The Argus

unmerged(91068) · Jul 2, 2012

The Argus

Two things before we get started here.

First - This AAR will primarily be driven by the characters themselves, and the events they experience will form the heart of the writing. But the events will be created by the decisions of Australia, and any other Allied viewpoints will not be of my creation. Basically - I'll be playing as Australia ingame, but do not intend to restrain their perspective to an Australian one.

Second - The Argus was actually a Melbourne - based newspaper which shut down in 1957. It was formed in 1854, and did indeed experience many of the mentioned events. They were viewed as a very convservative and innovative newspaper. As a bit of (useless) trivia, I'd also point out that it was bought and shut down by Keith Murdoch, in 1957, father of the infamous/famous Rupert Murdoch, and as such a forerunner and founder of the News Ltd empire of today.

Enjoy.

Table of Contents

Prologue (June 20th, 1914 - August 5th, 1914)
Prologue I - The Three Reporters on Collins Street
Prologue II - Gearing up for the Big Slog
Prologue III - Port Said
Prologue IV - Leaning on the King's shoulder

Part One : The Worker's Government (August 9th, 1914 - September 13th, 1914)
Chapter I - The Right Man for the Job
Chapter II - Stonewall's Mistake
Chapter III - The Minister for Indecisiveness
Chapter IV - An Exotic Adventure

'Perhaps he could be Minister for Indecisiveness?'

Part Two : Innocence's Swansong (July 8th, 1914 - 25th September, 1914)
Chapter I - Au revoir, sweet mirage
Chapter II - The State of the Front
Chapter III - Last Train to Belgium
Chapter IV - Mercy
Chapter V - Fight or Flight?

''You left for the greener grass, my friend.''

Part Three : Mobilizing Spring Street (October 1st, 1914 - November 18th, 1914)
Chapter I - Cocoon of Distance
Chapter II - Where the axe would fall?
Chapter III - The Invasion of Papua New Guinea

"... just for you and me, Ed, you and me..."

Part Four : The War in Asia (November 4th, 1914 - )
Chapter I - 'Nos Morituri Te Salutamus'

____
Prologue - Prologue I - The Three Reporters on Collins Street

The Argus main office on Collins Street, Central Melbourne.

Can you imagine a cold Melbourne night? It bites, it sure does bite. In July, especially, the cold air likes to take a stab at the dead of night. During the day swirls of remaining dew and the still air create a muffled feeling. The dock workers in Geelong watch, as the early morning sun burns through a cold mist, as a large warship chugs by cheerily. The trams running keep the businessmen happy, as they shift through the day's news. Most people, at seven in the morning, are getting ready for the walk to work, kissing goodbye to their families and placing on heavy overcoats.

Today - today was extra cold.

The red hot shrapnel of a searing bomb in Serbia had sliced through the collective, built-up fat of government bureaucracy. Prime Minister Joseph Cook was woken up by the War Minister, informing him his position was about to become very prominent.

In the main office of the Argus in central Melbourne, on Collins Street, James Foveaux was summoning several of his reporters. The office had several rows of desks, all of them full of papers and ink. While some tired writers were quietly discussing events amongst themselves in scattered groups, there was an organised pack to the side. Nearly three desks were separated from the others, and stapled on the walls around them were torn maps and proudly stapled stories. They now turned as Foveaux called them over, and the office watched them disappear into the small meeting room at the front of the room.

He sat them down, amidst a cloud of cigar smoke. The three men were so wildly different it almost boggled Foveaux. Well, he had hired them - but any other editor would have to ask why. That was until they saw their resume - or colleagues.
"You blokes are now in the money. You've struck Ballarat gold, fellas." declared Foveaux with a macabre rumble of laughter, "You've got the biggest news story of your lifetime landing right in yar little laps. And well, I'm bloody jealous." They all exchanged confused looks. The oldest, on the far right, had a mess of shockingly white hair. His bifocal classes slipped a notched as he leant forward and seared the editor with a searching look.

"You're not winding me up, are you, James?" He prodded defensively, still searching. Foveaux shook away his defences, standing up with dramatic energy.

"Look, call me a profiteer, but we've got a big war coming up. Our research division just got word from the boys in London that we've got a Austrian royal gunned down in Serbia. Now, I don't need to explain to you, of all people..." He inclined to the three men, "But, like I said, you blokes have got a war coming up. And I want you lot there when it happens."
Bursting looks of excitement echoed from the three men. Why, the young fella down the end could have cheered, had not Mr. Foveaux been staring down at him. But instead he took a gasp of air and gave a quick nod. Anything more and he'd damn well cheer - blimey, the bloke next to him could've cried.

But, still, decorum.

The shot that lit up Collins Street and Fleet Street.

That bloke was Anthony Stonewall. Stoney, as the local reporters affectionately called him, could break down a person faster than the Melbourne inspectors. He could charm the milk out of a cow. He could, well, he could charm Mr. Foveaux, who was a newspaper legend, veteran and tycoon.

Yes, we are forgetting someone. And many never noticed him. Not personally, not at the time. But when he was gone and out, others whispered whether that was Steven Cowell. It was, though. And just like then, he now kept his words to himself.

"Listen, I'm not cut out for that stuff anymore. But you blokes, you blokes still have it. You can still make this news into something. Bugger it, I'm paying you for it! But I want you bastards, you lucky bastards, to get over there and report the hell out o' this story. " confided Foveaux, looking at them with a grin wider than the Nullabor. What was some war to these men? Foveaux had made his fortune riding along the plains of South Africa with the Welsh lancers. He'd seen a fair amount of young men cut down by a Boer's bullet. His father himself had handled his own musket while the Indians cut down comrades nothing on a few yards away, back in '57.

Had Foveaux really seen it happen?

None could doubt his dashing stories of death and glory which seemed to hang on well to the tune of 'Britannia Rules the Waves'. To doubt this man's very character would be a crime on any fine soul. But, that same character was tainted with a exploiters glee like none other. It made Steven Cowell shift with a sense of incoming fear. It even made Stoney give a second glance at the tycoon who wrapped Melbourne round his pinkey - and give a good crack at Sydney, if he tried harder.

The young fella piped up at the end. Edward Gale was that rearing young bloke who gave his peers a slap in professionalism and sure did challenge his older colleagues. He'd earnt a fine wrap from the Richmond police force, reporting crimes with a passion none had seen. Now, Foveaux was counting on him like a young horse at the Cup.
"Sir, so you're posting us all over there?" Wondered Gale, and his innocent question was a good one. They'd be the first to admit their surprise when Foveaux nodded fervently.
"Sure am, Gale. Not all at once, mind you. But I want you three right next to the bloody Emperor next time. Let me clarify it a bit more. I'm sendin' Cowell over to London tonight. Yep, pack it all, Cowell. Yar got a ship waitin' down at Geelong and you got Asquith waitin' at Portsmouth for yar." Cowell didn't looked shocked. He had held off on a family for some... few decades, at least until this whole reporting thing ever died down. One day, though, he'd take a stop up at Bendigo, take a breather.

No one was taking any breathers today.

"Stonewall, yar goin' up over to Carlton. Least 'till this all dies down a bit. I want you attached to the War Office and reportin' on where we're deploying, and what the headmaster is up to."
"Sounds bloody good, boss. Give them a second opinion on sparkin' up any wars, here on out." boomed Stoney, crumbling with laughter. But, look, you could've painted the disappointment seeping across Gale's face.
"Gale, your on hold f'r now. But, and there is no exception to this one, I'm getting you over to Berlin by August. I reckon the Kaiser has as much to say that the King does."

Now it all stopped for a second. They knew what to do now, didn't they just? Maybe it was time everyone leant back and had a think about what was going on. Mr. Foveaux thought they'd hit a few pounds of hard gold, but any day now and the actual diggers themselves could be packing up an heading out. Stoney might as well report on the draft now, before the Kaiser gave the bottle a good shake in Europe and everyone was drunk on jingo. Hell, all these blokes sitting here had grown up with the worst news being of a bit of a fight over in France a few years back. Edward Gale was hardly old enough to remember when the fellas marched off down through Burke Street fourteen years back to fight for Queen Victoria over in Africa. Now Mr. Foveaux was claiming he had seen that pot of gold, and that his one damned shot fired was a bright, blimey, flaming bursting rainbow. You know, that they'd seen nothing but peace and the wealth of an era which hadn't been burdened with death, destruction and the morbid lessons of a great war, and that wealth had damn well already cursed them into a spirit of drunk jingoism.

Couldn't fool Cowell though.

He gave Stoney and Gale a wave as they slipped out, before turning back to Foveaux with a depressed look which was weighed down with guilt carried over many a year.
"You can't blame me for this one, Steven. You can see that we've got the biggest piece since Federation, or when the bloody workers got their own say. There is a story over there, and you're the best shovel to dig it all up, the Argus 'as got." Cowell wasn't buying this one, though. He wanted his own say and the editor was going to listen.
"Look, I'm not naive about this stuff. I've been with the diggers with the Boxer thing, I reported with you in South Africa! You know me, James. And you bloody know what we've seen. And I, I just got this feelin' 'bout this one." He finished lamely, sitting back and trying to capture that nagging thought. What the hell was he trying to say here?
"What the hell are you saying, Steven?" barked Foveaux, "We've seen more wars then I've seen sun rises. They come dime a dozen, every year we got a new issue. Might be the Turks, might be the Chinamen. It all goes away." He promised grandly, pulling up an old map of Europe and grinning at Cowell.
"C'mon, where's your adventure? Ten years ago and you would've been beggin' me to go over." That was true, Cowell couldn't deny it. A small part of him was still cheering at him to go. What are you doing, Steven? It would ask so hurriedly. But there was that other part, that part which questioned whether he'd taken his draw of God's luck and this time, well, it was his time.
"Okay, what if something happens? What if the Kaiser gets touchy and we've got a war on? And don't you bloody deny that, either! 'Cause we've all seen what's been waitin' up in Europe, we all know it's comin'." accused Cowell.
"If somethin' happens..." begun Foveaux, "Then... you'll be there to report it. You can head on over with the troops while I send over Stonewall or Gale. Look, Steven, I need someone in London. The Argus needs to beat the Herald bastards, we need an Australian reporter watchin' things for us colonials. Now, when you get on that boat tonight, you'll be headin' for Singapore. After that, it'll be the Suez and then straight through to London. Meet up with the Times reporters there, but then you'll be keeping tabs on the European innings, eh?" He gave a chuckle, and Cowell did as well.
"If something does happen, Steven," said Foveaux softly, sitting down on his desk and looking at his long time friend, who looked mighty worried, "I would trust no other reporter here with this. Now go and make the Argus the first and best. I trust you to."

Now what could Steven Cowell say?

He'd just been given a warrant to wreak havoc with what he says. While the blokes are back here reporting that the ALP was still crushing the Liberals, or Stoney was hanging on to Cook's every word Steven would be in London, waiting for the executioner's axe to fall. And, well bugger them all, he'd be damned to miss this one.

It really was the story of a lifetime.
"I'll take it, James, and I'll give you the best correspondence yet. I'll go to Europe."

Kurt_Steiner · Jul 2, 2012

Interesting beginning.

unmerged(91068) · Jul 3, 2012

Prologue - Prologue II - Gearing up for the Big Slog

Australia%20Old%20Postcard%20MELBOURNE%20Bourke%20Street.jpg

'Busier then Bourke Street'.

Now, Edward Gale was a fine fellow himself. He was young, it has been mentioned he was young. He was still working as an intern at the Argus while the Boxer Rebellion broke out, and his parents moved over from Mother England say, around the time Bismarck was shown the door.

And, let us be blunt. All of Edward Gale's friends from Richmond were starting to take a bite from that romanticized posters the ALP was pouring out, and some of them were telling stories of the Boer War and the lancers, and the Australian riflemen in the Sudan and the dashing fellows over in France and Russia, readying to defend their sacred country with bare body and a great splash of patriotism.

Don't accuse Edward Gale of not having patriotism.

He'd grown up in this sunburnt country. His parents still pined for the green fields of Southern England but he was sure glad to be amongst the burning sun of a summer Melbourne. To play under the clocks of Flinders Street, to see the steam trains churn through the suburbs into the grand central, or the ships curling through Melbourne Port...

And his mates would testify for his patriotism to, don't you worry. In fact, Edward Gale was so full of excited energy, so full of passion and so full of... full of lack of time, that he needed to tell a mate right that very day. So while the workers were still wearily trudging down the cold streets of Melbourne, he was prancing into the steaming cafes of central Melbourne, nothing on a few blocks from the Argus.

And cafes, the vibrant heart of Melbourne, the personification of a matured colonial city, were full of artistic life. But today he dare not pause and observe that realism painting, or hear those old men discuss Cook's government with such burning passion, no, Edward Gale charged his way to the back, sidestepped the waiter and greeted his old mate with a bearhug.

"You bloody beauty!" yelled Gale, grinning at his old school friend, "They still haven't got to ya yet?" No, this Edward Gale wasn't a conspiracy theorist either, because his school friend was decked out from head to toe in the finest khaki south of Lyle Street. His brim cap was pinned with the Rising Sun, and his shiny boots clicked together with pure discipline. And, well, that wide grin was all natural and sure wasn't army-made - but the rest could've been.
"Ed, it musta been at least a year or two, mate. I bloody miss Melbourne, all right." exclaimed the friend with a burst of laughter, and Gale agreed strongly. That waft of burnt coffee bean gave him a pushing life, and he jumped into the questions.

"So, the army? Where they send you? They made you a man yet?"
"The army make me a man? Are you kidding me, Ed? Some of the birds down in Hobart sure made me a man, though." Ah, these two young boys rolled around with laughter like that day lasted forever. Look at them with weary pity if you must, but ignorance sure is bliss. They laughed, cackled and roared with laughter while the swirls of Melbourne culture seemed to pound around them. The long hours of the day shortened with their reunion, and the air seemed to hum with bliss. But, suddenly, the friend had a secret. And he leant closer and told Edward Gale with a sly smile.
"Well, Ed, I know you're a big reporter over at the Argus now. Oh, and damn you for that. Ever since my father read that I've despised your paper!" But he winked nonetheless, no harm meant.
"I got some news for yar."
"Ah, so do I." announced Edward Gale, suddenly straightening with proud satisfaction. He waited for his mate to ask, and so he did.
"What is it?"
"They're sending me to Europe. Yep, the Argus is gettin' me to Paris before you bloody do with the army!" Ah, the irony sure never did particularly strike either of them. And, with a slight guess the main irony never really hit the soldier boy either, because he now looked a bit sour.
"I'm going over to see what the Kaiser does."

"Then I guess we share something in common. Looks like the chief is moving us up to Portsea in east Victoria, and then we're on a train up to Sydney." Ah, so maybe that sour look wasn't meant for his unintended irony? Because now the air so full of bliss seemed to darken with the seriousness of events a world away. Events which should've left them alone but was now a rude stranger on everyone's lives.
"Edward, they're gettin' scared up there in Sydney. And I'd bet the bigwigs are getting pretty nervous, too. They can see them Huns coming straight for Port Jackson, all righ'?"
Bang. That was the sound of the hammer nailing the truth into Edward's mind. His world just seemed to get a lot smaller.

The Tasmanian Rifles embarking from Hobart, June 1914.

"What? They're gettin' you ready... all ready?" he wondered confusedly. The bloody man was only shot the other week.
"All ready? I thought you kept half an eye on this news, mate? Bloody oath we're gettin' ready for the big one, here." The big one? This wasn't the Ashes. This was the real slog between two blokes on each side of the ring, but sure as hell they weren't putting down rules this time around. Bloody hell, last time the Commonwealth faced this, this nation was only twenty years old and still as British as Birmingham. Edward Gale wasn't some tourist, hopping on over to the motherland to have a peek at what the continentals were doing. No, this time he was there as it happened. This time, he would see the gloves come off.

Ah, sweet Lord, that innocence is missed already.

"Well, bugger it mate, I'll miss you up north. You don't let them Rocks women get to you, and make sure your back before Canberra's up." Edward made his mate promise the world, and his mate promised ever so reluctantly. Because when the chips fell, that piercing patriotism didn't seem to cut so deep as the instinct their parents had lovingly taught them.
"Ed, mate, you make sure none of those Huns get to ya over there. I hear they're pretty rough back in old Europe." Now it was time to depart. Words lingered in the air, bitter afterthoughts of a day of reunion. Both of these young boys rose with the emotional weight of old men, and they simply gave each that simple smile. That simple smile which withheld many a unexpressed promise.

"I gotta go, Ed. Like I said, the Rifles will leave Hobart tomorrow. We'll be in Geelong by July 4th, and Portsea by the 10th. If you can make it, or get to Sydney when the other districts arrive..." Gale made his friend slow down, picking up on the small fact.
"Other districts? What do you mean?"
"It ain't just the Rifles moving, mate. We got the 4th and 5th districts from Brisbane, we got the 1st from out west. Now, we're all still using the stuff my bloody grandpa used, but buggered if I know what they'll do with us. Just be in Sydney on the 14th, and you got yo'rself a catch."
"I will be. I'll see you then." And with that they shook hands solemnly, and his old school friend simply merged into the crowd, another face gone amongst a sea of others.
Edward Gale knew a bit now. Whatever the Kaiser and his boys were stirring up in Germany, Cook and the Liberals had the diggers on the move. Australia was gearing up for the big slog.

____

unmerged(91068) · Jul 3, 2012

Thanks Kurt_Steiner!

I felt the first prologue was a bit too long and vague. The pace does pick up a bit more after the introductions.

Kurt_Steiner · Jul 3, 2012

Someboy should tell that to the boys

Time to kick the Boche out of Guinea...

unmerged(91068) · Jul 4, 2012

Prologue - Prologue III - Port Said

The SS Wellington leaving Melbourne Port, June 20th 1914.

The SS Wellington left the Port of Melbourne on the 20th of June. The waves licked up its bow as it smashed its way out of the heads, past Geelong and out into the Bass Strait. The strong, white bow charged its way along the East Coast for a few days. Steven Cowell found himself sitting on deck, with the crew scurrying past him day in and out. The wind was full of icy rain in the back end of winter, and a cold front had swept north from South Australia.

They sliced past Sydney, barely saw Brisbane and soon, so very soon, they were carefully navigating through the clear blue tropical waters of Northern Australia and Indonesia by the 30th of June.

The Wellington's captain made a brave decision, and this small white ship decided to skip both Singapore and the Raj. To avoid the halfway mark of the British Empire was a gutsy decision, but he justified himself to Steven with a cheeky grin and assurance that there were no storms to get them up here. He'd avoided Calcutta many times over many years, and was sure glad he had.

Steven Cowell didn't reply. He'd also seen Calcutta. He'd seen Calcutta when the Argus sent him north, some twenty years ago. That time he'd been sharing this ship, this sort of liner, with several hundred other young men - fitted with rifles and pith helmets. Young Australian men, summoned by the politics of London to fight in the dusty Sudan.

Now he was being summoned. Just like ten years ago, when the Argus decided to send him with some Victorian blokes, to march through the tall gates of the Forbidden City.

Soon they were south of Oman, travelling past the Gulf on the 5th of July and were at the Red Sea, and Aden, by the 7th of July. Steven Cowell watched as they moved past the Sudan, bringing up every memory of that hot, quick campaign.
Now, they were sailing through the gap of the Empire, the beating heart of world trade - the Suez Canal. For miles the land lay bare, not a single Arab visible for as far as the eye can see. Ships floated past with a serene appearance, flags from every corner of the world flying so proudly. The air, the sweet, blue air, was warm with a Summer heat. Not so warm that he patted himself down, but rather warm enough that he was at the railings every evening, watching the dark blue water slide past their plain white liner.

And then it appeared - a small collection of houses, before drawing itself out into a large-spread town. But it wasn't the town of Port Said which amazed Steven Cowell - it was the docks. Row upon row of magnificent ship, all in the cradle of an Empire. They rocked gently as the Mediterranean seas filtered in, the docks themselves were alive - even in the dead of night. Small lamps and lanterns bobbed down, around and through the huge wooden ships. The wooden, two storey hotels and pubs splayed out light onto crates, cages and cannons, all full of noise, merriment, merchants and sailors. The SS Wellington gently moved its way through a maze of ships, in their hundreds, the Captain waving occasionally at several other Australian crews.

On the portside Steven Cowell watched as the noose was thrown at the dock workers, who tied up the liner and pulled her towards the shore. A group of heaving crew rattled down the plank, and with a yell they discharged the chattering passengers.

Passengers disembarking at Port Said, July 1914.

Steven had his own work to attend to.

With thoughts troubling his mind, he left SS Wellington and made his way into Port Said.

The nightlife in this city was something Steven had seen in many portside towns. They never slept. The lights never dimmed, the noise never receded. It was a thriving hub of activity which energised any who passed through them. But Steven had seen Port Said many times, and he had only one mission - to find the telegraph station and cable Melbourne about his arrival.
After an hour of wandering through the darkness, side stepping drunks, avoiding the darker alleys and stepping back as the horse and carts roared by, he found the inconspicious building. Its whitewashed walls and wide windows were blazing with light, and at this house he knocked three times and began wondering.
Why was he nervous?

The Port Said Cable Office.

"Yes?" The fine voice greeted him, and it was a well dressed but exhausted man. He observed this old, weary traveller with a judgemental look, from his dusty boots to his dusty overcoat. The Australian didn't pause though, and was just as polite.
"Good day, sir. I need to telegraph a contact of mine, if you wouldn't mind."
"You're a reporter, aren't you?" That was no random guess of the telegrapher, as he suddenly smiled at Steven Cowell. And Steven himself showed no surprise on his part. He nodded mutely,
"I hail from Australia, sir, and am reporting to a daily back in Melbourne." explained Steven carefully, now finding himself more and more eager. But the telegrapher was now sorry, and shook his head, now turning to show the crowded room behind him. Why, it was as busy as the pubs and as quiet as a funeral. And a funeral was an apt comparison, in this case.
"You can wait. They're all waiting, and have been for hours. We've got gentlemen from London, Cape Town, Toronto, Hong Kong. But, we've had some big news, and, well..." Now Steven's heart sunk like it'd been hit with a hammer. Bad news? Good news? Did good news even exist now, such as it had in the decades before? His question was answered by the chatty telegrapher, as the rowdy noises of the docks drifted their way.
"You'll find the Serbs have refused the Austrian ultimatum, and you'll also find the Russians have backed the Serbs. Now we're just waiting on the Kaiser's word, but rumour is the war is on - least for the French. And, yes, we've got some Frenchmen here." Some morbid fellows gave small waves from an operating machine, before turning back in a hurry.
"I'll return in the morning. Thanks anyway." Steven hugged his overcoat around him and departed quickly, back into the dark streets of Port Said. The telegrapher gave a sad shrug and the door shut with a snap.

Now it was cold again. In the air, or within? Steve had never been able to tell the difference. The haunting ghosts of his past had always been hovering close by. And now he would sate their demands, and drink away the sorrows of a wasted life, and wasted lives. He made his way towards one of the packed pubs, ready to drink himself into oblivion.

Despite having never touched a drink since covering the Boxer Rebellions, or before that, during the Russian incident, or back when the Australians were fighting in South Africa, and Sudan, and even in the days when his father had tried to send him to New Zealand, as one of the Victorian rifles.

Ah, now, now he'd drink those thoughts away. Now he'd rest in the misery of a world on the brink.

____

unmerged(91068) · Jul 4, 2012

Kurt_Steiner, that's a good bet, the Guinea issue will become very promimnent in upcoming updates.

Kurt_Steiner · Jul 4, 2012

That's what I thought. I don't think tht I will take too much to subdue the island, but we shall see.

unmerged(91068) · Jul 5, 2012

Prologue - Prologue IV - Leaning on the King's shoulder

Parliament House on Spring Street, East Melbourne.

Anthony Stonewall was a rather noticeable person. You couldn't help but notice him, whether he was roaring with laughter, sharing a crackling tale or, bless him, just sitting there in silence. Those few extra pounds sure didn't help on the subtle factor, either, but no one mentioned that to their old buddy Stoney.

Today he was taking a slow tram up Bourke Street to Parliament House, from the Argus headquarters. While he hung from the railings and watched East Melbourne tumble by his view, he noticed that of all the concentrating, intense business people sitting in this early morning cabin, all were reading broadsheets. He grinned as he saw the royal emblem of The Argus in one fine fellows hands, and even more at the small byline of 'Steven Cowell'. His old friend had arrived in London only a week or so ago, in early July. The reception had been cold, or so the occasional cables told Stonewall, but he was sure the old bastard was glad he was over in the thick of it.

Stonewall was sure glad that he could be at Parliament House when the decisions came through. The week had been a blood pumping torrent of worrying news. Foveaux was beside himself at the potential, the sheer opportunity which was now popping up over in Europe. Stonewall, though, had that keen eye piercing straight into Parliament House, up on the hill. And he knew that a political storm was brewing with the pollies, and the whole mess was going to implode.
Not that anyone knew. He was keeping this little prediction to himself. Not even that slimy bugger Foveaux suspected that this piece was about to break.

Stonewall could make one of two predictions right that minute. Either Cook, the Prime Minister, would announce the formation of an Australian army force, with this European debacle, or his government was going to explode - right this damn minute. Those unions were going to knife him in the back any minute, and Stoney was going to be there when they did. He had some good contacts leading those unions, he was barracking for these blokes. Sure as hell, they couldn't find gold in Ballarat, but they knew how to betray a man faster than Fisher betrayed Deakin.

The green tram shuddered to a stop, and he swung off the platform with energy. The bell struck and the tram creaked off again, moving slowly uphill.

One of many Melbourne trams, August 1914.

Stonewall walked up Spring Street - the tallest hill in Melbourne. It had a commanding view of the entire city, and especially the classically Victorian buildings of central Melbourne. If the thoughtful journalist had've turned he could've pointed out the Argus building on busy Bourke Street to any of the well-to-do passerbys. The best view was what he was beaming at, though.
Parliament House.

Oh, yes, it was temporary. And it was also missing a clock tower. But it had a magnificence, a pride, a beauty to it still. Was this like moths to the light of power? Patriots ever so liberal? Or, perhaps, conservatives eager to preserve that British link. Either way, the old Victorian design of Parliament House was a beaut, all right.

Stonewall entered the red velvet lobby quietly. There wasn't a noise in the place, and the division bells sat silent and menacing. One of the police guards gave him a cheery wave, and pointed him towards one of the offshooting corridors.
"Right through there, mate. The Prime Minister is going to release the statement any minute." Stonewall gave a thankful wave, and weaved his way through the tight corridors of Parliament House. He arrived into a small office, where a dozen note-taking reporters were already assembled.

"That's the Argus here, sir." recorded a clerk as Stonewall entered, and the Prime Minister stood, clapping his hands as a introduction. He smiled at those gathered before him.

"Well, gentlemen, it's all a bit informal today. I'd like all of the Commonwealth to know that I will be seeking re-election as leader of this country and for my seat, and with my party and policies. I understand that the political situation is changing daily..." He added grimly, and a murmur leaked around the scratchy room, "But I am certain the Commonwealth Liberals can handle these problems. I've given orders to Minister Edward Millen to call up the militia, and we have begun militarising our base in Port Moresby and along the Queensland coast. I'll take a few questions, permitting." As his speech finished a flurry of hands sprung into the air, but Stonewall considerately bided his time. The first interviewer was a reporter from The Age.

"Sir, what is the Liberals position in regards to potential conflict in Europe?" Cook took a firm stance, wagging his finger at the Age reporter.
"I am dedicated to supporting the Empire and her policies. Any commitment that the King and Asquith Government decide to take is a path that the Australian Commonwealth is obligated to follow." Another hand shot up, and this question was just as cutting.

"Have you had discussions with Mr. Asquith in regards to colonial contribution to the Imperial defence policy in the Far East? And has the Imperial government requested Australian support?" Cook now puffed out his chest in clear pride. Oh, this one was going to be a campaign line, Stonewall could see it coming. He would pine on this one for weeks until election day.
"Yes, I've had personal conversations with the British Prime Minister, and we both agree that the Commonwealth will play a primary role in defending British Asia. We will commit troops to Singapore, Malaya, Hong Kong and New Guinea to defend Imperial interests. I have also offered to Mr. Asquith the use of an Australian squadron in European waters."

Empire - Imperial - King and Country. Stonewall might as well pin up what slogans Cook would use to defend his Liberal government. He would seek election on a damn clear platform of serving the King as a royal servant. But Stonewall was determined - he wanted to strike at those policies of home, of the Commonwealth. And so, when Cook confidently picked Stonewall to speak, he really did speak.

"Prime Minister, what do you say to the lack of a Australian army with the possibility of war? My colleague reported on the 7th of July that our militia, the only armed forces in Australia, are currently underequipped and relying on British support in Asia. Why are we leaning on the King's shoulder?" Silence. Those tofty buggers over at the Age sure didn't see this coming from a conservative paper, and Stoney could've told grinned in joy at the room's expressions.

"Well... the Liberal party is preparing a document on the state of our army, but we can guarantee that there is no threat to our interests in the Pacific. That'll be all, gentlemen, thank you for your time."
So now they were finished. The reporters filed out with low chatter and some gave Stonewall a encouraging clap on the back, and he retreated with the same feeling of annoyance. Anthony Stonewall crept from Parliament House, already picking away at his devastating story in the next daily. He would see Fisher or Hughes that very day and inform them of his intention to support a Labour campaign, but...

And what was this?

A crowd of many had gathered outside Parliament House, all flocking around one speaker who was looking around at his audience. His loud words reached Stonewall as he approached the back of a straining crowd, and he listened closely.
"... and I am so very sad to tell you fine people that today, on the 7th of August, the British Empire is hereby at war with the German people and their many allies. God bless you all, and God save the King..."

Jubilant crowds outside Buckingham Palace, August 5th 1914.

Well, bugger. Stonewall turned as the crowd began to cheer with jingoistic passion. The big slog really was going now. Now Foveaux had his damn story. And bugger it, Fisher had the Argus's word now. It was time for Australia to bite the bullet and form an army - its own army.

____

unmerged(91068) · Jul 5, 2012

The final prologue section, for any wondering readers. We'll start to move into more developed storylines now.

unmerged(174159) · Jul 5, 2012

Warluster said:

And to think the Germans had a shot at winning too. DAAAMN. I forgot how much of a gangup WW1 was!

Kurt_Steiner · Jul 5, 2012

The diggers are on the march!

Milites · Jul 13, 2012

With the Aussies on war footing, this here war will be won before old Kaiser Billy can whistle Waltzing Matilda!

unmerged(91068) · Jul 29, 2012

The Worker's Government - Chapter I - The Right Man for the Job

The Melbourne Cricket Ground had been built in 1854, but wasn't really put into use until the 1880s. Its use simply increased with the population, and by the time of Federation Australians were avid cricket fans. With the Ashes now a regular event and pride in the Empire a pinpoint of politics, it became the love of Australians. An icon to the masses.

Andrew Fisher was also an icon. Already he had seen a tremendous political life. He was privileged enough to be one of the Federation Fathers - one of the enlightened MPs who pushed for Australian freedom from total control via London. He himself had served alongside the likes of Barton and Deakin. He had even reached forward and seized power himself at least three times, and in three different ministries. He had formed the first labour party in the world, he had created the Australian navy, he had been forceful enough to truly draft the modern laws of Australia and now, as a sweet bitterness and characteristic of the Australian electorate - he had been pushed out of office on the eve of world war.

It was in 1913 when the fifth federal election was counted that Fisher saw that the country had only just, by a single seat, voted him out of power. One could blame his insistent urge to overhaul the judicial system, to try and cut ties with the Empire - only barely, mind you - and forge some national pride. But, alas, the patriotic electorate had not seen things so clearly, and the Scotsman was handed both a lifeline and a insult.

His insult - his very defeat.

His lifeline - that the Liberals could only from a minority government. They were trapped into the constant potential of another federal election at any moment.

It was on this threat the Joseph Cook called on the Governor - General, Sir Ronald Ferguson, for a dissolution of Parliament. It was at this fragile state that Australia entered the great war, and in 1914 both sides campaigned viciously for victory - as such was the state of mind of Andrew Fisher, as he sat watching a local cricket match on August 9th, 1914.

He had with him one other man of a similar age, both dressed in the latest London style. They clapped politely at every run, and Fisher even groaned as the wickets exploded in defeat, one time. They drew attention, as well. Occasionally, a brave soul would come over and shake the Labor leader's hand and wish him luck in September. Binoculars would scout these two fellows out, and fingers pointed from each side of the large stadium. Even when the first innings was through, the North Melbourne captain gave the legendary politician a wave.

It was an honour of Anthony Stonewall's to be personally invited there that August.

He'd known Fisher for at least a decade, by then. They'd met around about 1903, during the second Federal election. This was when the first MPs were in one party, when the politics were a little bit cleaner. The two men, journalist and politician, then correspondent and prime minister, maintained a cordial relationship. Every election they seemed to meet, and sometimes they never really agreed. Some of the legal changes Stonewall didn't appreciate. But he did appreciate the creation of the RAN, and the first transcontinental railroad. Both struck Stonewall as smart, and now Labor struck him as relevant.

He sat next to Fisher, who beamed at him, and they politely shook hands as the players slowly walked back to their positions.

"Mr. Stonewall, it has been some time, hasn't it?" greeted Fisher with that faint trace of a Scottish accent. In a way, it coincided with his party's policy, a always present sense of Empire hanging behind them all.
Stonewall himself was pleased to see Fisher fine and healthy, prior to the election. And most of all, popular.

"A few years, I'd bet. We won't talk about that one, I hope." Stoney grinned at the politician, who nodded his head as the batters stepped up to the crease, swinging in preparation. The year before, in 1913, Stonewall had been somewhat reluctant on supporting the Labor government.

"I still can't quite believe..." begun Fisher, pausing as the bowler sprinted up and the cricket ball rocketed forward, "... that Cook dissolved Parliament. I s'pose that it is his damned luck that he's caught out now." The ball hit with a cracking bang, and it lamely lobbed itself to the left a few metres before rolling into a fielder's scoop. The batter didn't run.

"Caught out?" wondered Stonewall with a chuckle, "That's a way of puttin' it."

"And you don't believe he has been? I, myself, could predict how the people are feeling." This aggressive assertion was not unlike Fisher. He was quiet in his utter confidence.
"I do, and that is why I'm here. I know your lines, I know what you're running on. I know the Labor party. And from what I've heard of Cook, the Liberals are back peddaling. You, the country, old Europe. Its got them scared." declared Stonewall confidentially, whispering to a serious Fisher as the batsman took several runs. They took a moment to clap respectfully before Fisher turned to him.
"What are your intentions, Mr. Stonewall?" pressed Fisher.
"They are very clear, sir." grinned Anthony Stonewall, "We have a great war coming for the Empire, and I know every man in your party is a patriot."
"Oh, yes, we certainly are. But I'd wager that every Liberal is as well."
"Yes, no doubt. They are honourable men, every one of them, sir. But you must surely see that Cook has slipped. He was so damn bloody sure that there'd be no goddamned war." Constant demands had been made of the Commonwealth Liberals for the last year to begin creating a standing army to serve alongside the RAN. Instead, he highlighted the militia and claimed this was not required.
"Speak to me, Stonewall. Give me your famous honesty, here." requested Fisher, with a slight smile.
"Well, sir, the fact is that you wanted an army and he didn't. And I reckon you'll get out boys over and back without a hitch. You'll have Australia fighting for itself - and Empire."

Fisher knew what he meant. He nodded as Stonewall spoke, at the same moment the cricket ball went whistling straight out of the field with a bang. There was a loud cheer around the cricket ground as the sparse crowd cheered the six and out. They all stood, clapping loudly as the batsman took a bow as if an actor on a stage.

"So what are you saying here?" inquired Fisher more closely as they regained their seats quickly.
"Not a lot, sir, but my intentions are to write in support of the ALP, and to have the Argus in support as well."
Fisher smiled humbly, clapping Stonewall on the back.
"Absolutely brilliant, Mr. Stonewall. Even on my own persona opinion I treasure your participation in our campaign. Brilliant. With this information, I'll need to see you at Parliament on the Monday. We have a lot to discuss about some ideas I have for the war effort." promised Fisher slyly, turning back to the closing match.

"Well, sir, I'll have to run some things by my editor, but I'll send a telegram to you by nightfall." Stonewall also promised, standing and straightening his suit, shaking Fisher's hand again. Fisher looked at him with full concentration, and nodded.
"Honestly, it means a lot for the party."
"I'm glad for you, sir, but I'm supporting you for Australia's sake." And with that, Stonewall left with a tip of the hat and the final run of the day cheered him out of the fledgling Melbourne Cricket Ground.

unmerged(91068) · Jul 29, 2012

The Worker's Government - Chapter II - Stonewall's Mistake

James Foveaux had never promoted a party in his pages. The Argus had either been on the sidelines or overseas, where the real action was - in his eyes. But now he had Anthony Stonewall standing right in front of him with a big grin and large promises. He had word that he was whispering in the opposition's ear, that Andrew Fisher had invited him to Spring Hill.

"I'm fine with it, Stoney. You just run what you write, by me, and I'll print it. I don't want any bloody straight out rags, though, you'll print stories if they're damned worth it. You understand?" threatened Foveaux, pointing a smoking cigar at the grinning journalist, who was nodding enthusiastically.

"Look, I'm not their lackey. I'll get this stuff done in the next month, tell the readers why the Liberals are so much in the wrong, and then you can toss me over to the big fight." anticipated Stonewall, enjoying his unheard of success with a usually cautious Foveaux.

"Ah, the big fight, eh? I've got Steven over there right this very minute. Only thing I can offer is prayers to the bastard, but he keeps sending home the messages." chuckled Foveaux, smiling at the character of the war reporter.
"Much said?" asked Stonewall, taking a seat opposite Foveaux, looking relaxed and interested.
"Bloody oath. He reckons the Poms don't know what's comin'." Stonewall liked the irony of that one, and burst out laughing.

"I'd wager we don't either, mate."
"I'd take that bet. You're a thermometer of the public, Stoney, I reckon you got this one downpat, with the unions."

A sly voice infiltrated the room, seething through with vicious intent.
"Word's spread on that already, Stonewall." A tall, expression-less man entered, standing behind Stonewall who craned his neck to see Daniel Warrick, the political editor for the Argus.
"Congratulations." he followed, but he meant not a single ounce of it. Instead his eyes bored into a silent Foveaux, who was now leaning forward.
"What's the problem, Warrick?" Foveaux cut straight to the matter, returning his cold stare.

"Well, if I may speak frankly..."
"Bloody oath, you can." affirmed Foveaux fervently.
"... I would say that Mr. Stonewall here overstepped his area of expertise." offered Warrick, not even glancing at a slowly angering Stonewall.
"Is that your opinion, then?" asked Stonewall, eyebrows raised in total surprise.
"And, sir, I would request that you don't accede to his demands." added Warrick with no acknowledgement of Stonewall, who now stood, and despite their massive differences in height he snarled up at the cold man.

"I'm not asking for your blessing, Warrick."

"You should be, Mr. Stonewall. Firstly, I run the political page here. And secondly, you're putting our collective, metaphorical foot in the shit." continued Warrick plainly, now looking down at the angrier, short man, "So I would, again, ask that the Argus take a neutral stance and you, Mr. Stonewall, find somewhere else to publish your opinion."
"This is ridiculous - you're being bloody ridiculous. Are the Liberals in charge of this newspaper?"
"That's not the issue, Stonewall." explained Warrick, as if to a child.
"Then what's your bloody issue?" burst out Stonewall angrily, approaching the political editor in a menacing fashion, ignoring the faint warnings of a quiet Foveaux.
"I'm sorry, wasn't I clear enough?" asked Warrick rather sarcastically, "You, yes you, Anthony Stonewall, are abusing the widespread popularity of The Argus so as to benefit your personal belief and career." Warrick now moved around a stunned Stonewall, moving to Foveaux's side, "I'm just thinking for the paper, you see."

"The... the paper? My career? What are you-" spluttered a usually loud Stonewall, throwing up his arms. But now Foveaux raised a hand, calming the situation and speaking confidently.
"Anthony, I want you to take a break for a few hours. Get some rest, I'll speak to you again tomorrow about this."

Stonewall offered no arguement. He smelt the faint drift of defeat, the turning of the tides against him. He saw a smirking Warrick, and a very serious Foveaux. And so, perhaps as a mistake, he turned on the spot and strode from the watching offices, past the clattering writers and out into the cold, busy path of Collins Street.

Was this the time to weep in defeat? Or had he secured a political victory, garnered with patriotic belief?

Kurt_Steiner · Jul 29, 2012

Let's hope that when the carnage begins the patrotic mood stays.

Mr. Santiago · Jul 29, 2012

Well, this is very nice, subed

unmerged(91068) · Jul 30, 2012

The Worker's Government - Chapter III - Minister for Indecisiveness

The rousing cheers of a enthusiastic crowd rumbled through the suburb of Richmond, on the 15th August. Crowds were overflowing from the rows of glass doors, all leading into the large town hall. It was from here that light and noise rolled outwards, like thunder roaring from an active storm. The people, dressed in ordinary clothes, decked as workers of the poor classes, enthused with class hatred, were raising their hands in a pumping encouragement.

Sweeping through the front doors, one would see that the hall was packed to the rafters with people of all classes, though it should be noted that once again, it was the poorer classes who made up a loud majority. The silent minority simply quelled under the waves of noise bouncing from wall to wall, giving a hearty enthusiasm to the ALP speakers at the podium. Raised above the crowd, though only barely (rather symbolically), a fiery Edward Grayndler was introducing a figure to the demanding crowd. With a big grin full of political power, which held as if Zeus and his thunderbolt, he struck forward a humble Andrew Fisher.

“And I present to you, proud people of Richmond, the most honourable Andrew Fisher – man of the people!” He stepped back, clapping loudly as Fisher strode forward and claimed the podium with a definitive step. The crowd was whipped into a frenzy of cheering, their celebrity on the stage now thanking them for their welcome, and asking for quiet.

Anthony Stonewall couldn’t hear any words the ALP leader was attempting to say over the rushes of noise, and he also didn’t cheer alongside the workers around him. Oh, he stood there with satisfaction pounding in his middle aged heart. He had been lucky enough to visit Spring Hill, and Parliament House, only a few days before. While there he spoke with Fisher and even with the shadow Minister for Defence, George Pearce. That man was Australian as Waltzing Matilda, born in South Australia and founder of the Labor Party in the Western state. Now he sat to the right of a serious Fisher, arms folded and smiling at the rowdy reception which was finally quietening.

Senator George Pearce, a legendary politican who never lost his seat in three decades.

Stonewall swallowed the sickness of excitement over the victories the ALP were gaining, and the potential of resignation back at the Argus. Now, perhaps, he contradicted his proposed intentions, standing here on his own grounds. Perhaps, when he clapped, nodded and even grinned as Fisher’s eyes scanned the crowd once, he was betraying his newspaper.

At one moment, even, Andrew Fisher pointed towards him, using him as a example.

“I’ve even had valueable support from all aspects of Melbourne society. The respectable Anthony Stonewall, standing amongst you tonight, has written in support of Labor’s policy. He believes in what we’re doing, and as such…”
Stonewall smiled awkwardly, nodding away the attention now turned on him by his neighbours.

Perhaps, Warrick was right.

As Stonewall pushed through a crowd at the end of the night, clambering towards the party’s leader, he was met with a business-like George Pearce, who shook his hand briefly. With a friendly smile, Pearce delivered his message.

“Anthony, Fisher’s pleased that you went along with it all tonight.” He paused, as throngs of workers pushed their way from Richmond hall, “Look, myself, and Fisher, have an offer for you. It’s not much, and it ain’t definite. But you’ll like it.” He assured a unaware Stonewall, dragging him away from eavesdroppers.
“Sure, what is it?” wondered Stonewall.
“We can offer you a position within the party.” Presented the shadow minister quietly, before cautioning a extreme reaction from a now backing away Stonewall, “Now, you must understand that we’re not sure where, right now. But, granted…”
“No, no, no. I’m very sorry, George, but I’m not in it for the politics. I’ve explained this all to Fisher before.” Defended Anthony Stonewall, still backing away, “I’m a journalist, not a politician.”

The 1910 - 1913 Third Fisher Ministry. Andrew Fisher is centre, to his right is William Hughes, and behind him is George Pearce.

But it was then that Pearce considered him thoughtfully. That look wasn’t tainted with anger, nor with disappointment. It was tinged with a hint of sympathy, its source unknown to Stonewall, and instead he shrugged.
“That’s fine, but you must understand – it might even be in government, if you get my meaning here. But, still, just… think about it.” Asked Pearce politely, shaking Stonewall’s hand, “And even so, thanks for everything.”
“No problem, George. Apologize to Fisher, he’ll understand…”
“Oh, yes.” Pearce paused, “Think about it, Stonewall, just give it some time in the… coming days.” And with that, he retreated up onto the podium to inform and speak to a campaigning Fisher, while Stonewall exited, confused, worried and most of all – concerned.

There was a war going on. The militia were being called up at that very minute. But all Anthony Stonewall could do, was play a game of politics.

And he felt like he was losing.

unmerged(91068) · Jul 30, 2012

The Worker's Government - Chapter IV - An Exotic Adventure

By early September, Australia was growing nervous. The war was now truly starting in Europe, with the collective armies of Western Europe now assembled, ready to charge against their respective opponets. In Africa, skirmishes were flaring all over the ‘dark continent’, with German settlers commonly coming into sharp contact with their many enemies, who outnumbered and surrounded the German colonists.
Meanwhile, the Pacific slumbered.

New Zealand was busy assembling a division, as young farmers emerged from the green fields of the South Island, while miners swarmed towards Auckland and Wellington in the North Island. The British colonies across Asia were injected with patriotic intensity, but this was only matched by economic contributions. Allied merchant ships swarmed through the harbours of Singapore and Hong Kong, before cutting through to the powerhouse of British India.

Hong Kong, c. 1880.

The Australian people were nervous because, firstly, they still were having trouble with formalizing some sort of Australian military contribution, even though the RAN sat in Darling Harbour with no obvious objectives. And secondly, they were on the eve of one of the most important federal election in national history.

Due to be held on the 17th September, by the 13th Anthony Stonewall was nervously anticipating a result he himself had been campaigning for viciously. He had written articles, had stood in front of crowds, had been by Fisher’s side. He had even earned the reluctant respect of a usually disdainful, brash Billy Hughes, a renowned ALP parliamentarian.

Despite this, James Foveaux, The Argus’s editor, had been pressuring him, lightly it must be said, to halt all attempts to sponser the ALP. Daniel Warrick still had the political aspect of the paper under his thumb, and did not appreciate Stonewall – a foreign reporter – cutting into internal matters. Stonewall suspected very light Liberal intervention, but he liked to tell Steven Cowell, in telegrams, that it was because he was a flawed character.

And so, only days before the election was to be held, Stonewall found himself in Foveaux’s office once again. Now, the jolliness of the earlier months had dissipated. Now, Foveaux was both sad, stressed and sick of the dealing. He considered Stonewall glumly, motioning he take a seat momentarily.

“I don’t have much to say, Stoney, so I’ll keep this short.” He announced solemnly, as Stonewall consigned himself to the hanging seat.
“Say what you need to.” Sighed Anthony Stonewall, waiting. Foveaux took a moment to collect himself, before continuing.
“Stoney – Anthony. I absolutely respect your journalistic ability. The Argus appreciates and has benefitted from your undoubtable talent.” Began Foveaux, as if delivering a eulogy, laying rest to Stonewall’s career, “But you have overstepped the line, mate. For the last month, as that bastard Warrick has been nagging me about, you’ve been writing for the Labor party.”

“As is my opinion, which is all you ask of me?” defended Stonewall in a controlled tone.

“Yes – I do ask for an opinion. I pay you to travel and report what the King says, or what the Americans are doing in the damned Phillipines, not what the unions are doing down at Geelong. That is, for good or bad, Warrick’s job.” His tone dropped in empathy, and Foveaux stood, throwing down his cigar in a rare display.
“I’m going to have to pull you off this one, Stoney. I’ve got a foreign assignment here,” He pointed at a folder on his desk, from which spilt tattered maps, “And it’s a good one, something different.”
“Different?”
“Yes… exotic.” Offered Foveaux apologetically.
“But… what of Europe?” questioned Anthony Stonewall, saddened by his obvious defeat. He seemed to deflate by the second.
“Europe will be there when you come back. But, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to get clear of Melbourne for a bit. I’m shippin’ you out.”
“But so close, James! Only a few more days! Can’t I witness what I’ve wrought?” begged Stonewall, letting down his jolliness, cutting down his only integrity.

“There’s no negotiation here, Stoney. I’m sorry.” Foveaux sat, pushing forward the folder hopefully. Stonewall sat for a few moments, before standing slowly. He waited for a few beats, but then took the folder and left without a word, flicking through its contents.

Once again he left into Collins Street. He had a few options here. They were very clear, and for anyone, quite obvious. But he couldn’t betray his life’s work here. He’d reached a dead end on this apartment.

The colony at Weihei.

He looked at the folder as he walked away. It was either a Royal Navy ship to Hong Kong, and then Weihai or that potential position in government. A workers government. A government which he would truly love. He stopped, uncertain, indecisive.
Perhaps he could be the Minister for Indecisiveness?

End of Part One

unmerged(91068) · Jul 30, 2012

Apologies for the triple post, moderators.

And thank you for subscribing and reading, posters (and anon).

Kurt_Steiner, for some it may. In the next part/arc, we'll hopefully see a glimpse of this carnage.

Milites, you have the slang downpat! I tried to scale back on that front a bit, you may have noticed the recent chapters are less... extreme.

KaiserMuffin, it is really shocking. I'd say that, that particular map negates the old imperialist theory of land mass = power. Prestige doesn't win wars!

And Mr. Santiago, thank you! I plan on powering through with these character stories, while devoting a few parts/arcs to the gameplay progress.

Now onto Part Two, where we will re-visit Mr. Steven Cowell and his journey into the heart of war-torn Europe.

The Argus

Waging War with Words

Katalaanse Burger en Terroriste

Waging War with Words

Waging War with Words

Katalaanse Burger en Terroriste

Waging War with Words

Waging War with Words

Katalaanse Burger en Terroriste

Waging War with Words

Waging War with Words

Still Alive

Katalaanse Burger en Terroriste

Not a Sahib

Waging War with Words

Waging War with Words

Katalaanse Burger en Terroriste

Colonel

Waging War with Words

Waging War with Words

Waging War with Words