The other day a hand full of us got together up at the FLGS to run through a three-player match for one of the battle's in Caesar's SANTA BORRACHA Campaign. Set in a bizarro 1946 South America under chaotic and drunken civil war, so far its been an exercise in uncontrolled chaos. I love it -- none of that mamby-pamby campaign paper work around here! For details, check various threads here:
?REVOLUCION EN SANTA BORRACHA!: FoW Campaign
�SANTA BORRACHA BATTLES HERE!:
�QUESTIONS ABOUT SANTA BORRACHA!:
Anyway, on to the battle at hand...
I completed my objectives as I understood them.
I understand there have been claims to the contrary, no doubt from one of the nefarious dogs pictured below against whom I found myself opposed. Now that we have found our photographer and retrieved the film from the gin still he was running in his dark room I have the photographic proof I need to vindicate my men and justify the reimbursement we continue to demand for our incomparable services.
Paul, Walter, and Ian. Scheming, do doubt.
Everything started just as a man experienced in fighting in this part of the world would expect. The village of San Necio, mentioned in passing as a sort of land mark in my employer's instructions, was filled with the scum of this blighted country. Sitting as it does with its outskirts almost within the jungle, and a long clear field leading over a pond and up towards a factory protected by AT guns, approaching it would be no task for the blundering sort. Once inside the town, one would be forced to contend with the desperate swine holding its buildings and alleyways.
My scouts reported to me that a small force of tattered, battle-worn infantry were lurking in the dense undergrowth near the village. This was also anticipated by me. Indeed, only a fool would expect to fight in private in Santa Borracha. There was even a bit of air traffic -- some drunken American braggart, no doubt -- as an old Russian dive bomber circled the area, dropping bombs on anything his blood-shot eyes could make out on the ground. He made more of a racket than anything else, but he did have a way of making people pay attention.
Meanwhile, my own boys were lurking in the jungle. A small force of my armor -- small, because that's all the contract called for, you understand -- had joined up with a small scouting party I'd sent into the area previously. Obviously, they had found their own way to pass the time, but I do not find it useful to discourage this kind of resourcefulness in my men.
The day's action started as a man experienced in fighting in this god forsaken part of the world
might expect. First the threadbare infantry made for the town. They were in no rush to get
there, but they made a competent show of walking in the right direction.
Much noise was made by their supporting artillery, and they even managed to use their old Lend-Lease Sherman to take down that obnoxious bush pilot.
I had resolved to hold back my men, husbanding my strength for the proper moment, after our enemies had worn each other down. Cautiously, we moved forward, holding to the cover of the trees.
A funny thing happened then.
The peasants of San Neico got on their horses, rode out from the village, and charged my StuGs over an open field. No, seriously, they did.
To their good fortune, they managed to catch one of my tank crews who seem to have decided that it was time for some sort of break. They will never have a chance to learn from their mistake.
Enraged, I rushed my forces out of their hiding places in the woods and converged on the hapless horsemen.
So swift was our vengeance, so terrible our retribution, that the photographer was unable to capture the action on film.
The threadbare infantry lurking on the outskirts of the village had not been idle during our action with the so-called cavalry. They had moved. Indeed, their new positions bore a strong resemblance to an attack formation. Crude, yes. Amaturish, to be sure. But pointed at us, none the less. My lead tank reported hearing a banging sound against his hell that I can only assume were hits from their worthless, underpowered anti tank weapons.
I see that you remain unconvinced. Perhaps you think that I attacked these men for no good reason? Well then, take a look at this picture:
Go on, look at it! What does that look like to you, 'eh? What would you have done in my place, eh? Ask them to come by for drinks? I think not. My course was clear, my reaction immediate.
Our true adversary thus revealed, my men moved swiftly to counter this threat. Heavy fire was laid into their rear positions, destroying their anti tank weapons and light artillery. Twice the enemy accepted our bait and attempted to charge my tanks with crow bars and Molotov margaritas, and twice they were repulsed by a hail of machine gun fire. Oh, it was magnificent!
As their moral began to fail, my men moved in for the final blow. As the sun turned the sky a glorious shade of red -- no, seriously dude, you should have seen it. You would have loved a sky like that -- the last few survivors skulked off into the jungle, leaving us to take what we might of their abandoned baggage. I myself took possession of this fine horse team. And let me tell you, it may have been marked as mortar ammunition, but the contents of that cart wouldn't make it through customs, not even in this part of the world.
Having secured such loot, my men and I retired to our jungle camp to celebrate our victory and enjoy some well-earned spoils of battle. I knew that my men had fought hard for me, and that they would gladly do so again. This made me proud. And I knew also that I had completed my contracted task and killed everything I saw on my way to San Neico. A job well done also comes with a certain satisfaction, don't you think?
I don't care what anyone else says, now you and I know the truth: I, Don Utinez de la Villa Fumeta, was victorious.