Turn 82 Personnel Situation
It’s probably worth pausing a moment and reflecting on how my various generals have performed to date.
While most have kept themselves busy performing the job asked of them there have been some notable exceptions.
(This is a summary of the random & other Leader events over the last 82 turns)
Sadly I’ve had to write a tough luck letter to Harold’s wife. Only a month ago H.Alexander was nervously rushing around FardCrossing organising the defences’ against a two pronged Italian / Soviet attack when he was hit fair square on the head by a 200 lb lump of exploding metal courtesy of a Soviet dive bomber.
He will be missed.
No he won’t. Not really. I’m considering sending a thank you note to Stalin. Harold was a dud (Military skill of 2), but a very well connected one (Seniority 6). Enormously difficult to fire.
I couldn’t shuffle him off to a rear-area command either. The disruption inherent in this means that I needed a turn free of crisis in order to settle in the new commander. Unfortunately Harold is sitting at the epicentre of the battle and I couldn’t risk a turn of non-activation. So it’s bye bye Harold.
Have fun in heaven. Don’t hurry back.
McCulloch has been given the job of holding down the northern corner of our defences. He’s nothing flash but he’s nothing terrible either.
The extended four year duration of our Sicilian struggle has revealed certain cracks in our edifice of efficiency. Both Percival and Cunningham have been found lolling around the floor, dribbling and slobbering, face down in their own vomit.
Arthur and Alan. Out of their tiny minds care of the bottle.
This isn’t good for morale and if they weren’t so capable (less so now as they have taken a -1 hit to the Military skill) and well connected I’d fire their sorry asses.
Cabin fever wrapped its insidious tendrils around Alanbrooke. Fumbling around the rear with nothing to occupy him he finally cracked. I was passing through on my way to somewhere else when I was confronted.
Shirt-fronting me, invading my personal space, spraying spit and smells as he demanded a higher position.
Demanded!
Nobody demands anything in my army. Especially not psychotic Captain Mannering’s with dog turd breath. I told him to buy a toothbrush and shove it where the sun don’t shine. Who knows, it might be an improvement.
Suffice to say that General Alanbrooke didn’t respond positively to my suggestions and he is currently confined to a padded sleeveless jacket with a Military rating of one.
I’ve left the best for last.
Morrison of Dunrossil.
I gave him a job as, believe it or not, this time around the man looked like he could actually command something bigger than a chauffeur driven Bentley.
His resume was impressive (Military 6, Seniority 5, Artillery specialist, Logistically challenged). The last part was a concern but given his automatic activation each turn I was willing to overlook small imperfections.
In fact so taken was I with Morry that I gave him command of our southern flank. A frontline command no less.
Yes, yes, I know that I have taken Morry’s name in jest on a previous occasion but I’m prepared to judge a man by his values rather than his past.
This time around Morrision of Dunrossil had what it takes for high command.
And he did well. Really well. Kept the Italians at bay with localised counterattacks and carefully directed artillery barrages. So well in fact that I assigned the entire southern army group to his headquarters.
Which only makes me feel even angrier given what happened.
I should have known. A wiser man than I
would have known. Trust your instincts my mother told me. She was right.
Morrision of Dunrossil. A wanky name and a wanky portrait.
He couldn’t keep up the charade. It all fell in a big heap the day he was caught – out in a Pleb’s paddock – conferring with the local livestock in a manner that wasn’t becoming to an officer and a gentleman.
Pictures were surreptitiously taken. Pictures that emblazoned the front page of the DoopCastle Herald.
Just what I needed. Public outrage burst upwards and outwards, writhing like a multi-headed hydra that encompassed all manner of dissatisfaction with Morrison, the prolonged war and my leadership.
I had no choice. He had to go.
Competent generals can – with the march of time and outstanding performance – overcome many forms of scandal. A man can be redeemed provided he rises above the ephemeral nature of his sins and lunges towards greatness.
People are prepared, eventually, to forgive and forget a general’s eccentricities and foibles. I am proud of the fact that, despite the current hoo-ha, in the great Commonwealth that we live in you can reform yourself.
Yes, the people of DoopCastle are willing to overlook certain weaknesses of the flesh.
Rampant sheep shagging isn’t one of them.
Wigglesworth was whisked out of bed and into the fray. There were several turns of chaos, during which the Italians managed to surge forward into the Apennine foothills but hopefully Wiggles has settled in sufficiently to push them back.
On his Zimmer frame. A mite old is Wigglesworth. Never heard of tank. Or a truck (Old Fogey trait). But he was the best of a bad bunch and a General was needed.
Now.
Right now.
To be continued...
Lancer
