Bird's-Eye Map of War District Natal
Top 5 Motivational Links
The Charge of the Light Brigade
Advice to a British Lead Soldier
The Wargamer's Burden
Allah's Will
Private Jone's Mother
Modern Major General
'Twas the Fight on the Isthmus
Click on map quadrant for detailed view.
1. The Major General
2. The Red Shadow
3. Touching History
4. The Angle
5. TerraGenesis
The Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
Advice to a British Lead Soldier
L'Envoi to Sand-table Sonatas
Flashdout Kasting
Dedicated to LVB
If yer painted with oils and washed with a brush,
If yer de-tail's all crisp and yer parting-line's flush,
Remember it don't mean a tittle or tush
To the Man Who Writes The Rules.
If yer coat's painted red when it ought to be blue,
An yer 'at's an off-color, yer skin's a sick hue,
It don't matter a bit 'ow some fool painted you,
For you lives and you dies by The Rules.
If yer paint is all chinky from years o' hard use,
An yer bayonet's gone an one arm's hangin loose,
Yer as good as the next 'un an' just as much use,
To the Man Who Writes The Rules.
Oh he knows all the hist'ry, he thinks an' he reads,
And what 'e don't know 'e can fake if he needs,
'E can tell you the pace of men, camels or steeds,
An' the 2D morale O' the mules.
He's a Solomon wise with a sceptre an' crown,
He's historian. mathematician and clown,
An' he don't care a whit (which is good!) for renown.
He's The Man Who Writes The Rules.
If yer lined with a marker, or lined with a pen,
Painted double-ought sable or camel-hair ten,
It's one an' the same when the dice roll again,
For you lives an' you dies by The Rules.
If yer base is magnetic, or coinage, or card,
If yer pose is high port, or reloading, or guard,
If yer bought by the casting or bought by the yard,
It don't mean a toss if yer plastic or hard
To The Man Who Writes The Rules.
On styrofoam hill or vermiculite plain,
When the tape-measures whirr and the dice roll again,
An' the pizza-smell's thick, so's to rattle yer brain,
It's The Rules that permit, an' The Rules that restrain,
And you lives and you dies by The Rules.
For the painter's a grind and the gamer's a plod;
The collector, 'e's just an obsessive old sod,
But I tell you, 'e's bloody well near to a God,
Is The Man Who Writes The Rules.
Oh, The Rules they are fresh, or The Rules, they are stale,
An' they favour the dusky or favour the pale,
An' they're overly broad or 'ave too much detail,
An' they don't know the difference 'twixt Congreve or Hale,
An' they finish too quick or they plod on too long,
An' they figure the spears or machine-guns too strong,
An' their cavalry movement is simply all wrong,
But when the dice sing o' their rattley song
It's all just the prattle of fools.
For you lives and you dies
Mind, you lives and you dies
Yes, you lives and you dies
By The Rules.
The Wargamer's Burden
Whistler Southlunder, 2004
Take up the Wargamer's burden--
Give forth the best ye hours--
Go bind yourselves to exile
To serve your opponets' need;
To wait in heavy anxiety,
On blundering bloke and scene--
Your new-bought, sullen figures,
Half-finished and half-accurate.
Take up the Wargamer's burden--
In patience to tolerate,
To hide the show of frustration
And check your enthusiasm;
By mumbled curse and oath,
An hundred times rules explain
To seek another's challenge,
And to same other suffer demise.
Take up the Wargamer's burden--
The detailed wars of lead--
Fill full your mouth with greases
And bid your sickness cease;
And when your win is nearest
The end-of-game by spouse is sought,
Watch obsessed with hist'ry nutters
Bring all your hopes to nought.
Take up the Wargamer's burden--
All expense rules of prodigy,
And toil of halfwit and dabler--
The similar odd occurings.
The conventions ye shall not enter,
The homes ye shall not tread,
With markers for your living,
And counters for your dead.
Take up the Wargamer's burden--
And reap this unknown reward:
The fame from those ye better,
The day of those ye won--
The crying of hosts ye had to humour
(Waaaah, slowly!) most of the night:--
"Why bought he us from casters,
Our loved wargaming night?"
Take up the Wargamer's burden--
Ye dare not buy to less--
But order too loud on telephone
And ire your spouse's weariness;
By all ye buy or barter,
By all ye scratch-make or play,
The silent, sullen miniatures
Shall weigh your shoulder in two.
Take up the Wargamer's burden--
Re-begun the childish days--
With lightly taken responsibility,
The easy, begrudging praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years
Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!
The Mohammedans invariably throw upon the Deity the responsibility for any mischance that may occur through their own negligence. The doctrine of Fatalism thus covers a multitude of sins. I subsequently discovered that the only way to impart a little circumspection to my careless camel-driver when, after smashing my boxes, he excused himself on the ground that the Almighty had been the cause of his disaster, was to administer to the delinquent a slight chastisement. This having been inflicted, I exclaimed, "Brother, it was the will of God. You must not complain; it was your destiny to break my property and mine to beat you. We neither of us could help it, praise be to Allah."
Sergeant-Major received a letter from England
in which he was
notified that the mother of Private Jones of his battalion had
passed away. Not knowing how to break the news to the soldier the
Sergeant-Major decided to call a formation.
"Right! All yew soldiers whose mother is still alive, fall in over 'ere."
"JONES! Where do you think you're going!?!"
GENERAL:
I am the very model of a modern Major-General,
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;
I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,
About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
ALL:
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
GENERAL:
I'm very good at integral and differential calculus;
I know the scientific names of beings animalculous:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.
ALL:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern Major-General.
GENERAL:
I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's;
I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox,
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,
In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous;
I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from the Frogs of Aristophanes!
Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
ALL:
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
GENERAL:
Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform,
And tell you ev'ry detail of Caractacus's uniform:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.
ALL:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern Major-General.
GENERAL:
In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin",
When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a javelin,
When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,
And when I know precisely what is meant by "commissariat",
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,
When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery--
In short, when I've a smattering of elemental strategy,
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.
ALL:
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.
GENERAL:
For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;
But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.
ALL:
But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern Major-General.
'Twas the Fight on the Isthmus
Whistler Southlunder, 2004
'Twas the fight on the isthmus, where all were a louse
To a soldier they couldn’t hit the side of a house;
Their uniforms were bright and gaudy with flair,
In hopes that the natives would panic and scare;
The colonels were nestled all snug in their beds,
Where vision of promotion and glory were bred;
And subaltern in hiding, and only I being apt,
Had just settled down not expecting the attack,
When out near the piquet there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the square to see what was the matter.
Away on the right a sepoy gun did flash,
But was aiming the wrong way and blew the ammo cache.
The moon on the shoulder of the far away palm trees
Gave light enough for me to see their sergeant on knees,
When, what to my wondering eyes he should do,
He huff’d and he puff’d and he finally blew,
With a little old English, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Sergeant Nick.
More rapid than beagles his curses they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, IDJIT! now, DUHM DUHM! now, PIN HEAD and BARLEY TIN!
Oh, COTT’N BRAIN! oh STEWPID! oh, DUNDER HEAD - blitz ‘em!
To the front of the line! to the front!” He did bawl,
“Now blast away! Blast away! Blast away all!"
They mumbled their gibberish as hither ‘n tither they did fly,
Their gun ran down an officer and his mount with a cry,
So up to the ridge with the curses they flew,
With the caisson full of shells, and Sergeant Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard from each “oof!”
Produced by the prancing and pawing of the good sergeant’s boot.
As I drew in my hand, a bugle to sound,
Down the hillside Sergeant Nicholas came with a bound.
His uniform covered shreds of fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all slashed, cover’d with ashes and soot;
A hundred and one natives his gun had flung back,
But there were ten thousand more and were goin’ to attack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his breath smelt of sherry!
The grin from his was crazed and a glow,
And foam on his chin was rabid and full;
The stump of a spear he had tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a bit too jolly for me self,
And laughed when he saw me, in spite of himself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I’d everythin’ to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight back to his work,
And filled all his pockets with shells; then turned with a jerk,
And pointed his finger up the hillside as it rose,
And giving a bellow, up the steep ridge he did go;
He sprang to his gun, to his team gave some whistles,
And away the gun blew natives with canister missiles.
But I heard him exclaim, as the held for most of the night,
"KEEP COMING YOU NATIVES, FOR YOU’VE FOUND A GOOD FIGHT!"