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#221
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Thank you.
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I am going to be completely honest and say that I have no idea how much he did or did not drink. I would assume not, but I was trying to create a certain type of character to work with. If it helps, think of it as a sort of Personal PODTM
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An Anglo-American War? In the 1890s?! They Call it Civilization! |
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#222
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Great update!
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#223
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Your back! huzza!
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#224
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It has been 2 hours since the update, so here is the first and last bump for those who have not seen it. It is on the previous page.
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An Anglo-American War? In the 1890s?! They Call it Civilization! |
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#225
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Been two more hours. Bump Bump Bump.
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#226
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He hath returned!
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“Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” ― G.K. Chesterton |
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#227
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So, is this the Douglas Haig? And is he as incompetent as his reputation generally makes him out to be? Though I understand he does have his defenders nowadays.
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#228
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An Anglo-American War? In the 1890s?! They Call it Civilization! |
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#229
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Next update coming...
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An Anglo-American War? In the 1890s?! They Call it Civilization! |
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#230
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Fort Assiniboine, Montana
August 9, 1896 “Run, you lazy dogs, run!” yelled John Pershing, at the head of a column of Negro soldiers. “Come on, hurry up! Whoever falls behind gets put on latrine duty for the next two weeks.” That got the slackers running faster, just as he had hoped. They should have cherished having such nice weather to run in. As Fall was beginning, this was probably one of the last warm, sunny days Montana would see, and he intended to make the best of it. These men, most of which weren’t from this state, were finishing up their three-mile run, and he could understand why anyone else would be tired. But these were soldiers. If they couldn’t handle this, he frequently told them, there was no way they could handle war. Almost all of them had fewer than his own 36 years of experience and life, and shouldn’t younger men be better able to handle such strenuous physical exercise? Yet here he was, the commanding officer, and he could outrun any one of them. Shameful. That wasn’t to say that he was having an easy time. His legs were aching and he had run out of breath a long time ago. Each step hurt more than the last. Yet still, he persevered, never breaking stride, and that was what separated him from the men under his command. Luckily, each step brought him closer to the finish line, if it could be called that, that marked the end of his three-mile journey. Thirty feet remained...twenty...ten...five...he stepped through the gate and came to a halt. His muscles were terribly tight, but nothing he hadn’t experienced before. Behind him, all twenty men who had run with him entered in good time. No one was far enough behind that they had to be reprimanded, but he would have been pleased if they had finished even a few seconds earlier. Regardless, they had done well, and deserved the rest he had promised them afterwards. It was 12:30 in the afternoon, and the black men of the 10th Cavalry Regiment looked more exhausted than they had been in days, so he left them to their well-earned break, himself walking through the fort to the bar. “Hey, Marjorie,” he said, greeting the bar tender. “Oh, hey there, Lieutenant John.” That was her name for him. “How are you doing this fine day?” He loved to hear and see her speak. With every word, her golden curls bounced up and down, and she always greeted him with a big smile. He enjoyed her accent, as well, one of the most pleasant Midwestern tones he had ever heard. She would have made a good singer. Not only was she kind, she was quite a looker as well. “Just fine, Marge, just fine. And you?” “Oh, I reckon I could use a bit of good news. We ran out of brew here late last night, and couldn’t hardly make anymore without malts, and we’re fresh out of that, too. Also, Roy is back in town, and he ain’t in a good mood neither.” That depressed John, who hated to see such a pretty girl sad, though she certainly didn’t look it. Also, he had just been reminded of her boyfriend, Roy, who was the sole thing standing between him and courting her. Seeing that she had got him down, she smiled again. “Oh, now don’t you go taking none of this to heart. Listen to me prattling on about my problems. I’m having a right fine time, since you’re here.” “Thanks, Marge.” “What’ll you have. You must be tired after running around with them colored folks all day.” “No, I’ll last. But I will take a Coca-cola, if you have any of that.” He had recently grown very fond of the drink. “Coming right up. Would you like the paper, too? There’s a good story in there about some battle that just happened in Guyana. I thought you might like it, so I saved you one.” “That would be appreciated. Thanks. Oh, may I also have one of those hamburgers?” She handed him the paper, and he began reading as she set herself to preparing his meal. Indeed, it was interesting. The aforementioned battle, called the “Mabaruma Melee” by the Montana Gazette, a newspaper based in Helena (which was his only option, as Assiniboine didn’t have its own paper), was the biggest such fight thus far in the war. “Venezuelan soldiers,” it read, “bravely charged the lines of the British, who cowered in barns and houses. It was a sad day for the military of our allies, which lost over 300 brave souls on this occasion. The British, it has been predicted, lost a mere 60 or 70 men. Nevertheless, the fear struck into the hearts of our foes will surely affect them. It is only a matter of time before they surrender.” He found that hopelessly quixotic, even for journalists as unprofessionally biased as those at the Montana Gazette. Regardless of the author’s opinions and diction, he followed the story to page 2, where the strategies employed were explained. The Venezuelans, despite the sugarcoating of the story, seemed to have no strategy beyond that of flooding the British with human waves, and destroy their defenses in a headlong charge. The British, on the other hand, held their ground, destroying the advancing Venezuelans with their new rifles, the Lee-Enfields. The last part, about the guns, was not described in the story, as he suspected the author didn’t know it, as he probably couldn’t have. The only reason Pershing did was because he paid exquisite detail to all military news from around the world. He had heard of the rifle when it was made standard issue a year ago, but suspected few others around here had as well. Not long after the main thrust into the center of Mabaruma became a definite failure, the Venezuelans retreated and regrouped to the west of the city, and returned to within their own borders shortly afterwards. It was a clear British victory, to which the President of Venezuela, as quoted by the paper, responded, “This is just step one. We intended to scare them, and we did. Though the loss in unfortunate, those men died to pave the way for their followers to capture the city, and win the war for Venezuela.” That statement struck Pershing as terribly callous and self-serving. “Here you go, Lieutenant John,” said Marjorie, who brought him back from his thoughts. “Don’t get too preoccupied with that paper, now. You may be a big, tough soldier, but everyone needs a break and some food now and then.” Her invariable smile, though he rarely saw her without it, still brightened his day. He returned it in kind, and prepared to eat. After taking a swig of Coca-cola, giving him the tingly sensation that he so loved, he picked up the burger and took a huge bite. The feeling his mouth experienced was one of refreshment, as well as a scintillating mixture of tastes. He looked up to see that he had forgotten Marjorie was still there. After swallowing what was in his mouth, he spoke up. “It’s good,” he said truthfully, which rid Marge of the curious look on her face. “My apologies, it seems I’ve forgotten my manners. I shouldn’t gorge myself in front of you.” “Oh, it’s no bother, really.” This time, he smiled. “Thanks. If you don’t mind, I’ll go back to my food then.” The rest of his meal went on in silence. He could not be extricated from his enrapturing, food-induced trance. When he was all done, he picked what he could from his teeth, and sighed the sigh of a man content. “Well, I hate to leave so soon, Marge, but I’d better be off. These soldiers don’t train themselves, now do they?” “I suspect not, but then, I ain’t no military girl. I’ll take your word for it. That’ll be 13 cents, please.” He dug in his pockets, and came up with the appropriate change. “Here you go.” “Thank you. Have a fine day now.” “You too.” With a smile and a wave, he walked out of the bar as he had done so many times before. At one-o’-clock sharp, his men met him back at the training center near the barracks. They were a motley crew, a mixture of black enlisted men and white officers, most of whom were members of the Pershing Rifles, the drill company he had personally formed five years earlier, and which had since adopted his name. He was training all of his men to become elite. The white men were occasionally at variance with the blacks, but the two groups got along overall. Many of the whites would take a distinct pleasure in insulting the blacks during drilling, and the blacks were none too fond of the whites as a result, but Pershing himself, having taught black schoolchildren years earlier, had a long history of interaction with that race, and did not permit outright hate crimes, instead promoting cooperation between the two, and even desegregation in the military on a higher level. He may have been the only one of the soldiers at this fort who wasn’t despised by either group. “Alright, men, we’re going to do shooting exercises for the next few hours.” At that, he divided up the men with the officers as he deemed necessary, and ended up taking the same twenty who had run with him earlier in the day. They followed him to the firing range, and took up positions. The soldiers then began the drill, and most of them did very well. With their Model 1896 Springfield Carbines, they were able to hit the targets, even though they were almost 3,000 feet away. Of course, since that was the maximum effective range, far from all of the shots fired actually hit their marks. While his men took aim, he paced up and down the line, shouting encouraging yet cautious lines, such as “Watch your aim, men” and “Steady, steady”. The hours passed slowly but surely this way. When someone got several shots in a row far from their target, he scolded them as necessary. Once the exercise was done, he had them clean their rifles, disassemble them, and reassemble them. Thereafter, they all walked back with him to the main training camp, where the daily physical combat training ensued. He always enjoyed that. After all of that, they were given freedom to do what they wanted for what remained of the evening. John Pershing walked up the stairs to the roof of the building where he resides. The sun was beginning to fall in the sky, creating a beautiful mosaic of colors in the heavens. But he wasn’t looking at any celestial body. He stared directly north, to the Dominion of Canada. There lied his future. “We’re almost ready, by jingo. I don’t care what the President says is the policy regarding Canada. My boys’ll make ‘em fear the United States, they will. Those rolling plains are ours for the taking.”
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An Anglo-American War? In the 1890s?! They Call it Civilization! |
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#231
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Comments? Questions? Bump?
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An Anglo-American War? In the 1890s?! They Call it Civilization! |
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#232
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Well, Pershing's quite certain that he's going north no matter what Cleveland might say...
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#233
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Interesting verry interesting...I like the description of Pershing as a go getter forcing himself to do better than younger men. cool update!.
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#234
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Rex Britanniae
Couldn't reply yesterday as rather busy. Just a quick query on the range of the Springfield Carbines. Could they actually manage 3000'? [Although thinking about it possibly comparing with yards elsewhere]. Sounds like Cleveland has imposed some restrictions on US actions, which is probably a good thing for them until they recruit and train a lot more troops. Not sure of the time-scale however. Given that the US has declared war is there much trade war going on yet? That would probably be important for both sides as the economic impact would be pretty dramatic. Steve |
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#235
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It says that the effective range of the rifles in question was 3,000 feet.As for a trade war, not quite yet. The war, after all, is not that far along. Thus far, he is trying to contain it to Venezuela, though an eventual trade war may be inevitable. The United States will do what it can, but against the Royal Navy, it would have a big problem imposing the most effective and most common form of trade strangulation, the blockade. As for other methods, you may see them surface soon enough.
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An Anglo-American War? In the 1890s?! They Call it Civilization! |
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#236
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EDIT: I was thinking of WWI-era weapons. The Americans haven't yet improved their weaponry in response to the experience they gained against Spanish forces wielding German Mausers, and the Britsh will probably be in the same boat as the Boer War hasn't yet occured...
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Die Religion ist das Opium des Volkes Last edited by bm79; January 20th, 2009 at 08:21 PM.. |
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#237
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Thank you. I know that Wikipedia isn't always reliable for things such as that, and I've been trying to find a better source for weapons information.
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An Anglo-American War? In the 1890s?! They Call it Civilization! |
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#238
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. At this time, the Brits will still be armed with Martini-Henry rifles, which are great guns for their time, but I don't know their capacities like later weaponry. A lot depends on whether the Mauser has reached the Americas by this point in any real numbers. The Americans, in their wars with the Indians, will still have more experience fighting with lesser-caliber arms, and so no matter what might find their tactics lacking before the British...
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Die Religion ist das Opium des Volkes |
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#239
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Digging at wiki sources...
There is a Russian firearms site that is very good (lost the link for the minute - I'll post it when I find it). In the meantime I'll dig past the wiki to the sources:
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That link to Modern Firearms .ru Only has the 1895 Winchester lever action: ![]() Makers marks on Lee-Enfields (UK only) FY or ROF(F) = Royal Ordnance Factory in Fazakerly, Lancashire M or RM or ROF(M) = Royal Orndance Factory in Maltby, Yorkshire B or 85B or M 47 = BSA-controlled company in Shirley, near Birmingham ![]() They were later also made in India and Australia. RSAF Enfield RSAF Sparkbrook LSA.Co - London Small Arms BSA.Co - Birmingham Small Arms Lithgow Arms Factory RFI - Rifle Factory Ishapore ROF Maltby BSA Shirley ROF Fazakerley SSA - Standard Small Arms NFR - National Rifle Factory 1 LongBranch Arsenal Savage Arms Co POF - Pakistan Ordinance Factory Quote:
![]() Webley .455 caliber MK. II (Mark 2, 1894) I have yet to find production figures applicable to 1895-1896
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“No argument, however seductive, must lead you to abandon that Naval supremacy on which the life of our country depends”. Winston Churchill. Last edited by perfectgeneral; January 21st, 2009 at 01:17 PM.. |
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#240
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See MLE play
http://www.rememuseum.org.uk/arms/rifles/armbsr.htm
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I wonder if Kitchener needs loads of new barrels in Sudan at the same time as the Anglo-American war? ![]()
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“No argument, however seductive, must lead you to abandon that Naval supremacy on which the life of our country depends”. Winston Churchill. Last edited by perfectgeneral; January 21st, 2009 at 12:55 PM.. |
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