War is hell. Also madness. A very visceral description of just how tough it was to tackle WWI-style defences with WWI-style equipment. Incidentally, did you get your pictures from a WWI archive?
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Splendid! And good to have you back at it, AF. I, too, am undecides as to for whom I'm rooting. Seems to be for whichever character you're writing at the moment, which seems a credit to you.
Vann
Vann
CHAPTER 86 : LOST MOMENTUM
A Brazilian soldier scouts the invaded Mato Grosso
Ten miles east from Aroeira, the Argentinean northern pincer, November the 14th, 1938
“Look at that sorry bunch of bastards!” shouted Martinez in delight, as their Ansaldo tankette approached yet another column of Brazilian prisoners.
Gripping the railing, Orlando stood up inside the small turret to see past the thick exhaust fumes of the preceding vehicle – Esteban‘s, if memory served him night. With a mind-numbing rumble, the Coraceros’ armored company was leaving another village behind them, passing by the battered remnants of a defeated Brazilian battalion coming the other way. Loosely escorted by Lanceros infantrymen – when it was not by their own former NCOs “armed” with long sticks and truncheons - walked hundreds of prisoners, a long column of defeated men that had a few days before been part of Brazil’s 17th Infantry Regiment. The Brazilian riflemen had fought bravely, if ineffectively, in their desperate attempt to stem the Argentinean offensive. In the end, though, bravery had shown its limits in face of better weapons, better training, and above all better leadership. To Orlando, a boxing enthusiast who never missed a match when he had the chance, it had been like opposing a brave but inexperienced challenger to a crafty heavyweight. The combat had been fierce and brief, and despite all their eagerness, the Brazilians had been roundly trounced. Judging by the stunned look on their faces, the defenders still hadn’t realized that it had not been a fair fight to begin with, and that they never really had a chance to prevail. After two hours of combat, they had been outgunned and out-maneuvered by a stronger opponent who had simply brought more tanks, more artillery and more rifles to the battle, and had known a little better how to employ them. To the Argentines’ steel and lead, the Brazilians had opposed brave hearts and a lot of guts – unsurprisingly, steel had won.
“Christ, they’re going to slow us down even more!” moaned Martinez. “At this rate it’ll be winter again before we even see the outskirts of Panorama ! As if sucking down that lazy-ass Esteban’s fumes for the past hour hadn’t been enough!”
Assembled on the left side of the road, the prisoners were breaking ranks as they approached the village, despite of their guardians’ best efforts to keep them in line. As a result, the Coraceros drivers had to swerve left and right to keep their Italian-made tanks moving. It was a sad crowd, disoriented and sluggish, feet dragging and eyes shifting away. The men looked dazed by the violence of the blows that had felled them. They had the resigned look of oxen led to the slaughterhouse, even though, for most of them, what lied ahead was nothing more than a short interview with bored officers from the Servicio de Informacion Militar, and a hasty demobilization process that would eventually send them back to their farms and homes. Most of these men were militiamen, peasants drafted by uninspired officers told to make do without regular troops. They had been hurled into war armed with hunting rifles and machetes to face professional soldiers armed with mortars and machine-guns. Such people did not interest anybody. Only regular soldiers would be detained longer – to be released in a few weeks, probably, as soon as the Bolshevist clique in Rio de Janeiro surrendered after the capture of Sao Paulo.
There were two kinds of prey the SIM was really after : the first one was Brazilian officers, and the other one was partisans. To SIM interrogators of course, officers were the real prize – something soldiers like Orlando, who knew partisans firsthand, begged to differ about. The Communist hard-liners among the Brazilian officer corps would be separated from the rest, and more severely interrogated by the SIM. Such men might have useful information about the Soviet clique in power in Rio de Janeiro, or about the deployment of what was left of Brazil’s battle-ready forces. They could also know emplacements of weapons and supplies caches or the whereabouts of the roving bands of partisans and irregulars that had plagued the territory conquered by the Argentines. As for those few field officers that had remained loyal to the deposed regime of Getulio Vargas, they would be used for propaganda and political purposes, showing the world it had been a just crusade against Soviet Russia’s encroachment in Latin America. So far Argentina had, despite of White House speeches and of the efforts of the International Squadron blockading its ports, enjoyed the sympathy of most American and European public opinions – not to mention more substantial, if also more discreet, forms of support from various governments.
The prisoners were now slowly passing by the column, ashen-faced and crushed by the shame of defeat. To Orlando’s surprise – and to many an Argentinean tanker’s delight – there were women amongst the Brazilian column, women of every age, some accompanied by children. Some of them dared to look at the faces of the leering Lanceros, their eyes expressing defiance but also some kind of basic empathy with young men who probably looked like the beaus, brothers or husbands who had left them for battle. Perhaps at some point, Orlando thought, men who could lose their life in the next few days, if not in the next few hours probably looked all the same to women, regardless of the color of their uniforms. To the young Coracero, such scenes were comforting, as they carried the idea that some Brazilians had seen through the Reds’ propaganda and had chosen to trust the sense of honor of the Argentinean army rather than cast their lot with the Reds.
If only they could all see this clearly, thought Orlando, focusing on a group of women who had stopped to watch the tanks go by.
“Hey, Jefe, keep an eye on them all, not just the women, mind you!”
Martinez’ riling took Orland by surprise, but he had to admit it contained more than a grain of truth. In the past few weeks, Argentinean soldiers had faced an enemy they had never been prepared to confront : Brazilian partisans. While most of the Brazilian militias had been relieved to put down their weapons, the past few weeks had seen the apparition of marauding bauds of partisans sabotaging railways, attacking isolated soldiers, and setting up murderous ambushes along the major roads used by the Argentinean army. The Argentines had replied in kind, summarily executing partisans and showing little mercy for suspected sympathizers or villages believed to have fed or harbored the marauders. From what had transpired from SIM interrogators, these partisans were for the most part dedicated Communists indoctrinated by political commissars who served as the marauders’ field officers and ideologues. The partisans were little more than a nuisance, but one the Lanceros hated with a passion. While unable to hold their ground against a determined assault by regular troops, the partisans could tie up hundreds of soldiers guarding depots, railroad bridges and other likely targets. Their pin pricks did not affect operations directly, but they slowed everything down and affected Argentinean morale, with every ambush and murder pushing Lanceros soldiers over the edge.
Like mosquitoes, thought Orlando. They only need one bite to drive you crazy with the itches. And if you’re unlucky enough, one bite is all they need to kill you.
Coraceros racing east towards Panorama
Now that he could see them closer, Orlando noticed the three women had an air of similarity. They all looked in their middle twenties, with sad and serious faces framed by jet black hair. They wore men’s clothes, and that made Orlando decide they probably were farm girls, perhaps from one of the latifundios set up along the valley. One of them was extending her hands towards every passing tank, in a gesture of supplication. The girl next to her held a straw hat she showed to every tank’s crew, while the last one was holding a baby wrapped in a shawl against her shoulder. Orlando realized they were begging for food. Probably the latifundio’s men had been drafted and with children and infants to take care of, the women had been forced to resort to mendacity as they could not run the farm on their own. He patted his knapsack – surely there was something in there he could give them.
“Slow down a little, will you?" shouted Orlando as he leaned over the Martinez’ shoulder. "I’ll give them ladies something”
“Hey, if that means they give us something in return, I’m all for it, Teniente, the tall one’s got a mighty fine rack” replied the driver evenly, easing the pressure on the gas pedal. Behind them, the Ansaldos slowed down one by one.
“Senhor! Senhor ! This way !” shouted the youngest girl, as she caught the Fiat engine’s change of regime.
From the depths of his rucksack, where he kept his campaign souvenirs and the odd foodstuff for him and Martinez to munch upon, Orlando fished a can of tomato preserves. While this was not exactly a regal gift, he was sure it would be appreciated. Upon seeing the jar in his hand, the three women rushed to the light tank. Orlando flashed them a bright smile.
“Here, Senorita, take it, it’s for you!” he shouted, handing the jar towards the young girl. She made no sign of taking the proffered jar, looking suddenly sad and tired beyond her years.
“For you ! To eat !” Orland, insisted.
The bullet caught him by surprise, ripping through his guts and sending him crashing into the light tank's turret. Before Martinez, his ears still ringing from the gunshot, could react, the young woman brought her revolver down to his head and fired, splattering brain all over the shift gears. Upon hearing the first shot, the tall woman lost no time. From her “baby rags” she fished a grenade that she threw at the nearest Ansaldo. Breaking ranks from the walking POW columns, half a dozen men jumped aboard the two stricken tankettes to grab the weapons of the fallen Argentines. One of them pushed the dying Orlando aside and, without even aiming, fired the tank’s twin 8-millimeter machineguns into the preceding tankette. As the Argentineans started reaching for their weapons, soldiers from both sides ran for their life.
"Partisans !" shouted an Argentinean tank commander as he trained his weapons upon the captured Ansaldos. All over the crowded road, cries of alarm and of pain started answering the gunfire.
*******
Foz de Iguaçu construction dam, Brazilian State of Parana
In the sky, the biplanes stopped gaining attitude after his dive, and veered towards the north. At this distance, the two Nieuports made about as much noise as a pair of bumblebees.
“They are approaching” said the scarred Lieutenant, as be turned toward his plump companion, folding the dropped message before putting it into his pocket. “It’s time, Dr Munoz, the last charge’s been set up”
To the lean, clean-cut officer, the civilian engineer was a sorry sight. He looked unkempt, with large sweat stains dirtying his white suit and a sick pallor all over his round, unshaven face. Whenever he took off his yellowish hat to fan himself, Munoz revealed a rapidly-balding head with a crown of tousled salt-and-pepper hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed or cut in months. And if that wasn’t enough, the fat civilian looked like Death - as he had ever since Lieutenant Binxeira and his troops had arrived at the construction site, with requisition orders for Chief Engineer Hector Munoz de Pereira and what was left of his working crews. For the life of him, Binxeira could not see what the trouble was. They had gotten clear orders that had unambiguously emphasized the importance of their mission. What was left to rue about ?
Perhaps he knows people living down the valley ? thought Binxeira as he reached out to shake the sullen engineer out of his reverie. Munoz seemed absorbed in the contemplation of the gorge, whose rocky cliffs towered above the silvery flow of the Parana River.
“Doctor ? I said…”
“That the last charge has just been set up by your men, yes” replied Munoz with a heavy sigh. “I heard you, lieutenant.”
“Then you know what we must…”
“Hell yes, I do know. Do you think I wouldn’t know ?” snarled the plump engineer.
“We must…”
“I know, we must go check the demolition charges, that’s what we must do right now. God, to have come so far ! To have come so close ! And to finish it like that !“ spat Munoz, furiously scratching a rash on his neck.
It was not a particularly hot day, but Munoz sweated as if he had caught some of the bad fevers that plagued the Parana. Fevers were not uncommon in the valley, particularly in the hot season, as disease-carrying mosquitoes tormented the nearby villages. Down the Parana, a man would be wise to bring quinine rather than his family, Munoz had been told two years before when he had accepted the responsibility for the Itaipu Gorge construction site. With the malaria outbreaks and the occasional quarrel with Paraguayan poachers, it was pretty obvious why the company did its best to discourage valuable employees to bring loved ones with them, despite of the charm of the Parana valley. Munoz was glad he had divorced the year before, for his Ana would have scoffed at such advice. She would instead have pointed out it would do Carlos and little Mercedes a lot of good to leave their cramped apartment in Sao Paulo, and to enjoy a few months’ worth of the vast expanses of the Parana Valley. Nothing Hector Munoz could have said would have changed her mind – Ana had always been the one to carry the decision, with mild-mannered Hector usually happy to follow her lead. In this respect, Ana’s growing tired and bored with their life, and her subsequent love affair with that young Sao Paulo lawyer, had proved a blessing in disguise for Hector Munoz, as gut-wrenching as it had been initially. At least it meant his children were safe from what their father was about to unleash. Something buzzed by Munoz’ ear and he swatted the insect away.
Damn those bugs! Come a few weeks, and it’ll be fever season again down there, thought Munoz as he and Binxeira walked down the narrow path that connected the engineer’s observation post to the main construction site. But fear not, Parana Valley mothers, for this year’s gonna be a very special one, oh yes, a very special one indeed. No fever will come upon your children this year. I, Hector Munoz, absolutely guarantee it, may the Lord have mercy on me.
As they approached the massive construction, Munoz felt his heart grow heavier with every step. What lied in front of him was not only thousands of tons of concrete, or the work of the past two years. For Munoz it ran much deeper than that, it ran as fast and as deep as the Parana River itself. Itaipu simply was the biggest engineering project Munoz ever had the fortune to work on, the kind of project that made a man’s reputation in his line of work. And even more importantly, it was the kind of project that Hector Munoz had become an engineer for, his very professional raison d’être. And it was breaking Munoz’ heart that he, who had toiled and labored for so long to bring that project to life, should be the one to destroy it.
For centuries, Itaipu had been little more than a speck on a map, an elevated point where the Parana River picked up speed before it pursued its course in the valleys below. At Itaipu, the river was still wild and furious ; once it reached the valleys, a few hundred miles down south, the Parana’s roar turned into a low rumble and forked upon reaching the southern plains, dividing itself into several smaller rivers that its raw energy had carved into the earth of the Mato Grosso. The river had seen Empires rise, prosper, and then fall. It had seen Portuguese and Spanish conquistadores establish their rule over the remnants of the Indian empires, and it had seen their own descendants overthrown by nationalist fervor. None of these events had ever had any impact on Foz de Iguaçu. Oblivious to what flag was raised over them, the great waterfalls had kept moaning, feeding the plains beneath. From these falls, thought Munoz, a man could watch History being written around him. And one day, History had written itself upon Foz de Iguaçu.
It had been in 1932, when, with the help of foreign investors, Getulio Vargas and his cabinet had decided to develop Brazil’s dormant industrial sector. As new mines, new workshops and new factories opened, energy demand had soared to the point the local grid could not satisfy it any longer. Foreign experts had thus been hired by the Estadonovista government to tackle that problem, so Brazilian ores could serve the plans of their employers, all American and European industrial trusts. Working with a crack team of Brazilian engineers, they had rapidly ruled out building coal– or oil-fueled power plants. The country’s poor roads made transporting combustible to the hinterland a prohibitively expensive operation, and simply extending the power grid from coastline-based power plants posed technical problems as well. Instead, they had proposed a more ambitious plan. Rather than move plants or electricity to the hinterland, they had said, the solution was to use a source of power immediately available at various locations : Brazil’s tumultuous rivers. In this respect, the impetuous Parana , Brazil’s major southern river, had immediately caught their attention as well as the imagination of their employers. And along the Parana, no site was better suited to build a dam than Foz de Iguaçu.
Six years later, ltaipu Gorge was still under construction, but the main reservoir was finished. With its 3 trillion gallons of water, that reservoir made Itaipu the largest dam in South America, and the second-largest of the continent, just behind the Hoover Dam.
***
Thirty miles north of the Argentinean city of Posadas – Argentina’s southern pincer.
“Come on, Flora, come on my girl” said the soldier, pulling on the harness to help the little horse. With a snort, the little Criollo mare lowered its head and pulled the ammunition cart past a muddy pothole. Behind them, and for over a wile, the 2nd Army’s artillery train plodded forward, encouraged by the cheers and flowers of the just-liberated population of Entre Rios.
On the right side of the road, eyes transfixed in patriotic fervor, stood townsfolk and villagers that the Argentinean infantry had liberated a few days before. Not that it had been particularly hard, for in most occasions the Argentines had found out their opponents had already left, abandoning their encampments axons with an assortment of military equipment. As rapidly as the Brazilian troops had come to Entre Rios, they now were retreating towards the border, in a desperate attempt to reform a coherent front.
Unsurprisingly, women composed the majority of the spectators, the rest being children men out of military age. Lined up along the road, women of every age were cheering and clapping, greeting their liberators after months under Brazilian occupation. Some were mothers and grandmothers, accompanied by little children. Others were young girls, looking at the soldiers with joy and desire, replying to the soldiers’ salutes and compliments. Some even winked mischievously at the marching soldiers, eliciting cruder compliments from the riflemen and stern, disapproving looks from the older women as they did. Every Argentinean soldier felt like a real hero today, even lowly privates such as Pablo, who straightened up every few steps as he walked next to Flora’s ammunition carriage.
An Argentinean artillery convoy on the move
Pablo Montez was a humble young man, a farm boy turned soldier after ten years of hard labor in the vast stables of his uncle’s latifundio, in Patagonia. Upon joining the Army, little Pablo had found out his job would not change that much, as his artillery regiment needed horses to draw its long guns and howitzers, and experienced were to take care of the horses. While this had disappointed some of the young recruits who had hoped wearing a uniform meant never having to smell cow dung or shovel horse shit again, tiny Pablo had thanked his good fortune. With a pock-marked face that turned girls away, and a petite stature that excluded him from the other boys’ brutal games, Pablito Montez had long since preferred the company of horses to that of his fellow men.
“Hey, Pablito! “ shouted an artillery loader from a nearby carriage “Look at them girls! Think you’ll get lucky tonight, Pablito ?”
“Bah, I don’t know, Ramon, maybe yes, maybe no” replied the young private, blushing crimson. Ramon was a nice enough fellow, never mocking the shy stable boy like some of the gunmen did, but to Pablo even his friendly banter was embarrassing enough.
“Ah, tonight, Pablito, we could all be lucky ! Lucky all night long, if only Colonel Bolzano just ordered us to camp here! I tell you, lad, only the sentries would have to pleasure themselves while us, my friend, we would be serviced by the best…”
Ramon was interrupted by the sudden stop of the carriage. The horses had stopped, heads tilted ice the air, hooves stomping nervously on the dusty road. All over the column, carnages had stopped, and the horses stood still, not responding b the drivers’ urgings. Even Flora, who by far was the mildest horse of the regiment, kept turning her head away from the road, her flanks quivering. The drivers' commands horned louder, but to no avail. The artillery train had come to a full stop, and despite of all the soldiers’ shouting and slapping the horses refused to amble any further. They fidgeted, some trying to torn around, other biting the ears of the animal harnessed next to them. Pablito was bewildered.
“What’s going on?” shouted Ramon. “They’re going deserters on us, or something?”
As startled as his friend, Pablo looked around. Back in Patagonia, he had seen horse buggies stop dead in their tracks because of a snake on the road, or of some other danger, but here? It couldn’t be the noise coming from the cheering crowd, these horses were seasoned veterans, used to military parades grounds and even to thundering gunfire. And a snake or a predator would not intimidate an entire train. Starting to feel nervous, Pablo climbed on the immobilized cart to get a better new. The entire column had come to a halt. As he looked north, where the lead carriages were, he saw a flock of birds take their flight from the trees lining up the road. No sooner had the first flock started circling aimlessly in the sky that an even bigger group took off. And then came another. And another. From the front of the column came the sound of anguished neighs, and Pablo Montez started to feel very afraid. Over the cries of the panicking horses ahead, he became aware of a rumble that seemed to chase every animal in front of it. Before Pablo’s incredulous eyes, a wall of dust appeared over the horizon, masking the road.
“Dios mio Pablo, what is it ? What is…”
Oblivious to Ramon’s growing panic, Pablo kept looking straight ahead. He briefly saw men and horses desperately trying to outrun the coming catastrophe. And then, with the force of a sledgehammer, over a million liters came upon him. Before losing consciousness, Pablo saw the twisted carcass of a dead horse hit the already drowning Flacon. Then there was a wooden beam, a sudden shock, and a merciful death.
Sabotaged, the Itaipu Gorge dam bursts open
As Pablo Montez took his last breath, so died any Argentinean hope of taking Sao Paulo in a pincers movement.
[Game effects: With a last battle across the Parana, the exhausted armies of Brazil and Argentina finally reach the point they can’t operate anymore. Their organization is nonexistent, and all units are around 25% strength. Unsurprisingly, infrastructure is entirely destroyed in Curitiba and Rosario provinces. A negotiated peace follows, that forces both belligerents to their initial lines. Argentina moves one notch closer to Fascism (+1 Authoritarian and Right), Brazil moves one notch closer to Soviet Communism (+1 Authoritarian and Left).
Writer's notes :
There was no Itaipu Gorge dam in the 1930s - that project had to wait until the 1980s to rise from the ground. When the dam was built, Argentina (who at the time was not on particularly good terms with Brazil) was wary of Brazil using the dam to cause catastrophic floods that would affect Buenos Aires.
Thank God Argentinean soldiers used German gear a lot, that helped me find pictures. The quaint little cart shown in the last part of the update was in fact a proud part of the top-notch German Wehrmacht artillery in 1939, that goes to show how the mechanization of forces remained incomplete at the beginning of the war - I think I even read the French artillery was more motorized than the German ones at the oubreak of WW2, which is usually not how movies will show it !
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Ackpt ! I finally managed to spit that one out.
Lordy, now I can fix the discrepancies in the previous chapter and work on the next one - next stop, Rotterdam.
Lordy, now I can fix the discrepancies in the previous chapter and work on the next one - next stop, Rotterdam.
You're back! Good update, and I look forward to Rotterdam.
Thanks ! I'm sure there are glitches in that update, but after two week-ends of rewriting it, I just wanted to get my mind off all the corrections for some time. I'll check it later !
Yes, it's time to go back to Europe, and to get a closer look at one of the nations hit the hardest by the 1929 krach's aftershocks : Holland !
Hopefully it'll be quicker to write as well...
So after all that war, a white peace. Wouldn't this give long-term damage to the two hard-line governments, since many have died and there's been little to show for it (I imagine the 'professionals' in each army would be upset at their respective governments for all the waste).
They both probably will have some purges. You know, somebody needs to be a scapegoat in oth sides camp.
And about Germans. It's well known that while Wermacht was exelent a fighting, their logistic sucked, and rarely did non combat units (art) get motorised help. It seems they were made only to wage war in Europe which meant short distances, and exellent roads.
And about Germans. It's well known that while Wermacht was exelent a fighting, their logistic sucked, and rarely did non combat units (art) get motorised help. It seems they were made only to wage war in Europe which meant short distances, and exellent roads.
War, war never changes.Months of writing and months of fighting, so that the fruits of a country's labor (and foreign capital
) falls tumbling down.Truly an excellent piece.
This was probably true per capita, but given that there was more Germany equipment, well....
Dissent has to be higher in both countries, yes.
Politically speaking, I think such a conflict would push the two governments closer to their ideological role-models, as they have painted themselves into a corner - a bit like European nations painted themselves into a corner during WW1.
What would be a dictatorship without purges indeed ? Argentina's scapegoat is already on stage, while in Brazil, I'm sure NKVD officers will offer some ideas as to who's a traitor.
I was rather surprised by the crude cart when I found the picture. At first I thought it was a late-war pic, from when there was not enough gas anymore, but no, that was the 1939 Wehrmacht. You'll see their French horse-drawn counterparts at some point in the AAR, looking every bit as hurried.
And like Versailles it sets up the stage for another conflict.
Welcome back, AF! An appropriately sad post. All those dead for a white peace...
Vann
Vann
I imagine both governments are now scrambling for allies to help them fight the re-match. Also, speaking of something that probably won't happen for a long while, I hope we get to see some of Peron and Evita, they'll certainly make some interesting characters (and could change the international alignment of Argentina).
A great update, with the prospect of Rotterdam to boot? You spoil us, sir. You spoil us.
EDIT: aside: OCR isn't yet as good as HCR. Try ctrl-h 'carnage' and replace it with 'carriage' wherever appropriate.
EDIT: aside: OCR isn't yet as good as HCR
. Try ctrl-h 'carnage' and replace it with 'carriage' wherever appropriate.
Ugh. War at its most ruthless and most brutal - and if not all for nothing (between them, Munoz and the partisans may have saved Brazil), all for a lot less than peace, never mind victory. The Argentines are never going to forget Itaipu - or the Brazilian weakness that precipitated it - and many Brazilians aren't likely to either. The Politburo is going to have to come up with something more than corpses to show for all the sacrifice, and that means "final victory", in Argentina or elsewhere.
I wonder how everyone's favourite Spanish general - and everyone's least favourite NKVD heavy - make out in the purges?
I wonder how everyone's favourite Spanish general - and everyone's least favourite NKVD heavy - make out in the purges?
EDIT: aside: OCR isn't yet as good as HCR
Aargh, I thought I had hunted down the very last one of these ! I work with a PC tablet that recognizes handwriting (and holds a few tons' worth of comics for when the quill doth run dry). Most of the time it's way cool, but sometimes it does make some wild assumptions like that. Or maybe it was getting a sense this update was going to end up badly.
Here's today's issue of The Daily Delay !
I'll try to post the next update this week-end, so far I've been reading up on the Dutch political system and (an even dauntier task for my money-challenged mind) on Dutch economics and on the Big Depression.
I've also started an Irish update, but which is nowhere near finished.
EDIT : I found what I was looking for ! And then some ! Operation Dutch Update is underway....
I'll try to post the next update this week-end, so far I've been reading up on the Dutch political system and (an even dauntier task for my money-challenged mind) on Dutch economics and on the Big Depression.
I've also started an Irish update, but which is nowhere near finished.
EDIT : I found what I was looking for ! And then some ! Operation Dutch Update is underway....
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