A second AAR from a confirmed newbie - I know! But this one is certain to be far, far shorter, at least in time period covered, than Call of the Pipes. Anyway, this one’s more for fun.
Normal/Normal, with no real aim in mind except to see how short a period of time I take to get utterly squashed.
Schizofrenia In Motion, by Haile Selassie
Hail, friend, and welcome! I am Haile Selassie, Emperor of Abyssinia. See our mighty empire? How the Italians tremble, with their pitiful 18 regular divisions. Our 6 militia divisions and one 1918 infantry division will see them off with ease. I, Haile Selassie, the Emperor and best general will command the two militia divisions and one infantry division in Addis Adaba. General Hapte Mikael, our next most able commander, will command the southern two militia divisions against Graziani’s four divisions. General Desta Damtew will command the northern two divisions.
Hi, I’m Voltaire, the Emperor‘s split personality. We’re screwed.
The cabinet! Desta Damtew (I bet he‘s saying “DAM TEW, HAILE!”) is replaced by the infantile Ras Kassa. I slide (!!!) towards the Hawk Lobby, hoping this may help us to create an airforce capable of falling upon the Italians and pecking their eyes out.
Oh, the puns. I hope we get conquered soon.
Ethiopia has some excellent tech teams.
Taezaz is surely a fake name. It’s one step from being “tasers”.
We are an advanced, industrial nation! I, meanwhile, as our greatest scientist, as well as strong Emperor and greatest general, begin to research basic machine tools. I especially enjoy playing with the clacky metal balls on my desk that Herouy got me for Christmas.
We have the ability to make one elderly Dutch fighter plane. I hate you, Haile Selassie.
Given the inevitable victory of my armies, I felt sending reinforcements to them would be utterly futile. However, after being told by Herouy that the Land Turtle of Doom, Ethiopia’s powerful amphibian friend, did not, in fact, exist, I decided to hedge my bets.
I think I just summed it up, but let me repeat: I hate you, Haile Selassie.
0700, January the 1st: The war is going well. Graziani’s penchant of heading away from the enemy is as strong as ever. He must have heard our armies were in the field.
THE field. The ONE field we had planted with winter wheat in the entire nation. Sigh.
0000, 2nd of January: It is becoming clear that our fearsome strategy of sitting put is working out. Perhaps our erstwhile Chief of Staff/Chief Latrine Digger/Lead Singer/Head Chef for the Army has warned the Italians of my ruthlessness regarding his perversions. The coward are fleeing! I boast of this great victory to the British Ambassador, before suggesting a rather generous trade agreement. He says no. He then says I must excuse him, as he had bags to pack. I wonder where he’s off on holiday.
I then visit the French Ambassador, who is a little intoxicated, so I save him the trouble and sign the trade agreement in my best counterfeit hand. Friendly drunks are so cute.
And yet I am stuck in your ever more befuddled brain, without plane tickets or brandy close to hand. I hate you, God.
As January 4th arrives, all is well for Abyssinia. All Italy’s armies are in flight, only three resources are in the red, and the British Ambassador gifted our Imperial Grace a fake moustache and wig, shortly before leaving for his holiday for “Old Blighty”. I wonder where that is - the Riviera, perhaps. Regardless, he said the disguise was for “if worst comes to worse”; he must know Bedjironde always holds his fancy dress ball in mid January, and I can never find a costume in time. Last year I went as Ethiopian Emperor “Saile Helassie”. I think that was the night Bedji lost his last hairs.
We are so screwed.
Normal/Normal, with no real aim in mind except to see how short a period of time I take to get utterly squashed.
Schizofrenia In Motion, by Haile Selassie
Hail, friend, and welcome! I am Haile Selassie, Emperor of Abyssinia. See our mighty empire? How the Italians tremble, with their pitiful 18 regular divisions. Our 6 militia divisions and one 1918 infantry division will see them off with ease. I, Haile Selassie, the Emperor and best general will command the two militia divisions and one infantry division in Addis Adaba. General Hapte Mikael, our next most able commander, will command the southern two militia divisions against Graziani’s four divisions. General Desta Damtew will command the northern two divisions.
Hi, I’m Voltaire, the Emperor‘s split personality. We’re screwed.
The cabinet! Desta Damtew (I bet he‘s saying “DAM TEW, HAILE!”) is replaced by the infantile Ras Kassa. I slide (!!!) towards the Hawk Lobby, hoping this may help us to create an airforce capable of falling upon the Italians and pecking their eyes out.
Oh, the puns. I hope we get conquered soon.
Ethiopia has some excellent tech teams.
Taezaz is surely a fake name. It’s one step from being “tasers”.
We are an advanced, industrial nation! I, meanwhile, as our greatest scientist, as well as strong Emperor and greatest general, begin to research basic machine tools. I especially enjoy playing with the clacky metal balls on my desk that Herouy got me for Christmas.
We have the ability to make one elderly Dutch fighter plane. I hate you, Haile Selassie.
Given the inevitable victory of my armies, I felt sending reinforcements to them would be utterly futile. However, after being told by Herouy that the Land Turtle of Doom, Ethiopia’s powerful amphibian friend, did not, in fact, exist, I decided to hedge my bets.
I think I just summed it up, but let me repeat: I hate you, Haile Selassie.
0700, January the 1st: The war is going well. Graziani’s penchant of heading away from the enemy is as strong as ever. He must have heard our armies were in the field.
THE field. The ONE field we had planted with winter wheat in the entire nation. Sigh.
0000, 2nd of January: It is becoming clear that our fearsome strategy of sitting put is working out. Perhaps our erstwhile Chief of Staff/Chief Latrine Digger/Lead Singer/Head Chef for the Army has warned the Italians of my ruthlessness regarding his perversions. The coward are fleeing! I boast of this great victory to the British Ambassador, before suggesting a rather generous trade agreement. He says no. He then says I must excuse him, as he had bags to pack. I wonder where he’s off on holiday.
I then visit the French Ambassador, who is a little intoxicated, so I save him the trouble and sign the trade agreement in my best counterfeit hand. Friendly drunks are so cute.
And yet I am stuck in your ever more befuddled brain, without plane tickets or brandy close to hand. I hate you, God.
As January 4th arrives, all is well for Abyssinia. All Italy’s armies are in flight, only three resources are in the red, and the British Ambassador gifted our Imperial Grace a fake moustache and wig, shortly before leaving for his holiday for “Old Blighty”. I wonder where that is - the Riviera, perhaps. Regardless, he said the disguise was for “if worst comes to worse”; he must know Bedjironde always holds his fancy dress ball in mid January, and I can never find a costume in time. Last year I went as Ethiopian Emperor “Saile Helassie”. I think that was the night Bedji lost his last hairs.
We are so screwed.
