If Mahan Could See Us Now
- Thread starter 4WheelSword
- Start date
- Original
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] I would like to make a statement about the inglorious nature of war.
FlyingScanian
Tea Addict
- Location
- Land of Eternal Night
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Please don't scare me like that again... My reactions on reading this was basically "Shit! Fuck! [Bleep]. No. Where's the abort..." and that was before I could continue reading (in those few moments where the eyes hadn't found the next letter yet...)
I think that counts as good writing...
[X] I am tired, my wound takes its toll
cokerpilot
Here comes the rain.
[X] I am tired, my wound takes its toll
4WheelSword
The original N-body Problem
- Pronouns
- It/She/They
Thanks! Seriously I'm taking this as a huge compliment <3
xa na xa
A.E.I.O.U. - Antarticae est imperare orbi universo
- Location
- σ Octantis
[X] Yes, though I will lace every answer with criticism.
This could be very psychologically cathartic.
As for the PR effect on the press; either it will be negative. In which case it will help be forgotten and left alone. Or positive, which will help whatever we want to do.
This could be very psychologically cathartic.
As for the PR effect on the press; either it will be negative. In which case it will help be forgotten and left alone. Or positive, which will help whatever we want to do.
4WheelSword
The original N-body Problem
- Pronouns
- It/She/They
Inserted tally
4WheelSword
The original N-body Problem
- Pronouns
- It/She/They
Would someone care to roll 2d10 for me.
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
Sure.
C4P4: What maketh a coward?
4WheelSword
The original N-body Problem
- Pronouns
- It/She/They
Dear god does this sheep have teeth. A vicious idea creeps its way into your head, skulking like an intruder in the night who wishes nought but ill for the occupants of a sleeping house. All of these people want to hear of the glory of combat, the rush of victory, the true appreciation of the world that comes from having been blooded. The Generals want you to tell your story with a somber joy, sad for the dead but happy to have been in the thick of things with a weapon in your hand fighting for the truth and the unity of Varnmark.
You decide in but a matter of seconds that instead you will tell them the truth. You hold your hands up for quiet, waiting for silence to fall, an expectant hush that makes the anxiety over what you're about to do only redouble.
You can't imagine your senior officers being happy with what you plan to say.
"I'm afraid I will not be answering any questions. I am still recovering from the wound I suffered in defence of this port and it leaves me quite tired." You can actually feel the wave of disappointment that washes across the gathered crowd at your words, like the air has been let out of a balloon. "But I do have something I'd like to say."
Another flashbulb goes off as you pause for breath, making you blink hard. You'd never realised quite how bright they are from the times you've seen them turned at other people. It takes a moment for your vision to clear. Hopefully they'll choose to believe you are simply putting your thoughts in order, not waiting for the white spots to fade.
"It is not often that a person gets the opportunity to learn of what they are made. Rarely are we tested in the way that war tests us. We are not asked to take up arms against our fellow man, and even less often are we asked to carry our rifles against the men and women amongst who we live every day. That is what was asked of me, of my fellow officers, of the marines and sailors alongside who i fought and of the civilians who chose to fight for their homes with only the duty that they carried in their hearts in that grim month of January earlier this year."
Start them off nicely, you think, build them up to think you'll be making some speech of the grandiose nature of battle. It will only make what comes later more striking.
"Every single one of those men and women who fought, who bled and who died for Varnmark proved what they are made of. They are men of iron and women of steel, courageous and bold. They charged alongside me with heads held hire and their weapons in their hands into the furious guns of the rebels."
You pause, taking another deep breath. You can feel their eyes on you, hear the scratching of pens on paper. Your legs are trembling, your hands shaking just enough for you to notice. Hopefully nobody else does.
"And they died in their hundreds, even their thousands. You will never know many of their names. Even I only know three of the dozens that fought alongside me in those two weeks of hell where we bled for every street and every house that we took back from the rebels who would have taken everything from us. Lily Antonov died in the night without a murmur, bleeding into her own lungs, and she never got to go home to her parents. I did though, when I took her identification papers back to them. Kapitan Larsen, whose first name I was never given, lead a charge with all the bravery our service asks for through an artillery bombardment. He was cut down by shrapnel without making it five yards."
The shakes are worse. You weren't lying to them when you said that standing makes you tired, but this is necessary.
"Anton Medyedev, Starshi-Leytenant of the Marines, honoured me by fighting by my side through much of the January Rebellion. He, like me, was a young officer who only wanted to do his best by his nation and by his service. He, like me, fought through some of the most brutal engagements of those two weeks. Unlike me, he was killed in the closing hours of the conflict as we made our last pushes to take the enemy guns. Since then I have met his wife, and I have met his daughter who, it transpires, took her first steps while he was fighting for this city. He will never see her walk."
"The war I saw in those two weeks was not glorious. It was not heroism, though there were heroes, and it was not valour, though there was that too. It was dirty and it was bloody and the things I saw and did will not leave my dreams. I am not a hero for killing men and boys alike in the name of a united Varnmark."
You reach up and gently pull the medal from your breast, sliding it into a pocket instead.
"I am not a hero. War does not make heroes. It only fills graves."
You turn in the following silence and walk slowly from the stage with that same step-clump that bothered you so. Now it was simply punctuation to the end of a speech. Sasha holds out a hand to help you down the stairs and offers you your cane. You slip your other arm through hers and walk away with your back to the now babbling crowd and the red-faced General.
You leave the next day. Sitting in a modern motor-carriage with a travelling case each, you talk quietly with Sasha. On your lap is a copy of a morning paper, your picture on the front with the headline 'OFFICER DENIES HEROISM". It could have been worse. There had been a rag in the corner shop, a sensationalist thing printed by socialists which had no picture (fortunately) but which headlined with "COWARDLY SAILOR SAYS DEAD UNHEROIC". Maybe some of your message would get through to the moderates. With Europa simmering it is the least you can do to perhaps change the course of things.
The Admiralty was furious of course. If you hadn't already resigned with their grace they would surely have discharged you forthwith. But they had no such power anymore. It was liberating, a freedom from responsibility and the servility that came with a commission. It was the end of a dream, but perhaps it was time to find a new dream.
You look at the woman beside you and smile, squeezing her hand gently.
How will you travel?
[ ] By Sea
[ ] By Land
[ ] By Air
You decide in but a matter of seconds that instead you will tell them the truth. You hold your hands up for quiet, waiting for silence to fall, an expectant hush that makes the anxiety over what you're about to do only redouble.
You can't imagine your senior officers being happy with what you plan to say.
"I'm afraid I will not be answering any questions. I am still recovering from the wound I suffered in defence of this port and it leaves me quite tired." You can actually feel the wave of disappointment that washes across the gathered crowd at your words, like the air has been let out of a balloon. "But I do have something I'd like to say."
Another flashbulb goes off as you pause for breath, making you blink hard. You'd never realised quite how bright they are from the times you've seen them turned at other people. It takes a moment for your vision to clear. Hopefully they'll choose to believe you are simply putting your thoughts in order, not waiting for the white spots to fade.
"It is not often that a person gets the opportunity to learn of what they are made. Rarely are we tested in the way that war tests us. We are not asked to take up arms against our fellow man, and even less often are we asked to carry our rifles against the men and women amongst who we live every day. That is what was asked of me, of my fellow officers, of the marines and sailors alongside who i fought and of the civilians who chose to fight for their homes with only the duty that they carried in their hearts in that grim month of January earlier this year."
Start them off nicely, you think, build them up to think you'll be making some speech of the grandiose nature of battle. It will only make what comes later more striking.
"Every single one of those men and women who fought, who bled and who died for Varnmark proved what they are made of. They are men of iron and women of steel, courageous and bold. They charged alongside me with heads held hire and their weapons in their hands into the furious guns of the rebels."
You pause, taking another deep breath. You can feel their eyes on you, hear the scratching of pens on paper. Your legs are trembling, your hands shaking just enough for you to notice. Hopefully nobody else does.
"And they died in their hundreds, even their thousands. You will never know many of their names. Even I only know three of the dozens that fought alongside me in those two weeks of hell where we bled for every street and every house that we took back from the rebels who would have taken everything from us. Lily Antonov died in the night without a murmur, bleeding into her own lungs, and she never got to go home to her parents. I did though, when I took her identification papers back to them. Kapitan Larsen, whose first name I was never given, lead a charge with all the bravery our service asks for through an artillery bombardment. He was cut down by shrapnel without making it five yards."
The shakes are worse. You weren't lying to them when you said that standing makes you tired, but this is necessary.
"Anton Medyedev, Starshi-Leytenant of the Marines, honoured me by fighting by my side through much of the January Rebellion. He, like me, was a young officer who only wanted to do his best by his nation and by his service. He, like me, fought through some of the most brutal engagements of those two weeks. Unlike me, he was killed in the closing hours of the conflict as we made our last pushes to take the enemy guns. Since then I have met his wife, and I have met his daughter who, it transpires, took her first steps while he was fighting for this city. He will never see her walk."
"The war I saw in those two weeks was not glorious. It was not heroism, though there were heroes, and it was not valour, though there was that too. It was dirty and it was bloody and the things I saw and did will not leave my dreams. I am not a hero for killing men and boys alike in the name of a united Varnmark."
You reach up and gently pull the medal from your breast, sliding it into a pocket instead.
"I am not a hero. War does not make heroes. It only fills graves."
You turn in the following silence and walk slowly from the stage with that same step-clump that bothered you so. Now it was simply punctuation to the end of a speech. Sasha holds out a hand to help you down the stairs and offers you your cane. You slip your other arm through hers and walk away with your back to the now babbling crowd and the red-faced General.
You leave the next day. Sitting in a modern motor-carriage with a travelling case each, you talk quietly with Sasha. On your lap is a copy of a morning paper, your picture on the front with the headline 'OFFICER DENIES HEROISM". It could have been worse. There had been a rag in the corner shop, a sensationalist thing printed by socialists which had no picture (fortunately) but which headlined with "COWARDLY SAILOR SAYS DEAD UNHEROIC". Maybe some of your message would get through to the moderates. With Europa simmering it is the least you can do to perhaps change the course of things.
The Admiralty was furious of course. If you hadn't already resigned with their grace they would surely have discharged you forthwith. But they had no such power anymore. It was liberating, a freedom from responsibility and the servility that came with a commission. It was the end of a dream, but perhaps it was time to find a new dream.
You look at the woman beside you and smile, squeezing her hand gently.
How will you travel?
[ ] By Sea
[ ] By Land
[ ] By Air
- Location
- Somewhere in the stacks
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] By Sea
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] By Air
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
[x] By Air
i am obligated to vote this
i am obligated to vote this
- Location
- Iceland
[X] By Sea