War, the bleak glory of it all.

I have played a lot of war themed games. I want to make them distinct from simply violent or aggressive games, like GTA or Skyrim, a lot of the things I'm going to say will be applicable in some senses to them, but tonight I'm thinking about war.

Of course war is a terrible thing. Obviously there is a staggering amount of human suffering. Naturally it is not something one should want to live through. Yet delusional or not it is somehow simulations of it (in all media) remain ever popular.

It's not odd in itself; war, especially The War is not very far in the public conciousness, partially because it is constantly revisited in film, game and book. It also has a strong moral resonance; the NAZIs presented posterity with the perfect villains - Cold, distant, militaristic, fanatical, sexy uniforms. Even their race; chiselled cheeks, strong jaws, blonde hair, steely eyes etc. were in retrospect perfectly suited to the games and films of the future. So on one side countless ranks of faceless, helmet-wearing, freedom-crushing supermen, marching over Europe to the music of Wagner, and on the other the multi-ethnic, khaki-clad, larger-than-life, every-man army of the USA (with the perfunctory daring and dashing Parisian Partisan, the obligatory moustachioed, Eaton-accented, tea-drinking Britisher to make up the numbers); a match made in moralist heaven.

What is odd is the self-concious selling of that ideal, while unflinchingly portraying the cruel and brutal realities of probably the most cataclysmic six years in history. And what is odder is that after all that gritty realism of huddled bodies frozen in the basements of Stalingrad, gutted in the villages of France, bombed in Bastogne, drowned in the Atlantic, suicidal under Berlin, the final message somehow always remains 'War is Cool', or at least 'War makes a Smashing Film'. One ends the film or more likely ends the mission not really thinking of the millions of deaths that the narrative they have just witnessed is surrounded by and riddled with, but rather how good this or that actor was, or how their tactics could be improved, or how bloody long it took to storm that hill.

Abandoning all pretext and turning to games exclusively; I recently bought Company of Heroes 2. The second instalment in a super-realistic World War II RTS. The first title, which won awards, focussed on the D-Day landings and the liberation of Northern Fance, first by the Americans and then by the British. As I said above the plot is straight forward; Allies arrive, they fight hard, lose friends, kill Krauts/Huns and those that survive tell their stories with pride that they fought in a Company of Heroes.

There was an expansion that introduced a rather shorter German plot with two Prussian brothers leading the defence of occupied Holland against the aborted Operation Market Garden, though this was rather flat, the main characters being filled mostly with wistful melancholy about the war that was tearing their country apart. Rather reminiscent of Mitchell and Webb's 'Are We the Baddies' sketch.

The sequel, rather more ambitiously tackles the Eastern Front, with the player fighting through the personal story of an ill-fated officer in the Red Army from the fighting retreats of Barbarossa, the Russian winter, the Battles of Stalingrad and Leningrad, the drive Westward, the 'Liberation' of Poland (complete with dashing and daring Polish Partisans) and finally the attack on Berlin and the
infamous raising of the Red flag over the Reichstag, and the innevitable deportation that followed the victory.

A monumental period of history and a four years more soaked in blood than anywhere else - six million Jews died in the gas chambers, twenty-six million Russians died between the Volga and Berlin. To their credit the game makers of CoH do not flinch from the boundless oppression meted out by the Stalinist regime on a casual basis; the game play is punctuated by shouts from those on high that 'it doesn't matter how many die, take the objective', and the ever motivational; 'if your men freeze to death, they cannot die for the Motherland'. Nearly every cut-scene has someone (usually a person close to the protagonist) being summarily executed (usually by is direct superior) for running away, failing to take the objective, deserting their post to rescue a friend, being Polish, and finally 'crimes against the Revolution'.

But I couldn't get too caught up in the human drama of a man being dragged through the first eight chapters of 'History's Biggest Bloodbaths, Volume Seven' because between those scenes there was about an hour of game-play were, thanks to the moral grey-area of video-game death, it really doesn't matter how many of my men died. I recall the old Command and Conquer games where not only were you told the number of your men who fell under your command, but a series of screams and shrieks was played over the counter just to emphasise that it's not just a number.

I'm not gunning for a moral crusade, I'm not even against violence, death, and war as a concept - of course I avoid causing and participating in them, but to oppose something which has been a constant in human life, and life in general, from the word go seems rather futile. There are things to say about that idea, but that will come later. For now I want to make the point that even when directing a battle, even when watching the most tear-jerking war film (for the record: the German film Stalingrad) one never really sees war, or understands war.

In films and in games war is a plot device and a setting, a way of developing characters and having high octane action sequences. It follows the story, it does what it is supposed to, and it ends, for better and worse. In real life war doesn't follow a story; living through a war, not even in a battle, just in the war, is not and cannot really be glorious. Valour in Combat and Martial ability are virtues invented to justify killing ones neighbour and taking their stuff. Day do day as food runs out and the only soldiers you see have missing limbs, hour by hour when the sounds of gunfire and the smoke of burning towns gets closer, or minute by minute while being raped by the vengeful enemy that killed your husband, brother and son. That is not glorious. Dying in a trench is not glorious, dying on a beach is not glorious, dying for an idea is not glorious.

Content, Part 1.

Gotta have content. Ain't no blog without it.
So I thought before I go off on rants or start subjecting you all to too much crazy I'd give up this rather nice and straight forward piece, about one man and his Sandwich.

H.

PS, if you happen to know who Ivor Culter is, then imagine he is reading this story to you. If you don't know who Ivor Cutler is, go here.

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Midnight Snack

"I pad through the house to the kitchen. The soft sounds of bare feet on carpet giving way to the skittering, sibilant sounds of feet on linoleum as I gently push the door closed behind me. Walking around the dining table I advance on the fridge, the door swings open, bathing me in electric light and the chill smell of crisp foods. My eyes rove back and forward across the shelves. Lettuce, half an onion, yoghurt, spread, milk, cheese…

Hunger pulls quietly but insistently at my insides. It is a pernickety feeling, it regards the foods through my eyes and turns its gastric nose up at them. Nothing will do, any option is metaphorically chewed and spat out, but the gnawing yet not severe pangs still come from my stomach. Savoury or sweet? The bread lies on the board, inviting like an old friend. The jar of peanut butter waits with a look if inevitability upon its earthy hued face.

As I reach for the knife my stomach growls, irritated no doubt by my lacklustre choice. It forces my eyes to glance round the room a second time. Chocolate cake sits like a rich uncle on a plate laden with crumbs and sprinkles, it’s icing winks at me with hundred-and-thousand eyes. Easter eggs on the sideboard twinkle at me with youthful allure, their wrappings crisp with the promise of sugar. No. The stomach demands savoury,

Then I spy them, the doughy oblongs peer up through thick cellophane, nearly opaque but revealing tantalising crusts. I wrestle with the knots, the slithery plastic moving like frictionless water over my  sleepy fingers. Then my nails catch a crease and the loops fall away and the rich smell of baking fills my nose, and my insides purr. The bread knife’s long shiny blade glimmers as I touch the handle, disturbing it. But it is caked in cake crumbs, brown smears and clots cling to the serrated edge like mud to wellies. Moving slowly, silently, I retrace my steps to the sink, letting the dribble of cold water ripple over the blade, loosening the bits. The liquid flows down the handle and chills my fingers as I angle the knife this way and that, using a nail to lift the last of the stains from the steel.

Vigorously rubbing it on my sleeve I return to the ciabatta. It rests languid on the breadboard, putting the brown loafs to shame, they, in their store-bought and showy packaging slink into the periphery, like over-dressed harlots. The ciabatta lies quietly, self-assured in its wholesomeness. When I hold it the crust gives slightly, and I imagine it sighing with glee as I trace the knife point over its exposed flank.

The crunchy exterior gives under the pressure, and fresh smells rise like steam drom a hot pavement. They dance around my nose, and I lick my lips as I fold the bread open. It tears apart, opening to reveal a landscape of fluffy, aerated peaks and valleys. Its there, on the bread board, a bready butterfly, waiting patiently as I go back to the fridge to retrieve the cheese and the mayonnaise.

The mayo goes on first. I use a spoon to tease the gelatinous whiteness out of the jar, to which it clings. I ease it over the landscape of ciabatta with care, filling in the valleys with glaciers of the eggy cream. One half and then the other. Then, picking up the hunk of cheese I reach for the grater. Stainless steel edges catch the light from the open fridge and it winks at me, trepidatious. The cheese, slightly sticky in my fingers kisses the grooves on the grater, which sclices off the solid, lactic sections methodically and rains them down onto the waiting mayonnaise.

When the second layer is done, the angular gratings jutting up from the seas of mayo I hold the nearly empty jar to my eye, reaching in daintily to scoop out the dregs, trying not to get any on my fingers. I suspend the spoon over the ciabatta, letting the globules fall where they may. Next the harsh crack crack cracking of the pepper grinder as it sprinkles black dots over the white and chalky preparation. They land haphazardly, clustering where troughs in the mayo form pits of piquant flavour. My stomach shifts like a restless dog, finding a comfortable place to wait.

I look down at my creation, it looks back at me, a pile of protein and carbohydrate that flirts with my taste buds as I turn the bone-white knobs on the grill. It hums into life, splitting the expectant silence. Slowly, careful of the scrape of metal on metal I extract the tray. I lay the ciabatta, with its precious cargo on the bars, like I would place a friend in a bed. It gets comfy on the tray, seductive bulges of mayo ease outwards towards the edge of the ciabatta as I slide it back under the glowing filaments.

Watching it sunbathe, I flex my fingers, waiting for the tell-tale sizzle of cooked cheese that now seems lifetimes away. Staring in at the illuminated snack I wait impatiently, my stomach wonders in a loud grumble if it will be enough. I look back at the cheese, the diminished lump lies on the breadboard, surrounded by crumbs and stray gratings. Nearby the packet of oatcakes exhibits itself, rough coarse-grain biscuits visible between the cardboard flaps. Perhaps.

Then the sound makes my stomach twitch. The crisping of bread, the sputter of cooking mayo and my eyes return to the grill to watch the pile subside into the ciabatta, withering deliciously. I can see veins of mayonnaise bubbling in the red half-light and deep browned seams of cheese slowly spreading downwards towards the heated dough. My stomach is impatient, yearning, aching, the hunger intensified by the immanent relief.

The smell on the hot air that blasts from the open oven excites it, and it drums my fingers on the table. Plates. Pulling my tortured gaze from the food I open the cupboard, the cold unfeeling pile of plates waits for me, making no sound as I carefully separate them and withdraw one. The ringing ceramic sound cups my ears as I lay it on the table and turn back to the grill. I can wait no longer, and slip a hand into the hot space between element and cheese to run a fingertip over the exposed bread. It is hard, browned and inviting under my touch. Sliding the ciabatta out on nervous fingers I manoeuvre it to the plate, staring worriedly at it, my stomach playing fast-forward films of it tumbling to earth to lie, upturned on the tiles. With relief it is placed on the plate, sighing as the heat escapes from its insides. Smiles of singed cheese greet my roving eyes and I waft the air above it to test the flavour. The pepper has descended into its soft mattress, cratering the topmost layer with marks that make mouth-watering promises to my stomach.

The ketchup bottle is upended, its weight shifting in my hand as the contents succumb to gravity. They track a stately course down the plastic, collecting at the neck, held in place by fear for the hot, rich mass below. A slight pressure from my fingers that caress the bottle propels the red lusciousness in a ragged spatter. It scatters in the air, spreading itself evenly over the cheese and mayonnaise. Replacing the ketchup I gaze lovingly at my creation, glistening and viscous on the toasted bread. My stomach growls threateningly and with the mien of a soldier baring a fallen comrade I lift the plate to my chest. The smells are strong, wetting my tongue as I nudge the fridge closed with a shoulder and cross the silent kitchen. The light clicks off as I pull the door closed with a foot and I pad back to bed.

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The Things That Are Happening

Blogging as a concept is something alien to me I have to admit. Diary writing as a whole in fact is a style I have difficulty with. When I write anything down I am very used to having an audience in mind; I write for people. Writing for myself, to myself, seems somehow superfluous; it's in my head anyway, why put it through another medium?

Folks will I'm sure point out that the very act of writing down, like speaking aloud, illuminates ideas and emotions in a way that internal stewing does not, and this is quite true, but honestly I'm not here right now to analyse the pros and cons of blog writing. I do find it interesting that neither 'blog' nor 'blogging' is a recognised word on the spell-checker. Not that that is any indication of the vernacular vocabulary of course. So I blog because for why? Because I'm a writer, a long time amateur hoping to turn professional.

Essentially, I write, therefore I am, at least on-line. More specifically my name is Andrew Benn, commonly referred to as Highlander, and I live in Glasgow (Scotland) and I've recently completed and undergraduate in Philosophy. More relevantly I write stories. More interestingly I write stories in many genres,occasionally even different parts of the same story. I've meandered through styles and idioms since I began putting paper to pen almost twenty years ago. I graduated from Fantasy fiction after high-school, though I remember the good times. I experiment with Science fiction and Crime. Most recently I've moved into Suspense and Horror fiction and I'm currently working on a series of short stories inspired by H. P. Lovecraft.

Why I write is less straightforward to answer, but I ought at least to outline it before I start trying to think what to say next, then I can go on long rambles about it later. I started writing, when I was small, mainly out of boredom. I was a very solitary child and making up places and people was a good way of occupying the time. I'm the first one to say those old, angsty and teenage pieces were awful. Early work is always derivative, flat, predicable and generally all the things you never want said about your more recent offerings.

As time passed though, I realised how stories have shaped the way we look at the world, how stories that can be told on one day in one place to bring people together, entertain and move, in another place and time can be used to inspire hate, fear and melancholy. How everyone tells themselves stories and lives their own story day to day in life and that the goal of the author should be to capture the lives of their characters and present them to readers to be lived through vicariously. When I think about it, it really intrigues me the implicit voyeurism of fiction; the reader may in a surprisingly real sense occupy the mental space of another person and live through their eyes for a while. I can't think of a more powerful tool for making a person see other perspectives or to show them other worlds of thought while waiting for a bus or of an evening on the sofa.

So that's very much what I want to do with words; provide interesting and unusual perspectives or places for folks to inhabit and think about. This blog, as I mentioned is the small shootlet of what will become my on-line presence. Here I'm going to put down some titbits about my life and things that I'm thinking, and also to showcase and promote my work. I imagine there will be other things too, links, memes and so forth, but those are a given in Internetland. There will be rants here, probably swearing and the odd scene of a sexual nature. I will be witty and insightful as well as ranty, sweary and randy, but everyone has off-days, I'm only human.

...

Yup, I think that's about it. As far as you're concerned you are most welcome to comment. I won't delete anything; even flame wars can be fun and nothing irritates me more than reading Youtube comments only to find out the one that started everyone off has been deleted. Obviously I'd rather you said something more positive, but  if calling me dumb or racist or a fag, shout it out, whatever works for you. If you happen to like my work I'm happy to be praised, and if you also have ideas and want to talk about them or work together on something then by all means make it known. Don't feel you need to follow me though, I'm quite a paranoid person and having people follow me would be almost traumatising.

Well, that's my two cents. Should I end on a joke you think? Ok so.

"So my brother just moved to Warsaw. He's opened a Divorce Lawyer's Firm there. You know what he calls it?"
"No, what does he call his Warsaw-based Divorce Firm?"
"Poles Apart"

I'm Andrew 'Highlander' Benn, I've been rambling and you've been reading. Thank you kindly,

H.