Geier

If memory serves me, right around August, 2000 AD. I'd check but answering questions like these are the only reason we keep that smelly old Justicar lying around. Or so they would have us believe.

I liked this post so much that I'll post it again: Now Joe Shaw. I know you find it disheartening to see so many, oh so many, of your clanketi-clanks burning, their insides sprayed with the gore of the former occupants jellified innards, limbs scattered haphazardly on the ground around them, the crying and wailing and gnashing of the teeth of the few unlucky men still under your command, all of them waiting for yet another monstrous doom to befall them like some pre-biblical purge meted out by the angry gods that stalked outside the caves and beneath the trees when the world was dark. But just ignore that, and send me a gawdam file.

Oh, so you're simply too chicken then. I should have known.

Er ist kein Mensch, er ist kein Tier Er ist ein Panzergrenadier Dim-tiddeli-pom Now send me a setup, you horrible little man.

Now Joe Shaw. I know you find it disheartening to see so many, oh so many, of your clanketi-clanks burning, their insides sprayed with the gore of the former occupants jellified innards, limbs scattered haphazardly on the ground around them, the crying and wailing and gnashing of the teeth of the few unlucky men still under your command, all of them waiting for yet another monstrous doom to befall them like some pre-biblical purge meted out by the angry gods that stalked outside the caves and beneath the trees when the world was dark. But just ignore that, and send me a gawdam file.

... he sure does blow up my stuff faster than I can click it. or ... he hasn't seen the virtues of the tactic "if all my vehicles are destroyed we get to go home" that The Justicar has perfected. or ... why doesn't he die!? Why!? What am I doing wrong!? Help! But those are just guesses on my part. He could have meant to say anything, really. And I mean really anything, the senile old git. And that's why we love him.

Hang on. Is he playing the same scenario against you as he is playing me? Poked his nose up, which didn't end well as the yankee machines got hit by the righteous 5 cm wrath of the armored car gods. Then he had the gall to shoot one of my little Pumas and after that - nothing. Zilch. Turn after turn of him sitting on his arse, picking his nose. Bah! I say.

We want names, Old Man.

And if our dear, dear, dear old Just-a-carrot would stop his meanderings and philanderings and other things ending with -nderings and RETURN THE GAWDAM FILE he could notch up yet another defeat on ... the thing he put his notches on. Now, I'm well aware that The Old Firm has been absent from The MBT for quite a long time, so you will forgive me if I ask you this question. Has Old Joe ever won a game against anyone breathing? I doubt it, but please enlighten me and give me the who, the why, and the what-for, eh?

We can only help you in the same way the manual would, i.e through the cunning use and placement of letters and spaces, aka "text".

Quite. And the next turn you sent another scout to see what had killed the first one. How did that work out for you?

And dare I say what a handsome file it was, too. Combat Mission may have evolved and gotten deeper and better and more advanced, sad to say, the same can't be said for Old Foul Joe. - Say Taylor, old chap. Drive along the road to that house over there and check if there's any jerries about, there's a good lad. BOOOOM! - Dear me. Jones! Be a good chap and ... I give him ten minutes until the remainder of his men hang him from an apple tree.

Considering a proper Dr.1 does not have a throttle it would seem Old Foul Joe is out to lunch and isn't that a surprise? Isn't it? Anyone? I'd say it's almost as surprising as him not returning my file, i.e not the slightest bit.

Ah yes. Marlow, is it? I never liked him. And did the little toddler fowget his password as well? My guess is that he just used to slam his head into the keyboard and hey, presto - password! There were never, of course, any other Swedes in The Cesspool. Surströmming (i.e fermented Herring) is our way of weeding out the ignorant and amazingly stupid, like Marlow. If you actually eat one we used to dump you on a rock in the middle of the Atlantic. These days, it's all part of "our national heritage" and an excuse to get staggeringly drunk. A state needed to keep any of it down. And that angry Scottish four-letter-man seems to be back, too. I thought he had been bludgeoned to death by a limp kipper. What a relief.

Yes. Present events however, are quite another matter.

Yes, a meeting engagement between motorized recon elements in heavy rain is of course a good opportunity for you to give at least one of my units a flat tire. GooberNational? Really? I remember back in the day when everyone managed to at least put some effort into their ... insults. Remember Mark IV, Joe? I blew his pixeltruppen to kingdom come and he still managed to fire off a volley of invectives and insults that would put tears in your eyes and make bauhaus sit down. Ah, back in those days, we hated and despised each other with style. Except you, of course. You always were a lazy bum.

We have amended our ways, dear Justicar. It is quite unlike us to be unavailable, especially when bloodshed is involved, and especially when the blood shed will be yours.

So. We have received this new implement of destruction, aptly named (or at least named) Combat Mission: Beyond Normandy. For my first game I require that an Olde One or possibly The Justicar send me a setup so that I may crush, maim and incinerate their virtual troops until they're all very sorry. Other lesser beings, like Australians and Donkeys will be considered. As always, we aim to please. The Old Firm

Punctuated by spikes of extraordinary violence and mayhem. We aim to please.

Molon Labe, Stuka.

Have what you will, old person. I am fully content with a pair of Panthers. And some artillerary.

Not tactics. It does charge with its tank crews though. Which means I get to shoot them twice.

I have. I won.

And our next story features Joe Shaw and Boo playing Kentucky Russian Roulette ... and losing.

Sumfinks never change.