The Wargamer

STILL CRANKIN' AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

For any gamers who remember the sensation caused by the first Close Combat game (Close Combat Normandy; published in 1996), the fact that it’s been almost a decade since the last iteration of that venerable series seems, at first, almost unbelievable – it is not only the normal chronological acceleration of age that makes that hard for me to wrap my brain around (“Why, it seems like only yesterday, when…”), it’s the dizzying pace with which gaming technology has evolved during that interval, exponentially faster compared to its first decade. Each major new set of technological development seems, briefly, to establish a plateau on which emerge a handful of titles that could not successfully have been developed before, and which enjoy a vigorous “run” of 2-3 years before the next conceptual/technological plateau rears up and knocks them into that realm of restless shades where the players of Great Old Games gnash their teeth at the young whippersnappers who think any title THAT old has to be beneath their consideration.

I think, in this case, they’d be missing out on a serious wargaming addiction that can give them years, if not decades, nay – a lifetime! of rewarding and challenging play. (Old-timers, I know the main thing you’re waiting to read is whether or not Matrix’s new edition boasts enough significant enhancements to warrant you shelling for a game that can hardly be labeled “bargain priced”… I’ll get back to you in a bit, but let me now at least end your suspense. The verdict, from this long-time Close Combat veteran, is: Yes, it bloody well does!)

But for now, instead of preaching to the choir, I’d like to take new and younger wargamers back to the misty year 1998, when Close Combat Normandy hit the reviewers’ desks, and a few days later, the stores. Let me explain why it was such an earthquake-game, and why it seized such a large and loyal audience; and why it deserves your respect, even if you can’t tear yourselves away from whatever the title is that’s currently caught your fancy long enough to play it. Maybe the next time you have some extra game-money, you’ll decide to invest in a bona-fide classic instead of a “hot” new title the advertisements claim is the greatest thing since oral…er…hygiene. Some of you, sooner or later, will thank me for this suggestion.

ALL PSYCHED UP

It all boils down to this: nobody likes being shot at.

Combat is the most abnormal, stressful, chaotic, and terrifying condition a human being can experience. Even the most rigorous and thorough training can’t do more than interpose honed responses between your consciousness and the fear, the spiritual degradation, the sheer physical and emotional exhaustion of prolonged exposure to a combat environment. Before actually experiencing battle, the new, green soldier expects to be scared; but he also expects to be stimulated and supported by the collective strength of his unit and its leaders. Rare indeed is the combat virgin, going into his first likely firefight, who questions his ability to shoot back – he’s been trained to a Pavlovian pitch to squeeze that trigger the instant an enemy soldier pops into his sights. Yes, of course, the enemy may be determined, and cunning, disciplined and well-equipped, but he’s only flesh and blood. Put a bullet into him, and he’ll go down, while your odds of surviving this tour gain a percentage point or so.

The adrenaline rush as he approaches the “front line” may actually compensate for his fear. And then, when he is in the front line, more often than not, and his leader (squad, platoon, or company) commands or signals “Take cover!”, his environment changes profoundly. When the enemy opens fire, the new soldier searches wildly for a target – he’s been well-enough-trained to know that his first response should be to return fire. Perhaps he can follow the tracers of his comrades to locate a target. But few of them are firing! And those who are, tend to be spraying lead in a general direction, hoping to get lucky, but mainly just to diminish the shock and amazement of a suddenly erupting skirmish.

But as for the “support” of comrades to his left and right, our hypothetical green replacement doesn’t see a damned thing, except for the oddly compelling strobe-light flicker of tracers. He will soon learn that his squad mates were, in fact, close at hand from the first shot to the last; they’re just doing what several other invisible comrades are now shouting: “Take cover!” Well, G.I. Bill is trying his best to do that, but his reflexes are slowed and his perceptions warped. Here he is, in the midst of what sounds like a fairly vigorous battle, but – despite all the racket and shouts and oaths, all of which indicate the proximity of trusted comrades, he still feels more profoundly alone than he ever has before in his life

“The enemy” until now has been the marching legions in news reels, the simplistic drawings in battle manuals, out here in these hedgerows (or marshes or rubble-clogged streets) there are no marching legions! Hell, he can barely see the helmet of Sgt. Ziegler, fifteen meters to his left, as it bobbles fleetingly up from the underbrush, gesticulating in an eastern direction. G.I. Bill scuttles closer, and now the sergeant is bellowing into his face: “There’s an embankment about fifty meters east, and I think the Krauts got an MG-42 dug into the root-system! I want you and all the other guys to plaster that dark green area – see it – with all the suppressive fire you can throw out. Pass the word! But tell them trigger-happy guys to cease fire when the hear the smoke grenades pop – that’ll mean Corporal Heath’s gotten close enough to hose the place with his flamethrower! Think you can keep that straight, new guy?”

Yes, he can! Oddly enough, the near-paralysis that had gripped him earlier has receded, the positive aspects of his conditioning have kicked in; he’s received clear sensible orders; he know what he’s supposed to do and he’s willing to give it his best try. All it took was the sergeant’s burly parade-ground voice cutting through the confusion, and G.I. Bill returned from the state of mindless funk he’d been plunged into when those first German bursts came sizzling around his head. He is once more part of a cohesive tactical unit; they have a job to do, and a good simple plan that, with a bit of luck, will take out the enemy gun now firing at him.

Later on, comparing notes with other newly arrived replacements and with the platoon’s handful of veterans who feel like talking about it, G.I. Bill learns that his initial stunned response, far from marking him as a coward, was an almost universal one, a rite-of-passage; but he passed this particular test, because once the sergeant’s voice snapped him out of it, he too did some suppressing – he’d emptied three M-1 clips in the direction of the enemy’s suspected positions, and now that MG-42 team is not only silenced, it’s been incinerated into carbonized shapes only vaguely reminiscent of human beings. He’d gone forward after the flame-thrower had done its work and checked out the scene. Now, he rather wishes he hadn’t. He vows that the next time he’s told to check out a silence German position, he will not get sick in front of his comrades.

What G. I. Bill went through is all-too-typical of what most soldiers go through in their first experience of combat. In the span of about one minute, he went through several dramatically different states of consciousness: stunned surprise, bewilderment, an almost paralyzing sense of isolation, relief at discovering he was not alone after all, all followed by a renewal of self-discipline and the will to take action on behalf of himself and his comrades. And during each of these stages, G.I. Bill’s efficacy as a soldier went up or down very jaggedly. Even after the sergeant’s voice reestablished enough calm for Bill’s training-reflexes to kick in, victory in this skirmish was not guaranteed. Had their flamethrower team been toasted 30 meters from the German MG nest, in full view of Bill’s squad, it’s doubtful that Bill or any other new guy would have continued to advance, no matter what the sergeant yelled at them; some of them, aghast at what they were seeing, might even have panicked and run away.