Returning to Her Majesty's Fleet after a long retirment, Sir Roger Bertram-Brinkley is a loud, bellowing, vainglorious and bellicose warmonger and, he is proud to admit, a direct descendant of the famous Sir Arthur Wellesley "Throat-Slasher" , Duke of Wellington.
A Lieutenant in the Royal Fleet renowned for sending men to a senseless death with seemingly no tactics at all, Brinkley had a notable tendency in the past to devoting most of his time trying to lift the morale of the men, completely ignorant of the fact that they were too afraid of their impending deaths to have their spirits lifted at all, least of all by his series of lectures on The Hunting of Pheasant, The Perils of an Improperly Cleaned Tachyon Cannon and Reasons Why Being of the Gentry Class is a mark of Divine Favour.
He has no concept of fear, which is more from reasons of difficulties with conceptual thinking than any characteristic resembling courage. Sir Roger demonstrates a tendency towards casual violence aimed primarily at foreigners and the serving classes of his own country. (It has been suggested that the term "to roger" can be directly attributed to him.) He has an unsettling habit of roaring "Baaahhh" like an enraged sheep from time to time. This may be due to some shameful family secret in the very remote past.
It appears Sir Roger has a nephew in the BPA for whom he has some affection. Both share a fondness of traditional upper class life and past-times in Bretonia as well as what are the most obvious stereotypical upper class values.
A career soldier of questionable sanity, Brinkley attended Novchester College, Standhurt Military Academy, has fought in every major war of the last fifty years of Bretonian history, and believes that anyone not fighting for his country should be shot at dawn, preferably after being "rogered to within an inch of his worthless life."
Early on in the season, the damn birds sit in tighter formations, the little buggers, permitting the hunter and his hounds to move towards them in their respective resting areas. Because the birds have not been stressed much till this point, the usual shots are at close ranges; a twelve measure shotgun having customized or improved strangles and #6 shot are excellent loads for early season. As the hunting season moves onward, a tighter choked shotgun would be a healthier choice - for the hunter and not the birds obviously. For the best results, change to a 12 measure gun and shells with more gunpowder as well as #4 or #5 shot. Heavier loads offer a little more knockdown power when used from longer ranges.
Regardless of the amount of cover you have, without a well-trained hound or servant at your side you might as well kiss your hopes of bringing home a rooster toodle-bye. A well-trained upland hound or Scottish servant can prove to be a priceless tool for any pheasant hunting enthusiast. Contrasting with waterfowl hunting or killing foreigners, training a hunting dog doesnt require such an extensive training program, only the correct training. The primary thing any dog needs to have is obedience. Next is an appropriate introduction to birds. Feed 'em a few. The pup's natural instincts have to be brought out as early as possible. They can never be too young to be introduced to a wing or even a dead bird. This usually proves to be extremely important along the way and works well with children too. What follows after can be learnt through many fine training books that are available today.
One particular thing that is often overlooked in the case of inexperienced huntsmen is making sure they are as quiet as humanly possible starting from the moment they drive to the hunting field, till the actual hunt is over. It is never a good time to slam a door of the car or fire off a few rounds from your Templar because you're a little excited, regardless of the time of year you are hunting. To develop this further, also a very important aspect is being as quiet as you can all through the hunt. The old saying of yelling with the purpose of getting the birds to move only appears to work at the far, not in the middle of nature.
Orange hunting vests ought to be worn by any hunter, for the reason that if you cannot be seen, it is hard to shoot in safety conditions. Orange hunting vests, caps, dog necklines and dog vests can help make a hunt safer. Be sure you only fire at tall rising pheasants that are in a safe line of fire. Of course being dressed in day-glo orange makes the chance of actually catching anything remote, so it's a trade-off.
An excellent time for rooster hunting is when the weather conditions get downright spiteful. High wind is a pheasant hunter's best ally because the cover will make additional natural noise and will cover the hunter's. If quiet enough, the sounds you make will most likely get lost in the wind unless you suffer from flatulence like myself. The pheasants will not know your location or even where to head to and will probably end up sitting stiff or fly, therefore letting you get closer to them for an easier shot.
Try to find what the bird's every day activity and movement routine is. The boffins at HQ have a robot that will do this for you. Try to learn as much of the prey as you possibly can. This shall help you choose where you ought to be hunting on a particular time of the day. Providing that at 9:00 am, when the usual shooting time begins, you are in the dense cover and you are having luck only at scrambling for birds that other hunters push out of corn fields, then guess where exactly you are supposed to be hunting the next day. That's right, you will wish to be hunting on the edges of corn fields otherwise directly in the corn instead of the deep cover, the place to hunt right at dusk time because the birds will move to roost through the night.
Failing all of this, just drop a few nuclear mines from 500m overhead and get the floury baps ready.
The Perils of an Improperly Cleaned Tachyon Cannon
The other day I cleaned a few of the weapons of my old crusader, something I do as an exercise in routine and discipine and also because I believe my new neighbours to be Kusari spies.
One of the first things I do is check to ensure the missile launchers are unloaded before I pull them apart. In fact, even though I remove the missiles and pods from the wings and put them well outside of the cleaning area, I still check the chamber each and every time I need to recalibrate the targetter.
When dealing with a tachyon cannon, I remove all the batteriess and place them in another room, then each time I'm required to rack the slide, I inspect the chamber both visually and as well as with my finger to ensure no charged crystals have found their way in. Looking isn't always enough as lighting can play a trick on you, so I normally use my cigar.
Even after checking the chamber for a live crystal, I still follow rule #2 of the QCRF field manual chapter on weapons and never point the cannon at anything I'm not willing to see destroyed. You see, one may make a mistake and forget to check the chamber. One may be thoughtlessly pointing the muzzle at one's neighbours, and one might negligently discharge one's cannon, destroying their home and killing most of their family. We've all done it, I know I have.
You see, QCRF officers are conscientious and law abiding but we are human after all. Sometimes, we might not follow the four rules when handling weapons. Every time someone has an accident, every Peter Peacenik and Treasonous Tracey will trumpet their new phrase of "Xenophobic maniacs" in an attempt to smear as many people as possible.
So, with this mind, be sure to follow the field manual guidelines on weapon cleaning. And, if possible, try to make sure there are no witnesses.
July 14th
My cell mate is a "bloke" called Doherty. The man says he is a Londoner. I use the word man loosely: he is a vile Regular who thinks that flatulence in a confined space is amusing and who talks like a street urchin. We're "banged up", as the prole might put it, in the brig on the Nagaski. It's not so much the confinment as the lack of a sharp eating implement with which to stab the twit that drives me up the wall.
There is talk of a trial for war crimes. Charges of unsporting conduct against civilians. Heaven knows why or who the buffoons are talking about: my neighbours or those transport drivers who keep trying to smuggle through Bretonia?
I tried to teach Doherty some Kusari so he could communicate with the guards using means other than repeating everything he says loudly and clearly. It's enough to make one melancholic. The man is as educable as a yoghurt.
I should be smashing up the KNF's finest and their agrarian numbskull companions this weekend and instead I'm reduced to eating raw fish and listening to my cell-mate burp his favourite tunes.
My moustache is growing back, thankfully. "Innit bleeding marvellous?", as Doherty might put it.
Interrogation last night. Threatened to use electrodes and hosepipes. Mothers were mentioned. Parentage was questioned. But nothing could deter them from asking me about my actions of last May.
After my second interrogation (name, rank and serial number is all they're getting from me), I was allowed to finally take a shower. Needless to say, showering with other men is difficult to get used to when one is new to the Service but I balk at how embarassed I was a youth when it seemed like everyone's eyes were upon me during what is usually such a private moment.
Doherty finds it difficult. I suppose it's just shyness but when 12 other men are pointing and saying mean things about one's genitalia, it can be very hurtful. He tried very hard to remain composed.
I smiled and laughed along. He'll toughen up eventually.
Tomorrow I will be given my work assignment. I'm hopeful that it will provide an opportunity to escape, as security seems very lax.
I have received my first work assignment. I can't say I'm terribly pleased but I am in prison and there aren't a lot of choices here. I submitted forms explaining I would prefer to have a prole do the work but I was informed that I would have the kitchen or the prison library. Based on my almost complete ignorance of what happens in both of these places, I felt that my time would be better served combing my moustache which is coming along quite well and is as thick as a rhododendron bush. Well the guards were none too pleased, so I am reduced to peeling potatoes and preparing tonight's menu. Memo to self: request a nice Claret from the Commanding Officer.
Doherty told me he was on "turd patrol" until further notice and that he didn't like it one bit and that he thought someone was "taking the mick". He claims to have a "manfred mann" to escape but it's a bit "mariah carey" and asked if I had the "market stalls" to fake a "metal mickey" on the "merhant navy." I haven't the slightest notion what he was talking about.
I tried nicely to explain to him that hearing such drivel was the aural equivalent of brushing one's teeth with a double-sided toilet brush and that dealing with him on a daily basis might compel one to homocidal thoughts.
He replied he thought I was handsome in a rough way but that I failed to meet the standard of his preferences when it comes to enforced copulation and that he would prefer a go on an elephant sooner than me were both our lives to depend upon it.
My new palace: Prisoner Containment Facility 2476-K, Kusari Space. Planet and System Unknown. What a dump. Tropical. Flies everywhere. Smells of feet.
Roll-call for Building 34867-F: Mark Jefferson (navigation officer/idiot), Victor Armstrong (turret gunner/idiot), Ross Millar (turret gunner/wounded/idiot), Doctor Benedict Mason (medical officer; QCID), Kip Norris (mechanical officer/complete moron), Niall Keane (communications officer; Molly by birth), Chris Campbell (helmsman), Peter Doherty (QCR/disgusting berk), Sir Roger Brinkley (QCO, me) and Fr. Dafyyd Jones.(religious nutcase and helmsman) Many of the men were initially very scared when brought to the camp, having just lost their ship near Harris. Their Gunboat was ambushed by a squad of bombers.
Mason at least can play whist, and it's a nice change to smell farts emanating from someone other than Doherty.
Due to a severe attack by BAF forces on the Nagasaki, we were evcuated aboard a transport to head for interrogation, (or sentencing in my case), in New Tokyo.
All prisoners subsequently beaten upon arrival at Planet Kyushu by Kusari soldiers armed with sharpened chopsticks and bamboo. We were then separated from each other into units of ten and moved to a remote planet, where we landed in a tropical forest and were marched through jungle to a camp where we met some other BAF personnel who have also been captured.
Our host is the delightful Commandant Yamauchi, a deeply traditional Kusari soldier, who regards the prisoners as "fourth-class men". He and I get along just splendidly as he shares my opinion of the lower classes as good for nothing other than being a cheap substitute for furniture. His sadistic deputy, Lieutenant Sato has been dubbed "Fluffy" by the inmates for reasons I would not go into even in the most uncouth mess-hall frequented by the Regulars.
Conditions in the camp are harsh; there is no clean water, and little more than rice and water for the inmates to eat and drink. No one will polish my boots. They don't even have a decent claret to go with the gruel.
A group of Blood Dragon prisoners are also interned in the camp. I've used my little smattering of Kusari to speak to a few of them; Shintaro Katsu, who is the C.O. and Sengo Muramasa, who is well-liked by the men because he can belch opera songs.
Jefferson contracted some disease and appears to be delirious. He keeps calling me "Mummy" and asking for his "ickle bockle". I suggested shooting him to put him out of his misery, but apparently that's excessive when you're dealing with a head-cold.
Doherty attempted yet another of his ridiculous escapes (his fourth) using a laundry basket. He was recaptured and confined to solitary. We had a party that evening to celebrate. Muramasa performed the "La Donna e Mobile" using a quart of fizzy orange and was sick on my shirt.
I am becoming close friends with Mason. He has begun working for the commandant as an interpreter and medical assistant. The commander is a martyr to the piles. Mason is QCID, and rather cleverly has found a way to access the commandant's correspondence. We are to be moved to another location. The commandant is finding it hard to cope with no medical supplies for his rear end out here.
Mason returned from the commandant's office looking ashen-faced. The other prisoners were playing cards. He gestured discretely to Brinkley to come outside.
It was a humid night. Moths fluttered around the lights. The guards were cheering and celebrating in their barracks.
Checking they were out of ear-shot, Mason leaned on the railing and started rolling a ciagarette.
"I have bad news, Brinkley," he said, without looking up. "News on the comms. Brock. KIA."
Brinkley stumbled and fell against the post. Mason reached out to help him, but his hand was pushed away.
"Damnit to hell, keep your hands off me!" Brinkley hissed.
Mason noticed that the soldier looked old, truly old.
"How? Why?"
Mason lit a cigarette. He spoke the three letters with distaste.
"O.P.G."
Brinkley composed himself, and fixed his shirt collar. He stood upright. His stare was hard and cold.
"By all that is holy, Mason, you better get started on a plan to get us out of here. I don't care what it takes, or who dies. But by heavens, I'll fight my way out of here with my fists if I have to."
The tale of my escape from the clutches of the Kusari is well-documented; however I have here the original copy of the report from the brave Bretonian morse-tapper who helped organise the escape of my good self and many other Bretonian officers. Behold!
Sir,
LeCarrre transmitted this message this a.m.
It is composed of two parts - a decrypted transmission intercepted on KNF SEC-COM (confirmed valid) and an image from KYUSHU Spaceport Security Camera Records.
Quote:*****HACK CODE INITIATED****
*****Accessing encryption keycodes******
*****Trying 1 of 20************
*****Failed*******************
*****Trying 2 of 20************
*****Failed*******************
*****Trying 3 of 20************
*****Encryption Accessed*******
*****Reading Transmission******
Prisoner Rendition Convoy XGSDF-3847
Armoured Transport call-sign "Tenko" Prisoner Manifest:
Mark Jefferson
Victor Armstrong
Ross Millar
Doctor Benedict Mason
Kip Norris
Niall Keane
Chris Campbell
Peter Doherty
Roger Brinkley
Fr. Dafyyd Jones
Rendition Supervisor: Lieutenant Arata Mei
Initiation Point: Planet Kyushu Main Terminal
Rendezvous Point:
Quote:KYSUHU TERMINAL SECURITY - SPACEPORT CAMERA 136
Ship Identity: Kusari Naval Forces Prisoner Rendition Transport
Details: XGSDF-3847 Armoured Transport call-sign "Tenko"
Armament: Flashpoint Civilian Laser Cannons; Civilian Transport Turrets (Class 4)
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