from programmed sex, juiced
on Bond movies, he laid an oil slick
to take out our first patrol.
Crazy Larry went in as a couch,
guns blazing. I flanked him
as a rather cute mahogany end table.
The air filled with flying metal,
smoke, and feathers.
When the bed finally coughed, wheezed,
and expired, a strange silence
filled the white frame house.
Somewhere a doorbell,
now a telephone, then a radio,
sadly began to sing.
Editor's Introduction to:
ON THE SHADOW OF A PHOSPHOR SCREEN
by William F. Wu
Harold Lamb has always been one of my favorite historians, and his books, stretching from Alexander the Great to Suleiman the Magnificent and beyond, were instrumental in developing my interest in the vast sweep of mankind’s story.
In Iron Men And Saints he tells the story of Robert Curthose, son of William the Conqueror, who led the Christian forces on the first crusade. At Doryleum they were attacked by the Turks, who had destroyed most of the Eastern Roman Empire, and were not accustomed to losses.
Robert’s forces were heavy cavalry. Heavy cavalry has never been very good at a static defense, and the temperament of the Crusaders was decidedly against holding fast. Yet there was nothing to attack. Doggedly they waited for relief, although there was no assurance it would come.
Hours went past. A few of the Crusaders began to fall back. Robert Shortbreeches stood in his stirrups. “Why run?” he demanded. “Their horses are better than ours.” Though their arms were weary, and many were weak from loss of blood, they rallied, and held.
An hour later, Tancred the Great brought up the balance of the Crusader army. The victory at Doryleum cleared all of Asia Minor of resistance, and they fought no more serious battles until they reached Antioch.
The Crusaders and Shortbreeches (which is what Curthose translates to) typify one approach to war.
There is another, more intellectual, which sees war as an intellectual exercise. H. G. Wells was fascinated with war games, and owned hundreds of model soldiers, which he moved through his house according to complex rules.
In the late 50’s and early 60’s, the US Department of Defense became interested in war games. These were highly complex affairs, typically conducted in three rooms laid out with one-way glass so that those in the “Control Room” could see into each of the two participant rooms. I was involved in several of those war games. In one series, it was my responsibility to try to inject the consequences of tactical air power into a ground forces engagement.
Eventually that series of games led to the creation of the llth Air Assault Brigade; which became the Air Cavalry. Helicopter troops are now a mainstay of US (and Soviet) military forces.
Not only military professionals were interested in war games. Sparked by the Avalon Hill Company, a dozen war-gaming companies sprung up and flourished. There has been some shaking out of companies, since, but the war-games business is still big. The largest part has now been taken over by role-playing games, but “simulations”, with hundreds of complex rules, remain popular.
These “monster” games are not often played, but they are studied. They aren’t played because the bookkeeping required to keep track of all the units and rules and interactions are very nearly beyond human capabilities.
However, help is at hand. Computers are very good at bookkeeping. With their help, ever more complex simulation games become not only playable, but fun to play. It will be only a question of time before someone thinks to combine role-playing and computer simulation to create a new era in war gaming.
Such games can be useful. For example: it is nearly impossible to simulate Fall Gelb (Operation Gold), the German breakthrough which brought about the Fall of France in 1940. Any rational analysis leads to a clean win by the Allies, who had a preponderance of armor, men, and supplies, and who were defeated only by a total lack of understanding. Thus, one might think, had gaming fanatics and the tools for simulations games existed in the 30’s, the course of the war would have been far different.
However: Clausewitz cannot too often be repeated: “In war, everything is very simple, but the simplest things are very difficult.”
Lest one place too much faith in these analyses, it should be remembered that the intellectual tools leading to Blitzkrieg were developed by Captain B. H. Liddell Hart and General J. F. C. Fuller, both of His Majesty’s forces. Their writings were taken quite seriously—but alas, only by the Germans.
War games have their place in the preparation for real wars; but one must also remember Robert Curthose.
ON THE SHADOW OF A PHOSPHOR SCREEN
by William F. Wu
Simulation. Simulacrum. Simultaneity.
Similarity. Similitude. Simile.
The silent hall was cold. From behind walnut walls, the air conditioner hummed quietly. A stately crowd of spectators radiated bristling energy from the rigid square rows of seats. They sat against the walls, their attention fixed on the dramatic events at the center of the room. Giant video screens high on each wall gave them the elegant details.
The heavy brown drapes and plush burgundy carpet absorbed the excess vitality from the atmosphere. They imparted a dignified solemnity to the ritualistic proceedings and infused the imperatives of business with a sense of duty. Two huge cables hung from the ceiling, suspending old-fashioned horizontal fans with broad, lazy blades and globular white lights at their hubs.
Beneath the sleepy fans, Wendell Chong Wei repressed the surge of elation that threatened to rock his relentless control. He studied the video screen right before him, and his fingers danced on the console to maintain the non-stop pace. Victory should be certain now, but only if he remained clear of mistakes. He drew sharply on the depths of insecurity for a renewal of killer instinct.
On the other side of the complex, out of sight, his opponent sat before her own screen, drawing back her cavalry, hoping that Wendell would allow his own cavalry charges to overextend themselves. No chance.
“Remember, in reality the Seljuks actually circled, and took the baggage and non-combatants. Leave St. Gilles there, even now. Curthose continues to rally well; Tancred’s charges will carry the day. That’s right—restraint. We’re outnumbered; keep together.”
Richard nodded in the back of Wendell’s mind and stopped talking. The smell of blood and dust and lathered horses arose to envelop Wendell’s sensibility as he regrouped the members of the First Crusade, now victorious at Doryleum on the road to Antioch. Frustrated, the Seljuk Turks remained on the horizon, taunting the Crusaders to break ranks.
Wendell refused. In the center of the screen, a digital clock appeared over the words “Victory Conditions, First Crusade. End game.” The screen blanked.
St. Gilles was dead once more. Bohemund was dead again. The Saracens and Crusaders had returned yet another time to their desiccated graves in the sand.
Wendell swallowed, and rose on weak knees to scattered clapping. His opponent, also looking infirm at the moment, stood and offered her hand without comment, and they shook perfunctorily. Wendell eased himself away from the chair, shaking, suddenly reeling in the sweat and nervousness that he always forgot in the heat of gaming itself. His twenty-nine years seemed far too few to account for this.
An attendant rushed over to escort him away.
“Nice work,” said Richard.
“Same to you,” Wendell thought back. He wiped his palms on the sides of his chocolate-brown suit jacket. “But, uh, how did you know Robert Curthose could hold fast? In the middle of that retreat? His record’s not so good, back in Normandy.”
The attendant showed Wendell to a comfortable reception room with loungers and plenty of refreshments. When he had gone, Richard said, “He really did that, you know.”
“No, I didn’t. But I learned to listen to you a long time ago.
”
“More than that, though, it was deep in his psychological makeup. That’s how I could count on it. If he—”
The door opened, and Richard stopped. Wendell collapsed into a lounger. He despised receptions. People scared him. They scared Richard even worse. The ones entering now were the contractors for the two recent opponents, and his erstwhile opponent herself. The contractors were all bustling with talk and laughter. Wendell was too exhausted to tell them apart, and couldn’t remember all their names anyway. His latent bitterness with the whole business kept him from caring.
An older woman approached him, a contractor, with a thin face and a wide smile and lots of spangly jewelry and shiny clothes. Wendell shook her hand, but didn’t get up from the lounger. He didn’t hear what she said, either, though it registered with him as something good. After he had passed her off with some standard line, she glittered away to the refreshments and was followed by Wendell’s recent counterpart in the act of artificial war.
“Have a seat,” said Wendell, indicating another lounger. He could talk to another Master, he felt, who also shared the habit. “Good battle.” He was still catching his breath.
She smiled and shook her head. Dark curls bobbed. “I thought for certain I could take your vanguard before the others drew up. Had them on the run at first, anyway. Who was it, the Duke of Normandy, who rallied for you? Just like he really did.” She caught his eye and added, “The creep. I love it.” Carefully, she eased back in the lounger and put up her feet.
Wendell nodded. “Robert II, Duke of Normandy.” He smiled slightly at her enthusiasm. That had been the first crucial point, but as a Master, she knew that as well as he did. That was the pleasure of it—he didn’t have to explain everything on the rare occasions that he talked to other Masters.
A large, fluffy white cat appeared suddenly on his companion’s lap from the floor. She settled herself immediately on the dark blue slacks and treated the hand that went to her ears as a natural and proper development. Over her head, the two Masters lay back in their loungers, amiably rehashing the game. Wendell’s natural shyness evaporated quickly when the subject of talk was history or games. For them, as freelance Gamers of the Master class, the battle was a matter of intellectual and artistic pride. The defeated party had no shame to bear unless the game had clearly exhibited poor performance—a condition that could apply to the victor as well. Odds were calculated for each side’s units and degree of success; the contractors’ dispute was based on the computation of these, not just on the apparent victory.
“I believe I played you once before, Master Wei,” said his companion. “You don’t remember me. I’m Terri Kief. In my first contracted game, we fought Zama.”
Wendell hesitated, thinking back. “Oh—oh, yeah.”
Terri laughed. “Your elephants rioted in the wrong direction—remember?
“Oh, yes, of course.” Wendell grinned. The game had been only his fourth. He had been soundly beaten, but at least he had maneuvered an orderly escape for his Carthaginians. That was more than the real Hannibal had done. “Very well fought, as I remember.” Zama?
“202 B.C.,” said Richard, in his head. “Two years ago. I told you not to use those elephants, but, oh no, you—”
“Power Technics won the right to a plant on the Big Muddy,” Wendell recalled. “Isn’t that what you won for them?” He was surprised that he remembered, but then, all of his thankfully few defeats, honorable as they were, stood out in his mind—as learning experiences, of course.
“Um—yes, that’s what it was.” Terri sat up, earnestly, steadying the cat with one hand. “I remember, right after that, you ‘won’ that draw at Bosworth Field for the Italian Bottling Cooperative.” She smiled and twisted a curl of dark hair around one finger.
Wendell was flattered in turn that she knew. His own charge, Richard III, had been betrayed by crucial allies at the start of the battle. In reality, Henry Tudor of Richmond had taken a conclusive victory for the Lancastrians. With Wendell Wei in command, the Yorkists had exploited critical junctures between the three forces of Richmond and the two Stanleys, and had thrown the field into general confusion.
“A great deal of luck was involved,” Wendell reminded her. “If my opponent hadn’t been lax, it never would have been possible.”
“Luck is part of things,” said Terri. “Who cares? It happens, that’s all.”
“Luck,” Richard agreed, firmly. He had pointed this out frequently to Wendell, along with the admonition that their opponent had lost; they had not won. According to the rules, Wendell had not been allowed to prepare for the on-field treachery, since it had been a surprise in reality. But hindsight could go the other way. His opponent, while a Master also, had expected too much that history would repeat itself on its own, and he had been careless. Both sides had been forced to withdraw without establishing Victory Conditions, but Wendell’s opponent had insisted upon conceding, stating that the position of the Yorkist cause at the time of betrayal had actually been desperate.
Wendell modestly, but truthfully, agreed that extricating Richard III from Bosworth had been his finest achievement, draw though it was. Even Richard, with his perfectionist standards, acknowledged its value in unguarded moments. The strength of the Gaming Masters’ Guild made such dealings possible; no corporation or other principal would object, for fear of being boycotted in later disputes.
“I’m afraid I’m rather ambitious,” said Terri. “That Bosworth Field example of yours is just tremendous. I’m aiming at the number-one rating, and I’ve reviewed the tape of that game many times in the Guild Library.”
“I had the undisputed number-one rating,” Richard growled.
Wendell smiled at Terri. “You think I’m a textbook case, huh? Is that good or bad?”
“Well, I’m trying to learn from you. After all, you just beat me.” She looked at him with amusement.
“Congratulations! To both of you.” A hearty voice startled them. One of Wendell’s contractors smiled broadly down at them, extending one hand and rattling an iced drink with the other. He was large and heavy, dressed in formal black. His tie was crooked. “A fine game. Saw it all on the spectator screens.” He shook hands with them both, laughing happily.
Terri and Wendell thanked him. The big contracter stood beaming at them, sipping his drink. His name was Crandall, Wendell remembered, wishing he would leave. But the profession required courtesy toward contractors.
Crandall caught Wendell’s eye and shook his head. “Fine battle,” he insisted.
Terri nodded. “You know, there were times when I could have sworn you actually had the feel of the battle— you know, the ringing of hot steel, the beat of the hooves, the grip of old leather. I can do it sometimes in flashes— but not like that. You’re amazing.”
“That’s me!” Richard cried gleefully. He was embarrassed and highly pleased. Wendell shook his head, smiling reluctantly. He thought back to Richard, “We have an unfair advantage, you know.”
“Grand!” thundered the contractor. “Just what I wanted to hear. Listen, the two of you are close together, rated fifth and eighth Master Gamers. You care to work… together?”
“What!” Richard screamed with delight. Some word of this had gotten around, but it had been vague. No Master anywhere would pass up this chance.
Wendell and Terri turned attentive instantly. Crandall clearly enjoyed their excitement. “The new tandem game is ready,” he said.
Wendell had already forgotten about the last contract— as a Master, he was always paid in advance, and the legal decisions he had won for his contractors were of no interest to him. The Guild demanded, and got, substantial rights of independence for its members. But the present games were devised only for one Gamer on a side. The computer bank already held incredible amounts of information—the terrain and weather of the real battles, the morale of the troops, their military capabilities, and the psychological profiles of all individuals that were on historical record. Minute tech
nological details, such as the composition of stirrups and the age of leather, could win or lose battles. Four keyboards would square the intensity of the game, though increased caution might decrease the pace.
“Are you making a formal request?” Terri asked excitedly.
Crandall gave a long, sweeping, mock-formal bow. “I would hereby request the participation of the two of you in the first tandem game ever to take place, to be contracted through my office.” He straightened up, grinning. “Howzat?”
Terri laughed and glanced at Wendell. “Excellent. I accept.”
“Okay,” said Wendell, smiling. Already, he was trying to absorb the implications of the new game. “Okay,” Richard echoed happily.
Wendell’s imagination soared, exploring the feel of the new game as it might turn out to be. Now, the Gamers only controlled two factors completely: they replaced the supreme commander in decision making, and had the advantage of aerial viewpoint over all the significant territory their troops could have seen. They were limited to reality in factors such as on-field communication, mobility, and availability of friendly forces. Lastly, “chance” factors were also included, to account for unexpected performances, good and bad, on the individual level. The games were good, but had never been constructed for team play before. The game would still be fast and intense, requiring that the Gamers keep their keyboards in constant activity.
When Wendell brought his attention back to the present, Crandall was pacing in front of them, talking loudly, and gesturing in all directions. The new game that the contractor described was essentially no different from the present games as far as playing technique except that the Gamers replaced two command individuals per side instead of one. The biggest changes were technological. However, the quality of the conflict would change greatly; no psychologically-programmed game-personality could ever approximate all the variations of mind that high stress evoked in a real person. This new game was a tremendous challenge, and Wendell was anxious to try it.
There Will Be War Volume II Page 25