The Sun Never Sets... - An AAR of Britain for Imperial Splendour [Updated: 29/11/2016]

[McScottish]

Mod: Imperial Splendour

TPY: 4 Turns Per Year

Faction: Great Britain

Campaign/Battle difficulty: Normal/Normal

Unit size: Large

Graphics settings: High

AAR name: The Sun Never Sets...

Short description: This AAR will mainly focus on the journey and life of the AAR's "narrator" as he moves about and participates in all manner of things. More like a story/novel rather than an AAR. This will be a mainly narrative story influenced by the in-game campaign, few pictures will be included (if any), so if you dislike reading then this AAR won't be for you.

The low-down: Welcome one, and welcome all, to the second (and last) of my more focused AAR's - as in, I shall actually be making sure that this and my Hojo AAR are constantly and regularly updated until the very end. No distractions.

Anyway, as you may or may not be aware from the title picture and title of the thread, this AAR shall be focused on my home nation of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland (God save the Queen!) And more specifically on its most northern environs I.E. Scotland and the peoples therein. At least until I expand.

I know what you're thinking; "McScottish, we've already got a dozen Britain AARs! Why in the name of tea and crumpets would you want to do another one?"

Well, good people, it is because I hope to bring to the proceedings my own unique 'brand' of writing goodness and convince everyone that there is still life in the old girl yet. I shall be using the splendid mod Imperial Splendour, and with it I shall forge the first 'phase' of the British Empire. Stereotypes and lashings of the old ultra-violence abound, so those of a squemish or immature disposition would be best to steer well clear of this one.

God Save The King.


Disclaimer: Any language or turns of phrase, which could be construed in today's society as "racist", "sexist" and so forth are used for purely contextual purposes, that of a eighteenth century setting. The writer of this AAR, me, does not condone racism or segregation due to race or creed or any other prejudice. Any complaints can be debated over by PM. Thank you.

[Alwyn]

Brilliant! I am already excited about reading your AAR!

[McScottish]

Chapter I, Part I: We're Here Because We're Here

Norway, 1706 to Winter, 1708

What was Norway to me?

To a man born of a Highland gentleman and a Cambridgeshire woman, a man educated by personal tutors in five languages, learned in Classical history and trying to live his life quietly among the small villages of Ayrshire, the seventh son of a seventh son who was ignored and driven from his home by his own father – a drunken Lord of the King's realm and staunch supporter of the government.

The answer is quite simple; Norway, a nation only recently emerged from its embryonic state whence the government army set foot on the soil of this new nation, was nothing to me. Nothing at all.

Why then, you may rightly ask, was I marching alongside the rank-and-file of my own North British countrymen straight into the very jaws of enemy musket fire? Well, it is not as simple as that...or maybe it is.

It was well known that I enjoyed a draught or two after the conclusion of my day - teaching young children to write and to read – and it so happened that on this particular night a greater thirst than usual came upon me. Well, I wasn't about to deny myself an honest drink! So, I calmly strode to my favoured tavern and asked the barkeep for my usual flagon of beer, which he kindly obliged me for exchange of a few coins.

Perhaps if I had realised that these were my last few coins, at least on my person, I may have turned for home and returned with further currency? Was not to be, for a man next to me offered to buy the next drink, and the next after that; how could I refuse?

“Tell me,” I questioned him, “what do you want?”

“Nothing,” he replies, “just your mark on this here paper, an we're even.”

By this time my head was beginning to hurt, and my nose to numb, but as you might have guessed I signed the paper. Was the stupidest mistake of my life, or at least I believed it at the time, for I had just signed myself up for a soldier in His Majesty's army and was now trapped by my own sodden misfortune.

The very next morning we headed for Edinburgh and the castle there, a staging post for most of the North British regiments. On our way we were joined by further recruits, all ages an sizes, even a few Irish here-and-there though we didnae want them particularly.

Let me advance apace and simply say that within a matter of months I had been issued my tricorn, my musket, and my red uniform which I wore uneasily but wore nevertheless; the life of a soldier seemingly without much downfall – three meals a day, a dry place to sleep, and regular pay were fine incentives for any wishing to join, the loss of your own life only a rarely thought of dissuasion in the eyes of those sorry souls that were picked from the dross of society by the recruiting parties all across the country.

On the death of King William, God rest his soul, we were permitted further pay and an extended absence from duty; now his daughter Victoria rules as Queen, and this nation has transformed through her iron-fisted reign.

What? Norway?! Och, right you are...buy me another jugful of the amber stuff, and you'll have your story of Norway.

Right...

We landed a few miles south-easterly of the so-called 'capital' of Norway, Christiansand Stift in the native language and Christiania in our own; it was bitterly cold as we stepped from our transport vessels, the sailors wishing us the best of luck and almost at once setting sail for the only free Norwegian port which lay somewhere north-east up the coast a while.

I had felt the pinching cold before, I was born in North Briton for the Lord's sake, but so cold did it become that marching was – for once in my life – a highly welcome and warming companion! Keeping in step with my comrades and singing bawdy songs was all I could do to stop my nerveless hands from dropping their precious cargo of my musket, should it have fallen by the roadside as some others had allowed then I would surely have been punished as they.

“Why so grim, Lord?” Spoke the man beside me, most having taken to the moniker 'Lord' because I was a gentleman ranker owing to my inability to pay for a commission in Her Majesty's army, a few hundred coins that my miserly father would rather have spent on drink and my older brothers than even consider helping the most scorned of his offspring.

“Why are we here, Johns?” I answered, a question with a question, my teeth chattering in my skull, “these Norwegians never did anything to me or mine, surely Her Majesty knows that.”

There was a guffaw from Private Augustus Johns, a man with an imperious name but raised among the lowest of the low in the slums of London, a gentle giant of a man and possibly my closest companion then.

“I think she cares not! As you can see, she provided us with the most excellent protection from the elements,” his hands were thrust out for a moment, pale as mine and just as numb I imagined, before being thrust back into the innards of his red uniform jacket, “God bless her and keep Her Majesty, for we come to this land to shed our blood for her and her alone.”

Even without mulling over his words I knew them to be true; nearly eighteen thousand men – including horse and two batteries of cannon – now waded through knee deep snow toward a town and an enemy that we would eventually learn to hate, at home they kept a garrison force but had even sent the Coldstream Regiment of Foot along with us poor dead men. A sure sign that our monarch was committed to gaining the first overseas territory for Britain.

The campaign was to last over a year, and we were promptly to find that the fighting men of Norway were near-fanatical in their loyalty and devotion to Olav the Fifth, the man they saw as their monarch and – we were to lamentably find – would sell their lives for as readily as any Spartan at Thermopylae.

Against us at Christiania were arrayed almost twenty-five thousand armed defenders, sixteen-thousand of which were simply Norwegian settlers armed with whatever firearms they could lay their hands on, thousands that were soon surrounded and forced to remain within their town as we starved them of all food and drink; we drove off their farmers, torched their crops, and hanged those that we could catch before they fled – it was a brutal, dirty, and inglorious war to say the least.

Their first attempt at driving us back into the sea seemed to set the pattern for their defeats, which deterred them not in the least, our regiments assembling on the hilly plains outside the town as they threw themselves into the flaming maws of our muskets and cannon; my own regiment – under the command of Colonel Arnold Grimditch – stood shoulder to shoulder and continued to fire until our mouths and faces were stained by powder, dry as parchment, and our fingers torn to shreds!

I watched through the smoke, eyes squinting as I tried to aim a weapon which is considerably useless in that regard, to see erstwhile lively bodies twitch and fall like so many puppets with their strings cut, some letting out groans, and others pawing at the earth and weeping for their mothers as life left them.

Although I may have felt something for them then, my first taste of combat with my stomach churning all the while, by the time we had banished them and occupied their almost silent town...well, I was not certain whether I hated the poor bastard soldiers more, or their fat King and his inexperienced officers.

By the end of the conflict we were an exhausted, shambling, dishevelled mass of grey-coated and ashen-faced strangers; oh, we still marched into Christiania to see the starving and withdrawn faces of the remaining citizens – so many women, children and old men – and were soon billeted upon them. I did not speak a word of their tongue, nor they mine, but the expressions of the fatherless children and the widowed women remain with me to this very day, and said all that their venomous words could not.

I hoped, prayed to God, that I could soon see Britain again – little to realise that Norway was only the first of our sovereigns planned conquests, that the lands of my forefathers would soon be providing men into the Government forces, and that my life as a murderer, a butcher, a soldier had only just began.

[Owlparrot3]

Wow what a chpater it has everything the smoke of battle,the ice crust of norway and the feeings of a pure englishmen.exceptional .the images are good too .

I watched through the smoke, eyes squinting as I tried to aim a weapon which is considerably useless in that regard, to see erstwhile lively bodies twitch and fall like so many puppets with their strings cut, some letting out groans, and others pawing at the earth and weeping for their mothers as life left them.

This line was great .hats off .

[Merchant of Venice]

Hahahaha a quite humorous if not unfortunate way of ending up in the army. Oh I pity our poor antagonist....

Now why are we in Norway?

[Scottish King]

He should have known that being the seventh son of a seventh son that his life would be exciting. Good to see you start a Empire AAR. How is the Imperial Splendor mod? I'm looking for a good mod for Empire. Since I downloaded the game onto my new computer (new then anyway) haven't gotten around to modding it. Would you recommend this one?

[Alwyn]

Great start, I look forward to reading more.

[McScottish]

Hahahaha a quite humorous if not unfortunate way of ending up in the army. Oh I pity our poor antagonist....

Now why are we in Norway?

Out of game because Norway dun goofed, so I thought I'd just invade it...

He should have known that being the seventh son of a seventh son that his life would be exciting. Good to see you start a Empire AAR. How is the Imperial Splendour mod? I'm looking for a good mod for Empire. Since I downloaded the game onto my new computer (new then anyway) haven't gotten around to modding it. Would you recommend this one?

IS is a good mod and I'd recommend it, however money - especially for UK - really does start extremely tight, and only really develops as the nation develops. By the later stages you should, theoretically, be rolling in money. Just need to survive the early game!

Great start, I look forward to reading more.

Thankee, I look forward to writing more.

[McScottish]

Well, OP updated. Very brief, but not much to say about Norway really...other than it's mine.

[Roman Heritage]

I agree with the others - that's an hilarious way to join Her Majesty's Army's ranks

Anyway, that's a truly outstanding start. I really, really liked how your character's opinion about war pops out at the end of the chapter; really good writing in here. Eager to read your next update!

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

I'd happily read this without pictures, but they're great screenshots.

Your protagonist looks like a great character. I hope he and his colleagues can find some warmer clothes to help them survive the Norwegian winter; I'd hate the story to end so soon.

[McScottish]

Chapter I, Part I (Interlude): So It Begins...

France, 1711

The Frogs made the first move, by God so they did, sending natives and some of their own settlers in the Americas to raid deep into Pennsylvania; the Indians massacred and scalped all those they came across, or so you'd think to hear it told, while the French that marched with them urinated and spat on the bodies of loyal English folk. Oh, it was surely enough to inflame the public, uneducated and unrefined as they are, while even the soldiers of my own regiment grumbled and groaned as they went through drills on the parade ground square.

Apparently Philadelphia itself was attacked, the French seen off by a band of pitch-fork carrying settlers, a militia and a battalion of Hessian soldiers – the latter of which had started to become a most common sight in the colonies, the smaller German states making good use of our monarch's quarrels with Prussia and Sweden to sell their own soldiers into our service for coin. Such were the times we lived in! Even when peace was declared between Prussia and Britain, most likely to be only a temporary truce I thought at the time, this activity did not stop, and nor do I think this bothered anyone over-much.

I digress most assuredly though, from my proposed writings and the line of time.

By seventeen-ten my own regiment, along with a number of the others of the Norwegian campaign, as well as General Churchill himself, were returned to England and billeted upon the people of London and the surrounding counties. Spread as we were, it was as if fine British countryside had suddenly sprouted red-coated sons from its very soil, drinking and whoring when we were not being marched, drilled and more often than not disciplined about the land.

Even I, a man of many scruples and moral uprightness and refinement, found myself faced one evening with a young lady of more than passing beauty. No whore was she, but an upstanding and educated woman, conversing as we did in French for much of the night, till at last the wicks ran low and the landlords suggested we leave. Being billeted as I was in the upper rooms of a nearby tavern, I found it pleasant to invite the lady to come with me...all I shall say is that, had I even remembered her name, I may well by now be the father of a another man's son or daughter.

Peace, the soldiers worst enemy, could not reign forever, and once France and King Louis made it abundantly clear that war between us was certain, we were soon roused from our revelries and once more placed neatly shoulder-to-shoulder and drilled until our feet bled and our tongues swelled with the amount of cartridges into which we bit; if we were to defeat the French, chimed the sergeants and officers, then we would have to try a damned lot harder!

Even Private Johns, a man not prone to complaint, nearly struck a non-commissioned officer when he demanded that our exhausted platoon reload our firearms and spark them again, a request that none among us were keen to assent to.

There was one more thing of note, before I pass out for the night...

Since Norway, with an expansion of her overseas possessions, Her Majesty had been seeking new and fertile recruiting grounds for soldiers and sailors. Ireland was still discontented with British rule, and so, although opposed by a number of senior ministers in parliament, it was decided by the Queen and passed through government, that a regiment of fencibles raised in the Highlands of Scotland would be raised and join the government army as we proceeded to France itself for our next campaign.

It was an experiment of course, many of the clans still very much loyal to the disposed Stuarts, an experiment to test loyalties and if the noble savages of Gaeldom could be harnessed and sent to fight for Her Majesty. So it was that the Argyll Fencibles, populated by Campbells for the most part and led willingly by their own chiefs, began their march south...the first time a Highland formation had been allowed south of the border since the Stuarts deserted Scotland to its unionist fate.

That, however, is another story.

[Scottish King]

A most interesting update! This is setting up the scene for something big. I can feel it. Good update and + rep

[Alwyn]

A great chapter, told with flair and panache. I would like to know what will happen to the Argyll Fencibles.

[Roman Heritage]

I agree with the others, this AAR is indeed a particularly good one, yet it shouldn't surprise us, should it?

Hope it goes on - you've got a quite ironical and funny way of intermixing politics with this soldiers' life experiences and thoughts. I'm greatly enjoying it.

[McScottish]

A most interesting update! This is setting up the scene for something big. I can feel it. Good update and + rep

A great chapter, told with flair and panache. I would like to know what will happen to the Argyll Fencibles.

I agree with the others, this AAR is indeed a particularly good one, yet it shouldn't surprise us, should it?

Hope it goes on - you've got a quite ironical and funny way of intermixing politics with this soldiers' life experiences and thoughts. I'm greatly enjoying it.

Thank you all for your wonderful, and greatly received, comments.

There is indeed something big on the horizon, something that shall detract from the nuisance of the bloody French in the Americas! I tell you, they keep attacking my farms and settlements, and it's aggravating my colonial ideals. Anyway, once again, thank you all, and I shall try to get the next part up a little sooner than last time.

[McScottish]

Chapter I, Part I (Interlude, Part II): The Argyles Arrive

France, 1711 - 1712

If you have never seen near two-thousand Gaels marching side-by-side before, as most of the folk of Southern Britain had not when the Argyles arrived at Portsmouth harbour – the gathering place for all those regiments taking part in what would later be called 'the Paris expedition' – then, please, allow me to set the scene for you.

At first you might hear nothing, nothing but the usual chatter of the dockside folk, or the screeches of the port-side hawkers trying to sell their wares, but, after a few moments, you might stop as you discern an odd sound in the distance. No, you cannot be sure that what you heard was real...but there it is again! A faint yet undeniable sound of something foreign and strange carried from some distance on the currents of the air, a truly awful sound no doubt, but with something strangely martial and blood-stirring about it; now it is not only yourself that has ceased their wanderings, but others now turn to peer about for the origin of this Devilish dissonance, not realising that soon enough they would find out without needing to look very far.

Now you might hear the tramping of feet through the cobbled streets that approach the seaport, where vessels of the Royal Navy already wait to embark for France, feet clad not in the hard military boots of the British army, but in the softer brogues of the Highland man; matching their steps may come a lilting song from a thousand hardy throats, twinned to the sound of the pipes and echoing off of the walls of the harbours fortifications as they come, a song in a language which may as well have been German or Cherokee to the Englishmen standing and gawking as the first rank-and-file of the Argyle Fencibles.

As they emerge from the streets, redressing their ranks as they assemble on one of the two greens nearby, you may even be mistaken for believing that England was being invaded, that the already rebellious Scotch had made their way south to reclaim this country for the Stuarts. They would, of course, be mistaken; these clansmen, these Albannaich, clad in the chequered raiment of their forefathers and bearing with them a firearm and a broadsword each, had come not to invade but to bolster Her Majesty's forces in what would surely be a fine endeavour.

I recall that something stirred in me as I watched them - Campbells and MacKessocks, MacEwens and Grants, and many others beside – something in my gut causing me, even as I stood within the ranks of the Grimditch's Foot and my comrades, to wish that I now stood under the shroud of the plaid and the drone of the pipes that now fell silent as the march came to a halt; it would be remiss of me not to state here that I spent rare enough time in the Highlands, little enough with my father and his kinsfolk, before I was made the black sheep and outcast from my ancestral home near Inverness - Inbhir Nis as the natives call it – and yet...and yet, for the first time in my life, as I stood still but for the moving of my eyes, I could not help but admire the fine figures and coarse tongue which I was privy enough to understand. Others around me, entire regiments even, followed their officers in sneering at these barbarians and their outlandishness; their speech, dress and familiarity with their own superiors almost an anathema to the Englishman and many North Britons to boot.

To myself, and to more than one blushing gaggle of women I might add, they seemed a rather fine crowd – even if, after reforming ranks on the green, they then dismissed themselves rather readily, and idled away the minutes as if they were going to a midsummer festival rather than across the Channel to invade the heartland of Englands hated enemy.

“What the bloody hell are you looking at, Wistenforth?”

“Nothing, Sergeant.”

“Oh, I see. Want to go over there and give the Argyles a big kiss? Do you, do you want to give them a kiss?!”

“Sergeant, no Sergeant!”

Sergeant Dai Jones, a dour Welshman by birth, was nevertheless a staunch Royalist, and more than happy to make an example of myself or any other of my companions if we stepped out of line. He seemed to have a particular hatred for me, having told me before that he could 'smell the rebel' on me and would be watching me closely; being built like a bullock, his nose broken a number of times and his knuckles calloused, I could only imagine what the Sergeant had done before he joined the army – let it never be said, however, that the army was not his perfect occupation.

“You know, Lord, I hate you I do; if you feel like going over there and joining the savages, then don't let me stop you boyo.”

“No, Sergeant, I would rather remain here.”

“Then listen close...”

Finally taking a step back from my face, and allowing me some room to breath, the Sergeant drew in a long breath and placed his pike securely on his shoulder.

“Grimditch's Foot will embark, right turn...right...turn!”

Without even thinking, I snapped to the right with my fellows, my eyes leaving the Highlanders and falling instead on the Sixth-Rate boat which would carry us across the water and into action – an action that could well be our last.

[Alwyn]

This is, indeed, a fine endeavour! I like the way description of the Argyles (good screenshot, too) and the humour in the conversation with the sergeant. The thoughts of your protagonist are interesting; he seems to be, in a sense, in between Grimditch's Foot (with them, but thinking differently about the Highland regiment) and the Argyll Fencibles who he admires.

[McScottish]

This is, indeed, a fine endeavour! I like the way description of the Argyles (good screenshot, too) and the humour in the conversation with the sergeant. The thoughts of your protagonist are interesting; he seems to be, in a sense, in between Grimditch's Foot (with them, but thinking differently about the Highland regiment) and the Argyll Fencibles who he admires.

True enough - Grimditch's (the 8th Foot) - are a Lowland Regiment, ye see. So, although surrounded by other Scots (or North Britons), he feels the pull toward his Highland kindred, or at least that half of himself.

My thanks for your compliment(s)! We shall soon get to the 'big fight'.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

I agree with Alwyn - the description of the approaching regiment is fantastic. I definitely felt the "pull" you mention towards the Argyles - and you've made your sergeant into a real character in just a few words.