Stuart with a mad glint in her eye.

“You can give me uranium. You can give me aluminum. You can give me silks, or spices, or dyes…you can give me money. You can fund my scientific research program. You can even secure for me a more favorable position here in the UN. But you see, none of these things are important to me, Michael, because my ultimate goal, the ultimate goal of France, is much more than any petty material wealth you could provide.”

Joan rose from her chair and began pacing back and forth like a tiger, her hands folded behind her back like a professor lecturing unruly students.

“Michael, have you heard of Adolf Hitler?”
Stuart nodded and frowned slightly, not liking the direction the conversation was taking; even in 2053, the atrocities committed by the German Nazis in the nineteen-thirties and -forties were infamous.

“He was a genius, Michael. His vision was perfect; the vision of purifying the earth, of removing the weak links and bringing the master race to power. The only thing he got wrong was that there is no ‘Master Race.’ Well, there is, but it isn’t predetermined. All it takes is one person to lead their nation into domination. That nation, that nation with the leader willing to lead his or her people in a quest for dominance, is the master race.”

Joan stopped pacing and leaned forward, resting her palms on the table and fixing her unnerving gaze once again on Stuart’s face.

“I plan to be that person, and I’m going to make France that nation. Your country’s capitalist reign over the world is coming to an end, Michael. I am going to lead France in a holy war against the aristocracy, and we’re going to scour the earth of your filth once and for all. “

Stuart recoiled slightly and realized with a faint growing horror that he was looking into the eyes of a lunatic. Or perhaps not, he thought to himself. As George Orwell had once written, a lunatic is merely a minority of one, and Joan D’Arc with her teeming hordes of religiously dedicated followers was certainly no minority. Perhaps she was simply a powerful soul with a misguided vision. As he sat there in a thoughtful stupor, trying to fathom the mind of this fanatic before him, Stuart’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden slamming as the door was tossed aside. It was Charlie Brown, Stuart's personal aide.

“Comrade Chairman, we’ve got a big problem,” Charlie said, eyeing Joan uneasily. Joan pushed herself back to a standing position and tilted her head back slightly, sighing contentedly and smiling eerily at Stuart.

“And now the wheels begin to turn. Isn’t it wonderful, Michael?”

Stuart cocked his head and cast a questioning look at Joan, but said nothing. He stood and followed Charlie outside the boardroom, leaving Joan to wait inside.

“You’ll excuse me, Joan. I’ll be back momentarily.”

As soon as the door closed behind them, Charlie began speaking rapidly and almost unintelligibly, becoming practically rabid in his excitement.

“Sir, we’ve got a potential crisis situation at Port Regis. One of our Marine Expeditionary units was on a routine training mission, and they sighted French tanks on the beach. They say they’re close enough to hit the city in a week or so.”

Stuart’s eyes flashed wide for a split second, then returned to normal as he suppressed his shock, keeping his legendary cool in the face of danger. He took several seconds to compose his thoughts before replying.

“Are we sure?”

“Absolutely, sir. T-19s, based on blueprints for the first-run tanks we made back in the twentieth century. And they’re marked with red chevrons. Definitely French.”

Stuart scowled and cursed softly. He knew there was no way a French tank could be misidentified, but he had silently prayed that perhaps there would be some measure of uncertainty this time.

“Very well. I’m going to go back in there and handle this, but in the meantime contact Zack for me and tell him to work on his end.” Stuart clapped his aide appreciatively on the shoulder and nodded. “Go on.”

He watched Charlie hurry off down the corridor and took a few deep breaths before turning and entering the boardroom again. Joan was waiting near the door with a knowing look on her face.

“I apologize for the delay…”

“Not at all, Michael, not at all. In fact, I believe I am the one who should apologize. Certainly if there was any other way than a sneak attack I would have chosen it, but alas, here we find ourselves.”

Joan leaned forward and offered a delicately manicured hand, which Stuart accepted tentatively.

“I apologize profusely, Michael. It’s a pity, really." She shook her head, a sad look on her face, as if she were at a funeral. "If only you could see…but of course, you never will.”

Joan stood for a moment, rocking gently back and forth on the balls of her feet, before bidding Stuart good day and sweeping out of the room. Stuart could only stare after her, stunned. What has she done?
 

Ranger99

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Nice story Shady!

I look forward to more updates, by the way... do you mind telling us where you were, before you came back to the states?
 

shady milkman

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Thank you, Ranger, for the feedback! I liked the Carthage story you're writing as well. I expect I might put up an update today if I have the time...

And in answer to your question, my dad was in the Air Force and he got stationed in England at a base called RAF Digby. We moved in July.
 

Ranger99

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Ahh! I had suspected that you were related to the military in some form, you just talked like it kinda I guess.......

Well welcome back to the states, where people say 'Hey' instead of 'Hullo mate!'

I look forward to more updates, and am honored that you've read my humble tale.
 

shady milkman

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@ Dreadnought - thanks! I liked your story as well, though I must confess I haven't read the entire thing.

@Ranger - well guessed.
 

shady milkman

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Conference Room E3, UN Building, Chicago
United States of America
October 19th, 2053​

For the second time in a week. Chairman Stuart found himself across from yet another world leader. As they sat, Stuart hoped to God this one wouldn’t turn out to be a deranged maniac. Folding his hands on the table, he smiled hopefully at the powerful Native American man before him.
“Hiawatha, it’s good to see you again. I trust everything is well back at home?”

The man nodded slowly, placing his hands palm-down on the table and looking slightly ill at ease with his surroundings.
“Yes, Mike. Very well indeed, thanks largely to your generous supplementary funding over the last few years.”

“It’s nothing, my friend. Anything to help out.”

Hiawatha mimicked Stuart, folding his hands neatly on the smooth glass table. He looked all around him, seeming to consume every facet of the room with his eyes.

“I am not used to such comfort, Mike. Where I come from, everything is very simple. We have no use for the elegance you Americans seem so fond of.” He suddenly snapped his eyes back to Stuart’s. “Nor do we have use for illusion. Why am I here, Mike?”

Stuart chuckled and nodded resignedly.

“Very well, Hiawatha, I see you are not a man to be kept waiting. You are here to discuss a small political matter, a trifle, really. You see, recently I’ve had a small…altercation with Joan.” Stuart felt Hiawatha’s eyes boring into his skull and quailed. “All right, all right…a military confrontation. Instigated by her.”

Hiawatha leaned back and crossed his arms, a knowing smile on his face.
“No need to hide things, Mike. I’m no stranger to Joan’s aggressiveness, nor her controversial policies and beliefs. I’m sure you remember the French takeover of the Southlands?”

Stuart winced. The French takeover of the southern portion of the Iroquois continent had been bloody and pointless.
“Yes, I do. An atrocity, and an unnecessary one at that. However, perhaps we can rectify that…I have asked you here to make a pact.”

“A pact?”

“Yes, a pact. Our peoples have traded with each other since the beginning of time, and I believe it has helped us both. However, what I’m asking of you now is something different entirely. I’d like you to sign a trade embargo against France.”

“An embargo, you say…yes, I can do that. Without question.”

Stuart produced a sheet of paper and a fountain pen and slid them across the table, but was interrupted by Hiawatha’s sudden interjection.
“However…I would like something in return.”

Stuart’s hand stopped halfway across the table.
“What’s that?”

“Insurance, Mike. If and when the French extend their hostilites to us, I would appreciate some assistance. Certainly you understand that we cannot fend off such a powerful nation by ourselves.”

“Of course, my friend. Of course.”

Both men shared a brief look of understanding before Hiawatha signed the paper.
 

shady milkman

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@Ranger- I'd like to, but Hia's army is pathetic. He's only in the industrial era... :hmm: So it looks like I'll be doing all the hard work. :D


Pane Mountains, Philippine Islands
United States of America
October 21st, 2053​


Captain Mark Tolliver half-sat, half-lay in the cradle straps of the commander's cupola, letting the deep-throated rumble of the M1A3's engine lull him into a stupor. Winter had come late this year, in early October instead of mid-November, but now that it had arrived the full effects were being felt. Patches of frost crept across the well-kept greens and trees lining the interstate, and the asphalt was already cracking from the low temperatures that characterized a Philippine winter. It wasn't really snowing yet, luckily for Tolliver and his men, or the highway would have to be plowed before they could move out, but nevertheless it was bitingly cold in a strangely pleasant way.

The objective was to protect Port Regis. Tolliver had been told, rather indirectly he thought, that the French were "acting up" near the city, and the threat needed to be suppressed to provide the residents some peace of mind. Off the record., Tolliver had been pulled aside and told that it was, in fact, a direct military conflict, but that the Chairman wanted as little press as possible. The area was being contained, and the residents of Port Regis were being kept on the base, so Tolliver and his men had a clear playing field. Even so, it would still be a difficult fight, even against the outdated weaponry the French would doubtless bring into the fray.

Tolliver checked his watch against his map and figured they had about twenty minutes until they reached the battlefield. Plenty of time for a quick nap.
 

Ranger99

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ohh! Bad ally! That's no fun! You couldn't get the Celts or the Dutch to join you? or too high of prices?

i know what you're sayin here at the begininng of every modern war i EVER get into the AI always sends outdated units to me, it's like they declared war to get rid of them.
 

shady milkman

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Well, actually the Dutch and the Celts are both city-states at this point. I took over Kodo island in a brief war with the Dutch in the early '20s, and the Celts got flattened by Russia in the Middle Ages.
 

Lord_Iggy

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Could you post a world map?

Heehee, American communists. I mean, Canadian, maayybbe, Cuban, sure, but AMERICAN!?! :crazyeye:
 

shady milkman

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haha yeah...TECHNICALLY it's socialist, but I guess the label applies.

To answer you question...yeah. I'll see what I can cobble together.
 

Ranger99

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OKKK!

I'll be waiting you have an interesting story goin' on here shady and it looks like it'll turn out pretty good!
 
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