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Edit: Uju is trying to compare total apples and oranges with the Javelin comparison, as a HEAT charge is nothing like a HE shell. One makes a supersonic copper jet to melt a thin small hole that a warship won't even notice, the other throws shrapnel everywhere at low velocity, and as long as the armor deformation is not too much, the dent can quite literally be hammered out.
Edit 2: I can probably math it out, with minimal assumptions if that would help?
Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand,
Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land?
First Lieutenant Daniel Smith, of the Commonwealth Air Force. The name was no more his by birth than was his nation, though both 'Daniel' and his reforged loyalties had the weight of years of their own.
<You will die, damned, traitor>, said the cruel inner deacon who would ride in the back of his head for all his days.
And Gideon Kelley, whose Cessna had once disappeared from Buffalo Army Air Station's radar on a routine patrol, accompanied by the tense last messages of a man about to crash into the lake, only to fly nap-of-the-Earth the five hundred miles to Chicago and defection, let out a soft sigh. His hands relaxed slightly on the carefully restored Vought Crusader's stick.
He'd shown up to militia training in his teens more often than was asked, as some boys did. He'd hoped, even, to distinguish himself and be chosen for the Army, in those days when he thought of it as a way to win salvation from his sins through service in God's legions. It was hard, sometimes, to understand the boy he'd been then.
The Merrimack Minutemen weren't Army units, and they'd done few enough field exercises. Once, though, there'd been mortar fire. Close enough to make him fall down on his belly and kiss the earth, wishing for the paws of a mole to dig a hole and pull it in after him. No one could possibly have heard the boy of seventeen weep and cry out for his mother, but somehow, the recruiters must have known. Twenty-two young Minutemen were chosen for the Army that summer. Gideon was not.
The thought of four-inch shells crashing down on the runways at Buffalo, perhaps smashing the barracks he'd once called home into ruin… it filled him with a thousand thoughts. His deacon didn't like it, though. And that was enough.
More than enough.
To him, those humble little plumes of coal smoke were Truth, and the humiliation of kings whose haughty wickedness he had so slowly come to understand. They were here to break the pride and wrath and greed that he now understood drove the fierce and terrible army he'd once thought his salvation.
Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is strong,
And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng
Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong.
But that was their mission. His mission today was to save them from the concentrated wrath of the Victorian Army Air Force, or die in the doing.
Go, ye heroes, and die. The thought sat more easily with him than the notion of martyrdom had for a long time. It followed familiar old pathways in his heart to an unfamiliar destination, but one more in line with the knot of insistent heart and conscience that wrestled with his deacon for command of his soul.
He could spot some of his comrades-in-arms, fill in the presence of others from knowledge of their formation. The motley, rainbow-painted, piratical Commonwealth Air Force, so unlike the sleek snowy discipline he'd once known. Lesser-than, perhaps, but also a braver and more romantic thing, a thing with which he could die more happily than ever he would have, in another life, in arms against them.
Crow Squadron, with a mix of Falcons all its own. And up with the Crows he could see a lone, gleaming dart, a thing of tiny wings and brilliant duralumin. An F-104, the Commonwealth's by a pedigree stretching back through private collectors and unto the Italian Air Force. He remembered the Starfighter's hundredth birthday party, when Greased Lightning had seemed to be flying at Mach 2 even parked in a hangar. Beautiful.
Below them, Sapphire Squadron. Even hurrying, the museum-raiders had been able to patch together three and a half of the old Phantoms. Given the state of the avionics on Sapphire Three, 'half' sounded about right to him, but he grudged none their right to fly here.
He, lower still, was a lone hanger-on, rather like Greased Lightning and its pilot. The Phantoms were fruit of a quick project to gather museum pieces. By contrast, years of effort had yielded the Chicago Air Patrol only one carefully reassembled F-8 Crusader, of much the same vintage. The old interceptor had once been meant as a vicious close-in dogfighter, a counterpart to the F-4's largely failed intent as a long range missileer. With him circled two of the old F-105 'Thuds,' fighter-bombers that A Soldier's Life had taken surprising time out to sneer at in passing. Gideon would never understand why; they'd been retired before John Rumford was even born.
Below them, a mass of barely-supersonic jet trainers retrofitted for Sidewinders, a squadron of Skyhawks for whom the sound barrier was a barrier, a lone slightly post-Korean Super Sabre… and an awkwardly re-engined Aardvark fighter-bomber whose swing-wings no longer folded back.
And down near the deck, visible when he banked and peered, a couple of wings of propeller planes buzzing around only a few thousand feet above the lake. More of those pilots than he liked to think about were his friends, God help them.
"Sapphire, this is Red Dog. We've got bandits on the scope, 11,000 feet. One hell of a dot."
His deacon lashed him, weakly, at the casual blasphemy, but that arm had lost its strength years ago, and that whip held no power over him. They'd discussed the plan earlier, and he agreed with what the rest of the canny older hands had decided- that Crow Squadron would sit back and let the older fighters' radar do the first work.
Sapphire 1 confirmed- and even at this distance, Gideon could see glints of sunlight off the matte white frames of the oncoming Vipers. His imagination could fill in the gaps; he'd practiced those formations enough times.
Outnumbered two or three to one even if the VAAF hadn't brought its full weight to the field, likely outranged and suffering from a painful inferiority of equipment, the Commonwealth jets turned to intercept.
Gideon snapped his well-loved but unnamed Crusader to the new heading with practiced ease, and bowed his head to pray once again.
Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record
One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;
Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne-
Flashes and a few smoke trails leapt out from overhead. A chorus of Fox Ones and Fox Threes came from Falcons and Phantoms and the lone Starfighter. None from him, of course. His Crusader, perhaps the last specimen of a breed once called the Last Gunfighters, could no more fight beyond visual range than it could tap dance. For him, the dogfight.
<You will have no such thing. You will be struck down, never laying a missile or a gun on the righteous. You will die, damned, and useless even to this den of sinners.>
His hand tightened slightly on the stick as he pushed that terrible inner voice behind him. So few CAF planes had the radar to steer a long range missile to a distant target, and so few CAF missiles could steer themselves.
Then, distant wisps of smoke, as the massive phalanx of Vipers answered. Ice formed in his belly.
General Franks had been right. They must have come carrying antiship and antitank missiles. Mostly Mavericks, he thought. More of them than he'd thought the VAAF had. Enough that the radar-homing barrage he recognized was thin, thin, with hardly a quarter of the Vipers carrying their payload of long-range, self-guided missiles.
The wave of AIM-120s would be far less than one might expect from a force that size. But he knew the book. "Less" would mean "forty, or more." Maybe some of the Commonwealth jets would make it to Sidewinder range. Maybe.
Maybe.
Was that flicker of hope he'd seen in General Franks' face a reality? Had she seen some sign, of which he remained ignorant?
For one second, two, three, he looked down again, closed his eyes in silent prayer. Time for long range missiles to cross miles at Mach 3, or four, or five.
<Thou wilt die, damned, enemy of the Lord.>, said the mocking old man in the back of his head.
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.
We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,
Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate.
He thought briefly of his Angel, to the furious screams of his deacon, and looked up. The missiles were crossing each other now, receding engine flares downrange, oncoming smoke trails becoming visible, more visible than they ought to be. The Victorian AIM-120s flew straight and true.
Too straight. Too true.
He started to wonder if they were homing on the Chicagoan jets at all.
He stopped wondering, for they surely weren't.
Had the VAAF done something horribly wrong? Had something gone wrong with their missiles, on a scale larger than he'd have thought possible, from his own time in their ranks? Had the hand of Providence chosen this moment to work through some unknown, humble instruments?
His eyes hardened behind the oxygen mask.
In any event, the Lord helped those who helped themselves. "Daniel" scanned his instrument panel, then peered into the distance, angling his plane slightly, and trying to position himself for a head-on firing solution. The Vipers he'd once bedded down with would resort to guns after this, and that he could match them in.
All poetic excerpts are from The Present Crisis, by James Russell Lowell, c. 1845.
The hymn Once to Every Man and Nation is an abridged and slightly modified version of the poem.
The Victorian Common Hymnal version of Once to Every Man and Nation is a differently abridged, heavily modified version of the same poem.
The original version of The Present Crisis is, unsurprisingly to those who have read it, banned in Victoria
Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand,
Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land?
First Lieutenant Daniel Smith, of the Commonwealth Air Force. The name was no more his by birth than was his nation, though both 'Daniel' and his reforged loyalties had the weight of years of their own.
<You will die, damned, traitor>, said the cruel inner deacon who would ride in the back of his head for all his days.
And Gideon Kelley, whose Cessna had once disappeared from Buffalo Army Air Station's radar on a routine patrol, accompanied by the tense last messages of a man about to crash into the lake, only to fly nap-of-the-Earth the five hundred miles to Chicago and defection, let out a soft sigh. His hands relaxed slightly on the carefully restored Vought Crusader's stick.
He'd shown up to militia training in his teens more often than was asked, as some boys did. He'd hoped, even, to distinguish himself and be chosen for the Army, in those days when he thought of it as a way to win salvation from his sins through service in God's legions. It was hard, sometimes, to understand the boy he'd been then.
The Merrimack Minutemen weren't Army units, and they'd done few enough field exercises. Once, though, there'd been mortar fire. Close enough to make him fall down on his belly and kiss the earth, wishing for the paws of a mole to dig a hole and pull it in after him. No one could possibly have heard the boy of seventeen weep and cry out for his mother, but somehow, the recruiters must have known. Twenty-two young Minutemen were chosen for the Army that summer. Gideon was not.
The thought of four-inch shells crashing down on the runways at Buffalo, perhaps smashing the barracks he'd once called home into ruin… it filled him with a thousand thoughts. His deacon didn't like it, though. And that was enough.
More than enough.
To him, those humble little plumes of coal smoke were Truth, and the humiliation of kings whose haughty wickedness he had so slowly come to understand. They were here to break the pride and wrath and greed that he now understood drove the fierce and terrible army he'd once thought his salvation.
Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is strong,
And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng
Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong.
But that was their mission. His mission today was to save them from the concentrated wrath of the Victorian Army Air Force, or die in the doing.
Go, ye heroes, and die. The thought sat more easily with him than the notion of martyrdom had for a long time. It followed familiar old pathways in his heart to an unfamiliar destination, but one more in line with the knot of insistent heart and conscience that wrestled with his deacon for command of his soul.
He could spot some of his comrades-in-arms, fill in the presence of others from knowledge of their formation. The motley, rainbow-painted, piratical Commonwealth Air Force, so unlike the sleek snowy discipline he'd once known. Lesser-than, perhaps, but also a braver and more romantic thing, a thing with which he could die more happily than ever he would have, in another life, in arms against them.
Crow Squadron, with a mix of Falcons all its own. And up with the Crows he could see a lone, gleaming dart, a thing of tiny wings and brilliant duralumin. An F-104, the Commonwealth's by a pedigree stretching back through private collectors and unto the Italian Air Force. He remembered the Starfighter's hundredth birthday party, when Greased Lightning had seemed to be flying at Mach 2 even parked in a hangar. Beautiful.
Below them, Sapphire Squadron. Even hurrying, the museum-raiders had been able to patch together three and a half of the old Phantoms. Given the state of the avionics on Sapphire Three, 'half' sounded about right to him, but he grudged none their right to fly here.
He, lower still, was a lone hanger-on, rather like Greased Lightning and its pilot. The Phantoms were fruit of a quick project to gather museum pieces. By contrast, years of effort had yielded the Chicago Air Patrol only one carefully reassembled F-8 Crusader, of much the same vintage. The old interceptor had once been meant as a vicious close-in dogfighter, a counterpart to the F-4's largely failed intent as a long range missileer. With him circled two of the old F-105 'Thuds,' fighter-bombers that A Soldier's Life had taken surprising time out to sneer at in passing. Gideon would never understand why; they'd been retired before John Rumford was even born.
Below them, a mass of barely-supersonic jet trainers retrofitted for Sidewinders, a squadron of Skyhawks for whom the sound barrier was a barrier, a lone slightly post-Korean Super Sabre… and an awkwardly re-engined Aardvark fighter-bomber whose swing-wings no longer folded back.
And down near the deck, visible when he banked and peered, a couple of wings of propeller planes buzzing around only a few thousand feet above the lake. More of those pilots than he liked to think about were his friends, God help them.
"Sapphire, this is Red Dog. We've got bandits on the scope, 11,000 feet. One hell of a dot."
His deacon lashed him, weakly, at the casual blasphemy, but that arm had lost its strength years ago, and that whip held no power over him. They'd discussed the plan earlier, and he agreed with what the rest of the canny older hands had decided- that Crow Squadron would sit back and let the older fighters' radar do the first work.
Sapphire 1 confirmed- and even at this distance, Gideon could see glints of sunlight off the matte white frames of the oncoming Vipers. His imagination could fill in the gaps; he'd practiced those formations enough times.
Outnumbered two or three to one even if the VAAF hadn't brought its full weight to the field, likely outranged and suffering from a painful inferiority of equipment, the Commonwealth jets turned to intercept.
Gideon snapped his well-loved but unnamed Crusader to the new heading with practiced ease, and bowed his head to pray once again.
Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record
One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;
Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne-
Flashes and a few smoke trails leapt out from overhead. A chorus of Fox Ones and Fox Threes came from Falcons and Phantoms and the lone Starfighter. None from him, of course. His Crusader, perhaps the last specimen of a breed once called the Last Gunfighters, could no more fight beyond visual range than it could tap dance. For him, the dogfight.
<You will have no such thing. You will be struck down, never laying a missile or a gun on the righteous. You will die, damned, and useless even to this den of sinners.>
His hand tightened slightly on the stick as he pushed that terrible inner voice behind him.
So few CAF planes had the radar to steer a long range missile to a distant target, and so few CAF missiles could steer themselves.
Then, distant wisps of smoke, as the massive phalanx of Vipers answered. Ice formed in his belly.
General Franks had been right. They must have come carrying antiship and antitank missiles. Mostly Mavericks, he thought. More of them than he'd thought the VAAF had. Enough that the radar-homing barrage he recognized was thin, thin, with hardly a quarter of the Vipers carrying their payload of long-range, self-guided missiles.
The wave of AIM-120s would be far less than one might expect from a force that size. But he knew the book. "Less" would mean "forty, or more." Maybe some of the Commonwealth jets would make it to Sidewinder range. Maybe.
Maybe.
Was that flicker of hope he'd seen in General Franks' face a reality? Had she seen some sign, of which he remained ignorant?
For one second, two, three, he looked down again, closed his eyes in silent prayer. Time for long range missiles to cross miles at Mach 3, or four, or five.
<Thou wilt die, damned, enemy of the Lord.>, said the mocking old man in the back of his head.
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.
We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,
Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate.
He thought briefly of his Angel, to the furious screams of his deacon, and looked up. The missiles were crossing each other now, receding engine flares downrange, oncoming smoke trails becoming visible, more visible than they ought to be. The Victorian AIM-120s flew straight and true.
Too straight. Too true.
He started to wonder if they were homing on the Chicagoan jets at all.
He stopped wondering, for they surely weren't.
Had the VAAF done something horribly wrong? Had something gone wrong with their missiles, on a scale larger than he'd have thought possible, from his own time in their ranks? Had the hand of Providence chosen this moment to work through some unknown, humble instruments?
His eyes hardened behind the oxygen mask.
In any event, the Lord helped those who helped themselves. "Daniel" scanned his instrument panel, then peered into the distance, angling his plane slightly, and trying to position himself for a head-on firing solution. The Vipers he'd once bedded down with would resort to guns after this, and that he could match them in.
All poetic excerpts are from The Present Crisis, by James Russell Lowell, c. 1845.
The hymn Once to Every Man and Nation is an abridged and slightly modified version of the poem.
The Victorian Common Hymnal version of Once to Every Man and Nation is a differently abridged, heavily modified version of the same poem.
The original version of The Present Crisis is, unsurprisingly to those who have read it, banned in Victoria
Edit: Uju is trying to compare total apples and oranges with the Javelin comparison, as a HEAT charge is nothing like a HE shell. One makes a supersonic copper jet to melt a thin small hole that a warship won't even notice, the other throws shrapnel everywhere at low velocity, and as long as the armor deformation is not too much, the dent can quite literally be hammered out.
It must be noted that since we are concerned about getting hit by five-inch mortars, this still leaves us putting one-inch deck armor on our prospective Lake frigate design. That's probably manageable, but will still represent a considerable extra weight.
As you know, seaworthiness considerations will be complicated by putting the deck armor relatively high above the waterline, making the ship more prone to roll in heavy, ah... 'seas.'
And we can't put the armor deck further down in the hull, because those mortar bombs will blow up on the first surface they hit, so the only way to prevent the damage is to armor that specific surface. Armoring something further down in the hull and writing off the stuff above the armor deck (it doesn't really matter if enemy fire blows up the captain's cabin, or the toilets, or the ship's larder, does it ) would normally work against armor-piercing shells, but not work here because the mortar fire will do the same amount of damage if it hits the less armored superstructure and upper decks, regardless of whether there's an armor deck underneath the upper parts of the ship. Armor that isn't exposed to the open air and the first thing a mortar bomb hits on the way down might as well not even be there.
EDIT:
Another concern is that the Victorians could probably, without too much trouble, adapt their existing tank turrets* as coast defense weapons or naval weapons. There is some danger that in the relatively near term, we may have to worry about D-5T rounds coming in from the side. Frankly we could armor against that threat at realistic engagement ranges, but it does give us a reason to think in terms of belt armor as well as deck armor.
The problem, of course, is that every ton of weight we spend on armor (building this up like a WWII navy would build its warships) is a ton we don't spend on modern air defense equipment, greater shore bombardment capability, and so on.
__________
*(I STRONGLY suspect Victoria actually manufactures their own T-34s. There is nothing in the design that Retroculture industrial technology can't handle, and running a production line for T-34s would be so absurdly inconvenient for the modern-day Russians. As in, if Russia was building the T-34s for them on a regular basis, it would probably literally be less work to say "fuckit" and give them T-72s. Because then they don't have to operate a whole unique factory that exists for the sole purpose of supplying the Victorians with weak-ass inferior tanks.)
-Airburst shrapnel will get stopped by the steel construction common to warship construction, which amounts to roughly three quarters of an inch, or roughly 9.3mm of shipgrade steel.
Actual contact detonations are a different bet.
Note how Denmark has a land border with Germany but wasn't overrun by starving hordes.
Europe had political and socioeconomic chaos, and in some places actual war.
Not widespread starvation outside small pockets, or a breakdown of internal logistic lines; the EU produces a food surplus, and always have.
Besides maybe the UK, which imports food and then did a YOLO out of the EU at the worst possible time.
If the EU had been starving, Alexander would have strolled to the English Channel instead of simply nibbling at the periphery.
People will give a lot for food.
2) The EU food surplus depends on functioning international trade, Victoria and Russia took care of that, the internal logistic lines being maintained won't stop cascading failures, people WILL die because of that.
3) People will indeed give a lot for food. But the states aren't going to stop offering organized resistance just because many of the people in them are starving...
I get that the mind cringes away from just how awful Lind's utopia is, but we live in a very interconnected world and those connections going up in a puff of smoke and retrowankery leads to much of what we take for granted as fundamental, immovable facts about the world crumble into the abyss.
At the same time, people and states are much better at managing crises than is generally appreciated, so societies can undergo horrific ordeals and emerge wounded but alive.
At the same time, people and states are much better at managing crises than is generally appreciated, so societies can undergo horrific ordeals and emerge wounded but alive.
2) The EU food surplus depends on functioning international trade, Victoria and Russia took care of that, the internal logistic lines being maintained won't stop cascading failures, people WILL die because of that.
3) People will indeed give a lot for food. But the states aren't going to stop offering organized resistance just because many of the people in them are starving...
I get that the mind cringes away from just how awful Lind's utopia is, but we live in a very interconnected world and those connections going up in a puff of smoke and retrowankery leads to much of what we take for granted as fundamental, immovable facts about the world crumble into the abyss.
At the same time, people and states are much better at managing crises than is generally appreciated, so societies can undergo horrific ordeals and emerge wounded but alive.
Well, WW2 Europe does argue that its possible to feed much of Europe at livable standards even without trade. Denmark for example did so, by increasing grain grown and cutting meat.
Starvation in Western Europe was more due to deleterious withdrawals by Germany rather than food shortages due to trade.while modern day Europe relies heavily on Kenya and africa for food, much of this is in seasonal vegetables, fruits or flowers.
Europe would be malnourished compared to modern times but its possible. The question is whether its plausible, since hyperinflation was a sudden shock .
Also, abrupt and extreme economic shocks can cause disruptions of supply and distribution chains that could easily cause food insecurity.
This could happen in countries that do not experience a protracted famine condition of "there are literally not enough calories to be had by any means available to keep everyone fed."
*(I STRONGLY suspect Victoria actually manufactures their own T-34s. There is nothing in the design that Retroculture industrial technology can't handle, and running a production line for T-34s would be so absurdly inconvenient for the modern-day Russians. As in, if Russia was building the T-34s for them on a regular basis, it would probably literally be less work to say "fuckit" and give them T-72s. Because then they don't have to operate a whole unique factory that exists for the sole purpose of supplying the Victorians with weak-ass inferior tanks.)
They're probably not building historically accurate replicas to the very last detail, but something that looks like it and has the same general specifications. Would fool any casual layman at first glance, but are more like 50s-60s tanks in capacity.
I think it's important to remember that retroculture is more form than function.
In typical reactionary fashion, what's important for people like Lind is that appearances are kept, like in the good old days.
Nevermind that historical replicas would be far more expensive than lookalikes.
The Victorians are not reenactors caring about the versimilitude of the things themselves, they want to prevent the appearance of things they deem bad.
So if cheating is going to give them some practical advantages, they are going to cheat.
Talk of bodies, death, massacres, rape, child brides
AN: This take place right before the battle of Huron.
Dispatches from Detroit- 9a
Dispatches from Ashtabula
Well now, readers, listeners, the sun is shining, birds are singing, and there are a lot of dead Victorians. Least, lot I saw, and if everyone I talked to report's are accurate, a lot I didn't see as well. Now, I think those who call me a cynic are a might harsh. I'm an optimist, but, as a good reporter, I have to consider all the possibilities, so it could all be propaganda. Still, managed to find most everyone I interviewed before, and there are a lot of people at this line.
Reports are… well I don't want to spoil things. But the air seems to be that the Victorian's don't have much of a prayer, and honestly, I'm inclined to believe em. Promised myself I wouldn't focus too much on the future until the battle was won, too much bout counting chickens, and besides, part of me has trouble believing it. But it does turn my mind to other things.
Anyone remember Ashtabula? I mentioned them in my last Dispatch. I'm sure most round here do, it wasn't that long ago, or well, actually been seven years, but it feels shorter. Then again, Victoria made sure people around Erie remembered it.
The official story, or Victoria's story, cause that's the only official story that ever exists. Is that Ashtabula was infected by Cultural Marxism. Started imprisoning sailors with tariffs and killing them and all sort of things. They were madmen, consorting with orks, and had become them, planning to kill everyone around them. So, Victoria put em down.
Victoria goes through a lot of towns. Usually one or two people, in a place as large Detroit, unless you are in a high-casualty industry such as politician, business owner, or newspaper, you'd hardly notice the direct deaths. Even smaller towns deal with it. Sometimes they purge a place. Going through and conquering it, killing a large population in order to show em they mean business. Sometimes they wipe smaller towns of the map. But Ashtabula wasn't a small town, wasn't nothing.
Ashtabula is gone. The people are gone, the buildings are gone. They even brought in an old freighter, one on its last legs, and sunk it at the mouth of the river, salting the metaphorical fields. Ashtabula was a message. Victoria would like to have you believe that you can't interview a survivor of Ashtabula. They got em all. Anytime someone had anything to say about that that might contradict them, well, Victorians do what Victorians do. But, like most things, there seems to be a might contradiction between the Victorian's truth, and the facts on the ground, as it is.
One of the first things I did, after war was declared, was track down those I knew, or suspected, and asked em. I wanted to know, what the shape of Detroit could look like. Thought about writing it up but felt a little too morbid. Like I was admitting what would happen and just telling people what to expect. But now, now I feel like I can deal with it. Talk about it. And I should talk about it. Victoria wanted to silence us, Victoria did silence Ashtabula. So, for now I want to perform a bit of a miracle, and, for one night, resurrect Ashtabula. In doing so I'm going to ask on indulgence. Some of the survivors wanted their names out there, allow one last spit in Victoria's eye, some didn't. I'm going to respect that, so please excuse the way this story twists in name usage.
Victoria's got a strange relationship with those of us near it. They wish we didn't exist, but also need us to supply their transportation and help bully for goods. Ashtabula defined that mix. Victoria didn't much like places closer than that having any organized populace, hence why Erie, the city, not the lake, is only a huddling town amidst the skeletons of skyscrapers. Ashtabula was the closest large port they were willing to tolerate and grew for that. It was a strange mix. On the one hand, Victorians were passing through regularly, on the other, they wanted it working, so that their 'trade' could flow through, as such they didn't take too much. Victorian's were almost normal there, even compared to Detroit. They passed through, and you maintained your respect, but you almost knew em, as long as you were careful, it was alright.
People died, but not too many, given how many Victorians stopped over, it was considered poor form to kill there. Like pissing on the floor of the company toilet. We all pass through, and it's too small to just kill. Things were fine, or at least the fine you tell yourself it is. Sure, they kept their heads low. Sure, you made sure women dressed properly, lets Victorian eyes were offended, and kept em in after dark. Sure, weren't do many with the wrong skin color, and what there was stayed away from the docks and river, but life went by, as it always does.
There were always Victorians there. So, when an army gathered, it wasn't thought of perhaps, as much as it should. But we have all seen armies passing through, and not run because they might not be for us. You can't run all the time, you'd never get anything done. First sign something was up was some of the naval boats outside the horizon. Few of the boats on the docks left then, thinking it might be an impressment raid.
Victorians surrounded the town, no one is sure how many divisions they had, but the navy cut off the lake, army the east, then crossed south of the river, and finally the west closed. On of the things the survivors talked about was how strange it was that they didn't flee. Guessed I can relate, having not fled on my own, but they talked less of defiance, and more of paralysis. This was just a mustering, it had to be.
Few did, making their way west. Talked to one survivor, apparently the Victorians had a few scouts already out west, and shot at them. Many turned back then, but he didn't. After all, if the Victorians were already shooting at anyone who fled, then whatever it was, it couldn't be good, and the army was only getting closer. They aren't sure how they managed to craw through, but thanks to forest, and knowing the area, they made it out, last, they ever saw of it.
The town was surrounded soon, and briefly, silence. One of the militia men went out trying to ask what was going on. Still was hope, hope that this was a mistake. Or that there was someone they could offer, someone who had offended and could be fed to the Victorians. Some reason. He was shot 20 feet from the Victorian lines.
The cry of Victoria went out, and the town was charged, gunfire and mortars coming at the same time.
Not much gunfire from the militia, half just seemed to give up then and there, what few had even tried. The longest thing anyone remember firing were the shore guns, firing out into the Victorian navy. Those fired longer, as many of the Victorians stopped to pillage once they reached the the town. The irony of that, said one of the sailors stuck in the harbor, is that might have cost lives. The navy, once it came ashore started grabbing people for impressment, and the shore battery delayed em. Impressment on Victorian ships ain't any kindness, but it did mean that some survived. Maybe if the navy had been able to take the harbor earlier, more would have.
Victorians burned, looted, butchered, raped. We think about just women. But it wasn't. That's how one survivor lived. Vic didn't want his buddies seeing them, so he dragged the boy into the woods at knife-point and did what Victorians do. He described the pain, and shame, and then, then seeing the unguarded knife by the side of the man, after his business was done. He doesn't remember the stab exactly, was it one, more? Did he cut the man, or just a quick stab? He remembers the fleeing, half naked as the trees tore at him.
Others tried to jump in the river. Lot did that, and the Victorians were more than willing to fire into it. Current ain't to swift that close to the lake, and it became a mess of bodies. Carter was always a strong swimmer, one of the strongest, and he swam, making sure to go deep down, since bullets don't go through water that well, and Vic couldn't see him. Was hell, some of the bodies floated, but many were weighted down with whatever they had been carrying, people not thinking before jumping, and navigating it was a nightmare. He still dreams of passing through that river. But he made it, and continued to swim into the lake, poking his head for air little as he could. Kept swimming as he made his way east. He says that he must have swam for hours before finally stumbling onto shore, near Painesvillle, nearly 30 miles.
Others, other lived thanks to Victoria greed. Sophia's mother had gathered them in the basement, and when the Victoria's found them, the were delighted. A mother and two daughters, one nearly 13,. They were "rescued", loaded onto cars to become brides. Sophia was 7, and the Victorians let her ride next to her mother. Her sister was loaded separately. Sophia doesn't remember where they stopped. It was some bridge, some river. She remembers crying during the trip, and her mother comforting her, as the man threatened them if she didn't shut up, eventually her mother just put her hand over her mouth .But the car sputtered, and a couple soldiers got out to look.
She remembers her mother telling her to not make a sound. Her mother slid her hand out from Sophia's mouth and undid her seatbelt, one hand fiddling with it, one hand over it to muffle the click. She slid her hand to the door slowly in silence. Then she grabbed Sophia her, scooping her up in her arms and running to the edge of the bridge. Sophia thinks there was a shout, maybe a gunfire, she hears gunfire, in her memory, but she isn't sure if it's its real, or a phantom. Memories mixing together. Either way they were over the bridge, and plunged into the water, her mother cradling her on the way down.
Sophia woke up being fished out by a man she never met before a survivalist, one James White, living in Pennsylvania. Of her mother, she never saw her. Doesn't know if she was shot, drowned, or washed up down shore. Eventually ended up here, though that story is a little long for here, and not our focus. Though from what she tells me, it's quiet a tale, and has at least one dead Victorian in it. She doesn't mind her name going out, but wants her sister's name kept anonymous, lest Victoria know and punish her. But that said, she does have a message, and asked me to quote it verbatim.
Sis, it's me, Sophia. If you are alive, then know I'm alive, and I still remember when you took the blame for me breaking the flower painted cup. I remember how you loved dad's grilled fish but hated baked. I'm still a little young for the militia, even if I've killed more Victorian's than most, but in a few years, they will take me. Or maybe I'll join the commonwealth, if Detroit won't strike at Victoria. And if neither will, then I'll storm Maine myself. But sis, I'm coming for you, if I have to shoot my way through every house in Victoria, I am alive, and I am coming.
Wish her the best of luck. Last set of survivors weren't there. Captain Clark was out in Detroit when it happened, doing some trading, says she can't even remember what she was picking up. Started as rumors, more and more about Ashtabula. She and her crew went home, didn't even get a full load of goods, just raced home. There was still some smoke, that was the first thing she remember, wasn't from the homes, not by the time she got there, but from the forests, Victorian's had decided to burn some of the trees around the area. Took the boat closer to see the town, Ashtabula doesn't have skyscrapers whose absence is as noticeable as other places might be, as they got closer, they could see some buildings still up, not all though.
At that point they figured it had been a raid, the type Victoria does occasionally. They came in, wanting to check on their families. The stink was the next thing, rotting bodies, and then came the empty dock. Or not entirely empty, sailing through the bodies in the water. Most of the Victorians seemed to have dumped em in the river and lake, easier than burying them, I suppose. They landed and went out from the docs. She says she feels like it should have been quiet, but the sounds of birds feasting and crackling fires meant it wasn't. It wasn't till they came to city hall that that the gunfire started.
Victoria's last little gift, leaving troops behind to kill anyone who cared enough to explore to Ashtabula. They ran. Lots didn't make it, but she managed to get to the boat, and ordered them to cast off. Those who made it to the boat, made it, those who didn't? Well the troops were already pursuing them, and someone else called out ships on the horizon.
Leaving Detroit without picking up their goods probably saved them, she says, because they were less weighted down. She remembers ordering anyone who wasn't doing anything to throw everything they didn't need overboard, try to make it lighter if they could. She still doesn't know how they avoided the fist few shells. As she looked back, she remembers gaining distance from the town, but the Victorian ships getting closer and close. Finally, she ordered the ship to turn ashore, ramming into the coast and ordered everyone to run inland. They were already away from the army, and the navy probably wouldn't pursue them inland. Far as she knows she was right, or at least they didn't do it fast enough.
It would be a month before the next explorers came. Finding only ruins, and the occasional mine the Victorians had laid, one last act of spite, one more attempt to erase Ashtabula.
Irony of all this is that no one I talked to knows why. Some think that maybe someone pissed em off and they wanted to make a community example. Others thought that maybe the place was helping people escape or was smuggling and got greedy. Others think they just decided Ashtabula was too big, too close and they didn't really need the port. Don't know if it matters, Victoria never really needed reasons for their atrocities.
Victoria tried to erase Ashtabula. Make its only lesson to not defy em, or be only a memory. But the lesson I see is that Ashtabula never defied em. Those who stayed, who didn't try to run, who did nothing, they died. Those who ran, those who swam, those who knifed they are the only ones whose story you hear. Complicity isn't safety, and defiance isn't death. Remember that. Always remember that.
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AN: I chose to believe that Sophia and James White had an epic adventure getting from Pennsylvania to Detroit. Where Sophia learned self-sufficiency, strength she never new she had, dealing with grief. And how to kill Victorians' via improvised traps and guerrilla warfare. James learned how to deal with the grief of his dead family through the substitute daughter in Sophia, and the combined therapy of killing Victorians. He probably died heroically insuring she got away from some pursuit. It would almost certainly have made a great single dad and kid game.
Know that this day, the enemy came to our gates, our homes, they sought to take our lives, our freedoms, our children, but they did not succeed. Again, and again we have fallen back, but not here, not now. Today, we took a stand, and they lay crushed before us. The wreckage of their vehicles is scrap for our factories, their bodies fertilizer for our fields. Detroit stands.
Exciting bit, isn't' it? That's the way I'm hearing around it. Granted its true, and I'll offer my own confirmation to the propaganda that they did try to cross the Huron, and didn't make it. But that sort of bombastic approach isn't really my style, and I'll be keeping with what I know, just the facts, first. It was the river Huron where battle was next joined. Everything was brought up this time, commonwealth and our militia, though they didn't have their tanks maintenance problems from what I here, though I know this line will be censored.
Victorians were more like a trickle, not a floor this time. We, and with our militia I think I'm allowed a we there, outnumbered em, and only thing they had were tanks. Turns out, tanks can be beaten without tanks. Artillery, rpgs, and, from what I've heard from a few commonwealth tankers I talked to, shitty tanks and shittier tank drivers make it possible. Now the wreckage of tanks remains, and the bodies in the river. Saw Captain Clark, from Ashtabula looking down at the river, asked her what she was doing there. She said that many of her sailors were in the militia, and asker her out. Said she wanted to see the bodies, said it reminded her of the bay of Ashtabula, only now those in the water deserved it. She smiled looking at the water.
Writers, the story type, must be salivating over this. Victorians come in from the west, pushing back and back until the final river before Wilson, only then are the militia called up for one stand before the city, and the Victorians are smashed. Then they come from the south, and again, pushed to the very brink, our militia was called out, and once again the assault halted. There are going to be stories of this, celebrating the militia as key to winning, mark my words.
Reports from command are a bit less story-esque. According to them, both armies were already basically done for, this one was only a delaying tactic, but they figured the militia could help, because there is one thing the Commonwealth and Victoria agree on. Fair fights are for suckers, and never beat and opponent when you can crush them. But that's a bit less romantic, isn't it?
Then there is the last thing. As I'm writing this it's not yet public, but I think they will make the official announcement before this goes out. If not, this little dispatch as probably cut a might short, but otherwise. Toledo, didn't think any of us saw that coming.
For those of you who missed it, they decided that Victoria ain't all that, and they actually want to be friendly with the Commonwealth, and, as I said before, the Commonwealth loves those extra fighters. Now Commonwealth wants us all to make friendly like. Got a lot of thoughts on that.
First, I still have those worries that we ain't winning. What if this was just a probing attack? Toledo changing up puts another tick mark on my 'no really it's real' side. Still convincing myself. My next is, 'oh sure now you want to, when you were happy to have us dead before?". Then again, Commonwealth came to us with their offer, not Toledo. If they hadn't, we would have hosted Victoria, so can I really blame, them for doing what we would have done? My head says no, but my heart says yes.
Then there is the Commonwealth. They are offering us a large portion of that cargo, part of the package of 'make nice with Toledo.' Official so that we know they have our back and we have proper equipment if post-peace Toledo tries to start something. Feels weird. Like they care about our opinions, even this far into the fight, I am not used to that. Not sure it's not cynical manipulation, but honestly, even if it is. Bribery is something I could get used to. If a visit from Victoria had meant free guns if we were good and nothing if we were bad, doubt they have nearly the trouble they do.
Then there are my long-term thoughts on making nice with Toledo. On the one hand I think I can deal with making nice, neither of us really managed to do major damage. Let bygone be bygones, but… but well, I usually don't like to use animal comparisons, Victorians are a bit to found of em. But consider a dog. One day, this dog starts barking at you, growling, bearing its teeth, even snaps as you get close. You back away. Later it shows up looking friendly, but well, part of you wonders what made it snap, if it will do so again, when you are closer and within biting distance. People ain't dogs though, and we can explain ourselves. But I don't think we can continue on as we are, two cities on the edge, or ignoring each other until it gets to a near breaking point. Can't be as it was.
I'm a child of the new country. Never knew the old one. I've never been as sold on it. For those older, it tends to bring back nostalgia, the kinda nostalgia that clouds reality and ignores problems. For those younger, it's a Camelot. They don't want the USA, they want a mythical time when things were good and they were powerful. But for me, I've known city states. Find the idea of the US hard to comprehend in some ways, an entire country, where Detroit is part of it, subject to it, but so small a part that we are not even one of 50, but one of a part of 50? How does anyone deal with something so incomprehensibly vast, how does anyone have any agency?
And yet, and yet. As we live now, even sans Victoria, every city has to watch every other one. Toledo watches us, we watch Toledo, watch Cleveland, watch Chicago. Watch all the towns and roads, who is going to close what road, what tariffs will there be, whose army should we worry about? Everyone city is a potential enemy. Being a nation is, by all accounts, a bit different, the city next door fighting you would be as silly as Detroit and Windsor fighting each other. I admit to my worries over our city's freedom, so recently possible, being subsumed again. I admit that I'm not a fan of the fact that joining the commonwealth would be joining a system that we had no part in the original design of. But I'm also not sure the current system is sustainable. I don't know. Hope our city council has wiser thoughts on it than me.
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With these we should have two more dispatches. One more musing type, and one post battle reaction to wrap up the current set.
Well, WW2 Europe does argue that its possible to feed much of Europe at livable standards even without trade. Denmark for example did so, by increasing grain grown and cutting meat.
Starvation in Western Europe was more due to deleterious withdrawals by Germany rather than food shortages due to trade.while modern day Europe relies heavily on Kenya and africa for food, much of this is in seasonal vegetables, fruits or flowers.
Europe would be malnourished compared to modern times but its possible. The question is whether its plausible, since hyperinflation was a sudden shock .
For a start, German withdrawals of food from western europe were due to food being even shorter in central and eastern europe. Starvation of civilians in German occupied Europe isn't an inconsiderable cause of the massive Soviet and Polish losses to the war. German race theories just meant that the pain was very unevenly spread. Of course, having the North European plain turned into a battlefield is much of the reason why Europe as a whole could not feed itself even with emergency measures.
Europe's population today is roughly 150% the size it was during WW2 though.
As to Denmark... In the 1940s they used phosphate rock fertilizer, not the modern superphosphate liquid fertilizers. This meant that Denmark could manage without new imports since the rock fertilizer broke down slowly, releasing the phosphate over the course of about 4-5 years. So if the war lasted another year or two Denmark would be in trouble... Today, superphosphate fertilizer breaks down within days. It delivers everything it has in one burst. Without constant imports, the wheels would come off.
Most agriculture on the continent then was no-where near as intense as that in Denmark (which was cutting edge for the world then) and used very little in the way of inputs, most of which did not need to be refreshed very often (things like steel handtools for example, which are an input but are one that a farmer can perhaps pass on to their son).
Today farms use far, far more consumable inputs and are far, far, far more inter-linked with the rest of the economy. The way of doing agriculture is completely changed from that which dominated during WW2. The average farm in Europe is highly dependent on skilled imported labour (people who think migrant farm labour is "unskilled" have never tried to pick strawberries professionally and while news tends to focus on skilled farmhands migrating from poorer countries to richer ones, where I am from the opposite actually takes place with the sheep being shorn by semi-nomadic Australian shearers who travel all over the world and shear sheep just about year round), on gasoline, on diesel, on hybrid or gene-engineered seeds, on machine tools with life times of maybe a decade or two, on a host of herbicides, pesticides and fertilizers that if they are removed causes productivity to plummet below that of farms that have never used fertilizers, herbicides and pesticides. Farmers need reliable bank credit to manage often very heavy debts. Animal raising farms need to import silage, hay, high nutrition animal feeds, semen from stud farms to maintain the productivity of the breeds they rear.
Modern industrial farming is a red queen's race and due to the time it takes for soils to regain fertility even with modern cutting edge science (which allows modern farmers to do the work of thousands of years of action by natural processes in mere decades) it is not economical for most farmers to switch to more advanced ways of farming. The entire agricultural system of the world being forced to drop out from an inter-dependent industrialized paradigm is not gonna be pretty. It's something where we know where we'd be coming from and where we'd need to get to in order to feed the world again. But the transition will require great sacrifice and will have much excess death and misery.
For a start, German withdrawals of food from western europe were due to food being even shorter in central and eastern europe. Starvation of civilians in German occupied Europe isn't an inconsiderable cause of the massive Soviet and Polish losses to the war. German race theories just meant that the pain was very unevenly spread. Of course, having the North European plain turned into a battlefield is much of the reason why Europe as a whole could not feed itself even with emergency measures.
That's... Misleading. Much of the reason for food shortages was due to the diversion of manpower and resources into the military. Combined with slave labour, including French POWs, Germany substituted farm labourers with foreigners. Meanwhile, Belgium , Netherlands and Denmark all relied significantly on foreign imports but managed to transit to autarky. It was the food transfers to Europe that caused starvation.
Europe's population today is roughly 150% the size it was during WW2 though.
As to Denmark... In the 1940s they used phosphate rock fertilizer, not the modern superphosphate liquid fertilizers. This meant that Denmark could manage without new imports since the rock fertilizer broke down slowly, releasing the phosphate over the course of about 4-5 years. So if the war lasted another year or two Denmark would be in trouble... Today, superphosphate fertilizer breaks down within days. It delivers everything it has in one burst. Without constant imports, the wheels would come off.
Most agriculture on the continent then was no-where near as intense as that in Denmark (which was cutting edge for the world then) and used very little in the way of inputs, most of which did not need to be refreshed very often (things like steel handtools for example, which are an input but are one that a farmer can perhaps pass on to their son).
Today farms use far, far more consumable inputs and are far, far, far more inter-linked with the rest of the economy. The way of doing agriculture is completely changed from that which dominated during WW2. The average farm in Europe is highly dependent on skilled imported labour (people who think migrant farm labour is "unskilled" have never tried to pick strawberries professionally and while news tends to focus on skilled farmhands migrating from poorer countries to richer ones, where I am from the opposite actually takes place with the sheep being shorn by semi-nomadic Australian shearers who travel all over the world and shear sheep just about year round), on gasoline, on diesel, on hybrid or gene-engineered seeds, on machine tools with life times of maybe a decade or two, on a host of herbicides, pesticides and fertilizers that if they are removed causes productivity to plummet below that of farms that have never used fertilizers, herbicides and pesticides. Farmers need reliable bank credit to manage often very heavy debts. Animal raising farms need to import silage, hay, high nutrition animal feeds, semen from stud farms to maintain the productivity of the breeds they rear.
Modern industrial farming is a red queen's race and due to the time it takes for soils to regain fertility even with modern cutting edge science (which allows modern farmers to do the work of thousands of years of action by natural processes in mere decades) it is not economical for most farmers to switch to more advanced ways of farming. The entire agricultural system of the world being forced to drop out from an inter-dependent industrialized paradigm is not gonna be pretty. It's something where we know where we'd be coming from and where we'd need to get to in order to feed the world again. But the transition will require great sacrifice and will have much excess death and misery.
Phosphate is already limited, however, recycling technologies from sewage is already being implemented.
Compost and the use of recycling is already a factor in Europe now and will become more so in the future, especially if hyperinflation for inputs rise.
Combined with crop substitution to mostly grain and a reduction in meat and diary,alternative farming methods and etc, Europe can possibly feed herself{I assuming negative to no population growth }. The question is more of did said reforms get implemented in time prior to mass starvation.
AN: This take place right before the battle of Huron.
Dispatches from Detroit- 9a
Dispatches from Ashtabula
Well now, readers, listeners, the sun is shining, birds are singing, and there are a lot of dead Victorians. Least, lot I saw, and if everyone I talked to report's are accurate, a lot I didn't see as well. Now, I think those who call me a cynic are a might harsh. I'm an optimist, but, as a good reporter, I have to consider all the possibilities, so it could all be propaganda. Still, managed to find most everyone I interviewed before, and there are a lot of people at this line.
Reports are… well I don't want to spoil things. But the air seems to be that the Victorian's don't have much of a prayer, and honestly, I'm inclined to believe em. Promised myself I wouldn't focus too much on the future until the battle was won, too much bout counting chickens, and besides, part of me has trouble believing it. But it does turn my mind to other things.
Anyone remember Ashtabula? I mentioned them in my last Dispatch. I'm sure most round here do, it wasn't that long ago, or well, actually been seven years, but it feels shorter. Then again, Victoria made sure people around Erie remembered it.
The official story, or Victoria's story, cause that's the only official story that ever exists. Is that Ashtabula was infected by Cultural Marxism. Started imprisoning sailors with tariffs and killing them and all sort of things. They were madmen, consorting with orks, and had become them, planning to kill everyone around them. So, Victoria put em down.
Victoria goes through a lot of towns. Usually one or two people, in a place as large Detroit, unless you are in a high-casualty industry such as politician, business owner, or newspaper, you'd hardly notice the direct deaths. Even smaller towns deal with it. Sometimes they purge a place. Going through and conquering it, killing a large population in order to show em they mean business. Sometimes they wipe smaller towns of the map. But Ashtabula wasn't a small town, wasn't nothing.
Ashtabula is gone. The people are gone, the buildings are gone. They even brought in an old freighter, one on its last legs, and sunk it at the mouth of the river, salting the metaphorical fields. Ashtabula was a message. Victoria would like to have you believe that you can't interview a survivor of Ashtabula. They got em all. Anytime someone had anything to say about that that might contradict them, well, Victorians do what Victorians do. But, like most things, there seems to be a might contradiction between the Victorian's truth, and the facts on the ground, as it is.
One of the first things I did, after war was declared, was track down those I knew, or suspected, and asked em. I wanted to know, what the shape of Detroit could look like. Thought about writing it up but felt a little too morbid. Like I was admitting what would happen and just telling people what to expect. But now, now I feel like I can deal with it. Talk about it. And I should talk about it. Victoria wanted to silence us, Victoria did silence Ashtabula. So, for now I want to perform a bit of a miracle, and, for one night, resurrect Ashtabula. In doing so I'm going to ask on indulgence. Some of the survivors wanted their names out there, allow one last spit in Victoria's eye, some didn't. I'm going to respect that, so please excuse the way this story twists in name usage.
Victoria's got a strange relationship with those of us near it. They wish we didn't exist, but also need us to supply their transportation and help bully for goods. Ashtabula defined that mix. Victoria didn't much like places closer than that having any organized populace, hence why Erie, the city, not the lake, is only a huddling town amidst the skeletons of skyscrapers. Ashtabula was the closest large port they were willing to tolerate and grew for that. It was a strange mix. On the one hand, Victorians were passing through regularly, on the other, they wanted it working, so that their 'trade' could flow through, as such they didn't take too much. Victorian's were almost normal there, even compared to Detroit. They passed through, and you maintained your respect, but you almost knew em, as long as you were careful, it was alright.
People died, but not too many, given how many Victorians stopped over, it was considered poor form to kill there. Like pissing on the floor of the company toilet. We all pass through, and it's too small to just kill. Things were fine, or at least the fine you tell yourself it is. Sure, they kept their heads low. Sure, you made sure women dressed properly, lets Victorian eyes were offended, and kept em in after dark. Sure, weren't do many with the wrong skin color, and what there was stayed away from the docks and river, but life went by, as it always does.
There were always Victorians there. So, when an army gathered, it wasn't thought of perhaps, as much as it should. But we have all seen armies passing through, and not run because they might not be for us. You can't run all the time, you'd never get anything done. First sign something was up was some of the naval boats outside the horizon. Few of the boats on the docks left then, thinking it might be an impressment raid.
Victorians surrounded the town, no one is sure how many divisions they had, but the navy cut off the lake, army the east, then crossed south of the river, and finally the west closed. On of the things the survivors talked about was how strange it was that they didn't flee. Guessed I can relate, having not fled on my own, but they talked less of defiance, and more of paralysis. This was just a mustering, it had to be.
Few did, making their way west. Talked to one survivor, apparently the Victorians had a few scouts already out west, and shot at them. Many turned back then, but he didn't. After all, if the Victorians were already shooting at anyone who fled, then whatever it was, it couldn't be good, and the army was only getting closer. They aren't sure how they managed to craw through, but thanks to forest, and knowing the area, they made it out, last, they ever saw of it.
The town was surrounded soon, and briefly, silence. One of the militia men went out trying to ask what was going on. Still was hope, hope that this was a mistake. Or that there was someone they could offer, someone who had offended and could be fed to the Victorians. Some reason. He was shot 20 feet from the Victorian lines.
The cry of Victoria went out, and the town was charged, gunfire and mortars coming at the same time.
Not much gunfire from the militia, half just seemed to give up then and there, what few had even tried. The longest thing anyone remember firing were the shore guns, firing out into the Victorian navy. Those fired longer, as many of the Victorians stopped to pillage once they reached the the town. The irony of that, said one of the sailors stuck in the harbor, is that might have cost lives. The navy, once it came ashore started grabbing people for impressment, and the shore battery delayed em. Impressment on Victorian ships ain't any kindness, but it did mean that some survived. Maybe if the navy had been able to take the harbor earlier, more would have.
Victorians burned, looted, butchered, raped. We think about just women. But it wasn't. That's how one survivor lived. Vic didn't want his buddies seeing them, so he dragged the boy into the woods at knife-point and did what Victorians do. He described the pain, and shame, and then, then seeing the unguarded knife by the side of the man, after his business was done. He doesn't remember the stab exactly, was it one, more? Did he cut the man, or just a quick stab? He remembers the fleeing, half naked as the trees tore at him.
Others tried to jump in the river. Lot did that, and the Victorians were more than willing to fire into it. Current ain't to swift that close to the lake, and it became a mess of bodies. Carter was always a strong swimmer, one of the strongest, and he swam, making sure to go deep down, since bullets don't go through water that well, and Vic couldn't see him. Was hell, some of the bodies floated, but many were weighted down with whatever they had been carrying, people not thinking before jumping, and navigating it was a nightmare. He still dreams of passing through that river. But he made it, and continued to swim into the lake, poking his head for air little as he could. Kept swimming as he made his way east. He says that he must have swam for hours before finally stumbling onto shore, near Painesvillle, nearly 30 miles.
Others, other lived thanks to Victoria greed. Sophia's mother had gathered them in the basement, and when the Victoria's found them, the were delighted. A mother and two daughters, one nearly 13,. They were "rescued", loaded onto cars to become brides. Sophia was 7, and the Victorians let her ride next to her mother. Her sister was loaded separately. Sophia doesn't remember where they stopped. It was some bridge, some river. She remembers crying during the trip, and her mother comforting her, as the man threatened them if she didn't shut up, eventually her mother just put her hand over her mouth .But the car sputtered, and a couple soldiers got out to look.
She remembers her mother telling her to not make a sound. Her mother slid her hand out from Sophia's mouth and undid her seatbelt, one hand fiddling with it, one hand over it to muffle the click. She slid her hand to the door slowly in silence. Then she grabbed Sophia her, scooping her up in her arms and running to the edge of the bridge. Sophia thinks there was a shout, maybe a gunfire, she hears gunfire, in her memory, but she isn't sure if it's its real, or a phantom. Memories mixing together. Either way they were over the bridge, and plunged into the water, her mother cradling her on the way down.
Sophia woke up being fished out by a man she never met before a survivalist, one James White, living in Pennsylvania. Of her mother, she never saw her. Doesn't know if she was shot, drowned, or washed up down shore. Eventually ended up here, though that story is a little long for here, and not our focus. Though from what she tells me, it's quiet a tale, and has at least one dead Victorian in it. She doesn't mind her name going out, but wants her sister's name kept anonymous, lest Victoria know and punish her. But that said, she does have a message, and asked me to quote it verbatim.
Sis, it's me, Sophia. If you are alive, then know I'm alive, and I still remember when you took the blame for me breaking the flower painted cup. I remember how you loved dad's grilled fish but hated baked. I'm still a little young for the militia, even if I've killed more Victorian's than most, but in a few years, they will take me. Or maybe I'll join the commonwealth, if Detroit won't strike at Victoria. And if neither will, then I'll storm Maine myself. But sis, I'm coming for you, if I have to shoot my way through every house in Victoria, I am alive, and I am coming.
Wish her the best of luck. Last set of survivors weren't there. Captain Clark was out in Detroit when it happened, doing some trading, says she can't even remember what she was picking up. Started as rumors, more and more about Ashtabula. She and her crew went home, didn't even get a full load of goods, just raced home. There was still some smoke, that was the first thing she remember, wasn't from the homes, not by the time she got there, but from the forests, Victorian's had decided to burn some of the trees around the area. Took the boat closer to see the town, Ashtabula doesn't have skyscrapers whose absence is as noticeable as other places might be, as they got closer, they could see some buildings still up, not all though.
At that point they figured it had been a raid, the type Victoria does occasionally. They came in, wanting to check on their families. The stink was the next thing, rotting bodies, and then came the empty dock. Or not entirely empty, sailing through the bodies in the water. Most of the Victorians seemed to have dumped em in the river and lake, easier than burying them, I suppose. They landed and went out from the docs. She says she feels like it should have been quiet, but the sounds of birds feasting and crackling fires meant it wasn't. It wasn't till they came to city hall that that the gunfire started.
Victoria's last little gift, leaving troops behind to kill anyone who cared enough to explore to Ashtabula. They ran. Lots didn't make it, but she managed to get to the boat, and ordered them to cast off. Those who made it to the boat, made it, those who didn't? Well the troops were already pursuing them, and someone else called out ships on the horizon.
Leaving Detroit without picking up their goods probably saved them, she says, because they were less weighted down. She remembers ordering anyone who wasn't doing anything to throw everything they didn't need overboard, try to make it lighter if they could. She still doesn't know how they avoided the fist few shells. As she looked back, she remembers gaining distance from the town, but the Victorian ships getting closer and close. Finally, she ordered the ship to turn ashore, ramming into the coast and ordered everyone to run inland. They were already away from the army, and the navy probably wouldn't pursue them inland. Far as she knows she was right, or at least they didn't do it fast enough.
It would be a month before the next explorers came. Finding only ruins, and the occasional mine the Victorians had laid, one last act of spite, one more attempt to erase Ashtabula.
Irony of all this is that no one I talked to knows why. Some think that maybe someone pissed em off and they wanted to make a community example. Others thought that maybe the place was helping people escape or was smuggling and got greedy. Others think they just decided Ashtabula was too big, too close and they didn't really need the port. Don't know if it matters, Victoria never really needed reasons for their atrocities.
Victoria tried to erase Ashtabula. Make its only lesson to not defy em, or be only a memory. But the lesson I see is that Ashtabula never defied em. Those who stayed, who didn't try to run, who did nothing, they died. Those who ran, those who swam, those who knifed they are the only ones whose story you hear. Complicity isn't safety, and defiance isn't death. Remember that. Always remember that.
--------------------
AN: I chose to believe that Sophia and James White had an epic adventure getting from Pennsylvania to Detroit. Where Sophia learned self-sufficiency, strength she never new she had, dealing with grief. And how to kill Victorians' via improvised traps and guerrilla warfare. James learned how to deal with the grief of his dead family through the substitute daughter in Sophia, and the combined therapy of killing Victorians. He probably died heroically insuring she got away from some pursuit. It would almost certainly have made a great single dad and kid game.
Know that this day, the enemy came to our gates, our homes, they sought to take our lives, our freedoms, our children, but they did not succeed. Again, and again we have fallen back, but not here, not now. Today, we took a stand, and they lay crushed before us. The wreckage of their vehicles is scrap for our factories, their bodies fertilizer for our fields. Detroit stands.
Exciting bit, isn't' it? That's the way I'm hearing around it. Granted its true, and I'll offer my own confirmation to the propaganda that they did try to cross the Huron, and didn't make it. But that sort of bombastic approach isn't really my style, and I'll be keeping with what I know, just the facts, first. It was the river Huron where battle was next joined. Everything was brought up this time, commonwealth and our militia, though they didn't have their tanks maintenance problems from what I here, though I know this line will be censored.
Victorians were more like a trickle, not a floor this time. We, and with our militia I think I'm allowed a we there, outnumbered em, and only thing they had were tanks. Turns out, tanks can be beaten without tanks. Artillery, rpgs, and, from what I've heard from a few commonwealth tankers I talked to, shitty tanks and shittier tank drivers make it possible. Now the wreckage of tanks remains, and the bodies in the river. Saw Captain Clark, from Ashtabula looking down at the river, asked her what she was doing there. She said that many of her sailors were in the militia, and asker her out. Said she wanted to see the bodies, said it reminded her of the bay of Ashtabula, only now those in the water deserved it. She smiled looking at the water.
Writers, the story type, must be salivating over this. Victorians come in from the west, pushing back and back until the final river before Wilson, only then are the militia called up for one stand before the city, and the Victorians are smashed. Then they come from the south, and again, pushed to the very brink, our militia was called out, and once again the assault halted. There are going to be stories of this, celebrating the militia as key to winning, mark my words.
Reports from command are a bit less story-esque. According to them, both armies were already basically done for, this one was only a delaying tactic, but they figured the militia could help, because there is one thing the Commonwealth and Victoria agree on. Fair fights are for suckers, and never beat and opponent when you can crush them. But that's a bit less romantic, isn't it?
Then there is the last thing. As I'm writing this it's not yet public, but I think they will make the official announcement before this goes out. If not, this little dispatch as probably cut a might short, but otherwise. Toledo, didn't think any of us saw that coming.
For those of you who missed it, they decided that Victoria ain't all that, and they actually want to be friendly with the Commonwealth, and, as I said before, the Commonwealth loves those extra fighters. Now Commonwealth wants us all to make friendly like. Got a lot of thoughts on that.
First, I still have those worries that we ain't winning. What if this was just a probing attack? Toledo changing up puts another tick mark on my 'no really it's real' side. Still convincing myself. My next is, 'oh sure now you want to, when you were happy to have us dead before?". Then again, Commonwealth came to us with their offer, not Toledo. If they hadn't, we would have hosted Victoria, so can I really blame, them for doing what we would have done? My head says no, but my heart says yes.
Then there is the Commonwealth. They are offering us a large portion of that cargo, part of the package of 'make nice with Toledo.' Official so that we know they have our back and we have proper equipment if post-peace Toledo tries to start something. Feels weird. Like they care about our opinions, even this far into the fight, I am not used to that. Not sure it's not cynical manipulation, but honestly, even if it is. Bribery is something I could get used to. If a visit from Victoria had meant free guns if we were good and nothing if we were bad, doubt they have nearly the trouble they do.
Then there are my long-term thoughts on making nice with Toledo. On the one hand I think I can deal with making nice, neither of us really managed to do major damage. Let bygone be bygones, but… but well, I usually don't like to use animal comparisons, Victorians are a bit to found of em. But consider a dog. One day, this dog starts barking at you, growling, bearing its teeth, even snaps as you get close. You back away. Later it shows up looking friendly, but well, part of you wonders what made it snap, if it will do so again, when you are closer and within biting distance. People ain't dogs though, and we can explain ourselves. But I don't think we can continue on as we are, two cities on the edge, or ignoring each other until it gets to a near breaking point. Can't be as it was.
I'm a child of the new country. Never knew the old one. I've never been as sold on it. For those older, it tends to bring back nostalgia, the kinda nostalgia that clouds reality and ignores problems. For those younger, it's a Camelot. They don't want the USA, they want a mythical time when things were good and they were powerful. But for me, I've known city states. Find the idea of the US hard to comprehend in some ways, an entire country, where Detroit is part of it, subject to it, but so small a part that we are not even one of 50, but one of a part of 50? How does anyone deal with something so incomprehensibly vast, how does anyone have any agency?
And yet, and yet. As we live now, even sans Victoria, every city has to watch every other one. Toledo watches us, we watch Toledo, watch Cleveland, watch Chicago. Watch all the towns and roads, who is going to close what road, what tariffs will there be, whose army should we worry about? Everyone city is a potential enemy. Being a nation is, by all accounts, a bit different, the city next door fighting you would be as silly as Detroit and Windsor fighting each other. I admit to my worries over our city's freedom, so recently possible, being subsumed again. I admit that I'm not a fan of the fact that joining the commonwealth would be joining a system that we had no part in the original design of. But I'm also not sure the current system is sustainable. I don't know. Hope our city council has wiser thoughts on it than me.
--------------------------------
With these we should have two more dispatches. One more musing type, and one post battle reaction to wrap up the current set.
It sounds like you need a break anyway, dude. You are seriously overworked. Go take a nap or read a not horribly-offensive-in-every-sense-of-the-word book or something.
It sounds like you need a break anyway, dude. You are seriously overworked. Go take a nap or read a not horribly-offensive-in-every-sense-of-the-word book or something.
Thing is, these quests are my break, so I'm actually livid about this. Fuck it, we've been building a laptop fund. Let's see how far it takes us.
(Context I've realized I should give: I've been using my wife's Mac while accruing funds to repair my far more expensive personal PC. A half-hour ago, the Mac three-beeped me when I tried to start it. )
Thing is, these quests are my break, so I'm actually livid about this. Fuck it, we've been building a laptop fund. Let's see how far it takes us.
(Context I've realized I should give: I've been using my wife's Mac while accruing funds to repair my far more expensive personal PC. A half-hour ago, the Mac three-beeped me when I tried to start it. )
Three beeps means your current os is incompatible with your current hardware. I'm at work so I don't have time to elaborate, but here's a stackexchange link that can give you some troubleshooting help.
When I try to boot my Mac I get nothing but strange beeps. They beep as follows: BEEP BEEP BEEP [3 second pause] BEEP BEEP BEEP [3 second pause] and it continues until I power off. So far, I have:
Three beeps means your current os is incompatible with your current hardware. I'm at work so I don't have time to elaborate, but here's a stackexchange link that can give you some troubleshooting help.
When I try to boot my Mac I get nothing but strange beeps. They beep as follows: BEEP BEEP BEEP [3 second pause] BEEP BEEP BEEP [3 second pause] and it continues until I power off. So far, I have:
Violation of Rule 2 - This Goes Well Over The Line Of A Dark Joke.
Thought. With the embargo, we need cash. We also need to make sure people know we won. I think I have a solution to both our problems.
Write in Proposal
[ ][ISLANDS] Tourism. Are you looking to try something new for your next get away? Why not try the Victorian island cruise, hosted by the Detroit board of tourism in conjunction with the commonwealth navy? Start in scenic old Detroit, before you board the magnificent Des Plaines-class board as its coal fired elegance speeds you on your way to the scenic lake Erie islands. There we will circle the islands, allowing you to view the Victorians through the provided binoculars, or take your own photos, if you like.
Now Victorians often like to try to hide, so our Commonwealth sailors will scare em out with a live fire bombardment, letting you see them scurrying around. The VIP package will even let you fire one of the mortars yourself. Sandwich lunches will be provided, as well as deck chairs to allow you to sit down and eat them. Each trip also comes with a commemorative Victorian dog tag, taken from a real life Victoiran.*
Reviews:
Only thing more fun is shoving Nazis into furnaces, now if only there was a way to combine the two.
- Sara Goldblum
Sometimes, I worry about us. How we can get so Vicious we lose our humanity, dehumanized our fellow man. But not while doing this, most fun I've had in years. Hope that one day Detroit can set up our own, not merely as partners, but with our own bombardment vessels.
-Barack Williams
The Machine State is prepared to make currency out of our very lives. Even now it seems to make others into more of itself by blood sport. Do not give in, no matter how fun, no matter how good the sandwiches.
-General Blackwell
*Disclaimer, Victorian tags are taken from Victorians on land, and there is no entitlement to island dog tags, nor will VIPs be offered the tags of those they killed. "Real-live" Victorian refers to real Victorians and should not be taken to mean that the tag was taken while the Victorian was alive, nor that they are currently alive. Supplies are limited, first come first serve.
Thought. With the embargo, we need cash. We also need to make sure people know we won. I think I have a solution to both our problems.
Write in Proposal
[ ][ISLANDS] Tourism. Are you looking to try something new for your next get away? Why not try the Victorian island cruise, hosted by the Detroit board of tourism in conjunction with the commonwealth navy? Start in scenic old Detroit, before you board the magnificent Des Plaines-class board as its coal fired elegance speeds you on your way to the scenic lake Erie islands. There we will circle the islands, allowing you to view the Victorians through the provided binoculars, or take your own photos, if you like.
Now Victorians often like to try to hide, so our Commonwealth sailors will scare em out with a live fire bombardment, letting you see them scurrying around. The VIP package will even let you fire one of the mortars yourself. Sandwich lunches will be provided, as well as deck chairs to allow you to sit down and eat them. Each trip also comes with a commemorative Victorian dog tag, taken from a real life Victoiran.*
Reviews:
Only thing more fun is shoving Nazi's into furnaces, now if only there was a way to combine the two.
- Sara Goldblum
Sometimes, I worry about us. How we can get so Vicious we lose our humanity, dehumanized our fellow man. But not while doing this, most fun I've had in years. Hope that one day Detroit can set up our own, not merely as partners, but with our own bombardment vessels.
-Barack Williams
The Machine State is prepared to make currency out of our very lives. Even now it seems to make others into more of itself by blood sport. Do not give in, no matter how fun, no matter how good the sandwiches.
-General Blackwell
*Disclaimer, Victorian tags are taken from Victorians on land, and there is no entitlement to island dog tags, nor will VIPs be offered the tags of those they killed. "Real-live" Victorian refers to real Victorians and should not be taken to mean that the tag was taken while the Victorian was alive, nor that they are currently alive. Supplies are limited, first come first serve.
That's... Misleading. Much of the reason for food shortages was due to the diversion of manpower and resources into the military. Combined with slave labour, including French POWs, Germany substituted farm labourers with foreigners. Meanwhile, Belgium , Netherlands and Denmark all relied significantly on foreign imports but managed to transit to autarky. It was the food transfers to Europe that caused starvation.
Just to elaborate, I postulating a post collapse farming system which can feed Europe.
Input wise, Europe still is buying oil and gas, just not with the USD.
Phosphate is already limited, however, recycling technologies from sewage is already being implemented.
Compost and the use of recycling is already a factor in Europe now and will become more so in the future, especially if hyperinflation for inputs rise.
Combined with crop substitution to mostly grain and a reduction in meat and diary,alternative farming methods and etc, Europe can possibly feed herself{I assuming negative to no population growth }. The question is more of did said reforms get implemented in time prior to mass starvation.
It is worth remembering that Germany was a net food importer even before all the male farm workers were put in uniform.
The second part of your post highlights something that may be important as to how bad things got in Europe - when exactly the crisis started, and how long the initial depression was before Victoria and Alexander took sledgehammers to civilization. It is possible that by the time there was a complete breakdown in trade, farmers and the supporting infrastructure in Europe had most of the way adapted to new, more robust techniques so the post-collapse crisis may have been quite short because the problems were already mostly solved anyway.
) would normally work against armor-piercing shells, but not work here because the mortar fire will do the same amount of damage if it hits the less armored superstructure and upper decks, regardless of whether there's an armor deck underneath the upper parts of the ship. Armor that isn't exposed to the open air and the first thing a mortar bomb hits on the way down might as well not even be there.
phosphorusplatform.eu
Fuck it, we've been building a laptop fund. Let's see how far it takes us.
apple.stackexchange.com
