To Archie
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IamLEAM1983
- Site Admin
- Posts: 3710
- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
- Location: Quebec, Canada
To Archie
War's changed a lot since the days you were alive, and gathering intel doesn't mean the same thing it used to. What's your take on this?
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IamLEAM1983
- Site Admin
- Posts: 3710
- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
- Location: Quebec, Canada
As Archie
"Let me answer by casting my gaze back to the days of my active service, and more specifically, toward the military record of one James Ronald Reuel Tolkien, whom you may know as the writer of a few small books of some renown...
He was involved in the front of the Somme river, facing off against the heavyweights of the German and Serbian forces. Trench fever took him and he, like many of his comrades-in-arms, was awfully plagued with lice and all the sores one could develop after spending weeks in damp and muddy marshlands. He left the trenches a hallucinating wretch and returned to London some months later, a frail young man in need of some distraction while he recovered. He penned a manuscript he called the Book of Lost Tales, which would ultimately be known as the Silmarilion.
I may say in some confidence that World War One was the specter that throttled Victorian optimism. Dozens of junior officers died by the minute in the simple process of delivering messages, Tolkien tells us in his letters. For most of these lads, who hadn't seen much more than London-town's growing industrialization or the surrounding counties' tranquil surroundings, it was the straw that broke a nation's carefree spirit. How could anyone daydream about spirit lanterns, séances and various other gremlins when true and tangible horrors occurred just across the English Channel?
Prior to the Great War, I'd been raised in a climate where honor and kinship ruled the battlefield, where even the most despicable of adversaries could be trusted to behave like a proper gentleman. War was idealized, even glorified, although not in the same manner as today's movies and video games are fond of expressing. Violence was never glorified, so much as the personal sacrifices of worthy men. Enemies were seen as innocent men who had strayed away from the proper path, and who could be dissuaded from causing further harm with proper diplomatic relationships. In reading The Lord of the Rings, I recognize my younger self's pursuit of peace in Frodo's dogged support of Gollum, in his understanding that this poor, wretched thing never chose its lot in life.
Honor, dignity and brotherhood. These are the concepts that carried me through my campaigns. At the favor of the Transgenics Wars, however, I awoke to a world of cold practicality, where routine manipulation of allies created out of whole cloth was the order of the day. For every Spearhead and Aspasia who willingly collaborated with us, there were dozens who were threatened, coerced, lied to and generally deceived into betraying their own commanders and Rendell himself. The Red Chimeras that joined us thought nothing of torture if their former kinsmen would divulge military secrets under duress. Our own hands were blackened and covered in Transgenic blood, and the foulest of deeds were authorized in the name of America's continued existence. Even my earlier campaigns against the immigrating Karthians who had taken to supporting the Secessionist States were blacker, darker than my usual fare. Your War on Terror may only be a historical footnote for me, it still stands as something I can quite feasibly transpose to my own solitary operations.
There was no honor for me to defend, no dignity to safeguard and no brotherhood to maintain in a cohesive state. Rather, there was intelligence for me to gather, there were support networks to dismantle, and there were threats to neutralize. I remember waking up in a gilded bedroom of an old plantation owner of a vampire's manor, in Savannah, and looking at myself in my assumed guise of another fine Southern gentleclank. I'd been forced to brutalize slaves in order to maintain my cover, only the day before.
I remember thinking back to my older values and silently weeping, teeth clenched over one overarching question. "Why?" I wondered. "Why had warfare become so cold, so unfeeling?"
Luckily, I haven't had tear ducts to put to use for quite some time."
He was involved in the front of the Somme river, facing off against the heavyweights of the German and Serbian forces. Trench fever took him and he, like many of his comrades-in-arms, was awfully plagued with lice and all the sores one could develop after spending weeks in damp and muddy marshlands. He left the trenches a hallucinating wretch and returned to London some months later, a frail young man in need of some distraction while he recovered. He penned a manuscript he called the Book of Lost Tales, which would ultimately be known as the Silmarilion.
I may say in some confidence that World War One was the specter that throttled Victorian optimism. Dozens of junior officers died by the minute in the simple process of delivering messages, Tolkien tells us in his letters. For most of these lads, who hadn't seen much more than London-town's growing industrialization or the surrounding counties' tranquil surroundings, it was the straw that broke a nation's carefree spirit. How could anyone daydream about spirit lanterns, séances and various other gremlins when true and tangible horrors occurred just across the English Channel?
Prior to the Great War, I'd been raised in a climate where honor and kinship ruled the battlefield, where even the most despicable of adversaries could be trusted to behave like a proper gentleman. War was idealized, even glorified, although not in the same manner as today's movies and video games are fond of expressing. Violence was never glorified, so much as the personal sacrifices of worthy men. Enemies were seen as innocent men who had strayed away from the proper path, and who could be dissuaded from causing further harm with proper diplomatic relationships. In reading The Lord of the Rings, I recognize my younger self's pursuit of peace in Frodo's dogged support of Gollum, in his understanding that this poor, wretched thing never chose its lot in life.
Honor, dignity and brotherhood. These are the concepts that carried me through my campaigns. At the favor of the Transgenics Wars, however, I awoke to a world of cold practicality, where routine manipulation of allies created out of whole cloth was the order of the day. For every Spearhead and Aspasia who willingly collaborated with us, there were dozens who were threatened, coerced, lied to and generally deceived into betraying their own commanders and Rendell himself. The Red Chimeras that joined us thought nothing of torture if their former kinsmen would divulge military secrets under duress. Our own hands were blackened and covered in Transgenic blood, and the foulest of deeds were authorized in the name of America's continued existence. Even my earlier campaigns against the immigrating Karthians who had taken to supporting the Secessionist States were blacker, darker than my usual fare. Your War on Terror may only be a historical footnote for me, it still stands as something I can quite feasibly transpose to my own solitary operations.
There was no honor for me to defend, no dignity to safeguard and no brotherhood to maintain in a cohesive state. Rather, there was intelligence for me to gather, there were support networks to dismantle, and there were threats to neutralize. I remember waking up in a gilded bedroom of an old plantation owner of a vampire's manor, in Savannah, and looking at myself in my assumed guise of another fine Southern gentleclank. I'd been forced to brutalize slaves in order to maintain my cover, only the day before.
I remember thinking back to my older values and silently weeping, teeth clenched over one overarching question. "Why?" I wondered. "Why had warfare become so cold, so unfeeling?"
Luckily, I haven't had tear ducts to put to use for quite some time."