Fantasy Gamers Not Welcome (Time Machine)
In our interview with Gary Gygax, he mentions that he became persona non grata among historical gamers after the initial release of Dungeons & Dragons. This seemed like a little bit of an exaggeration to me until I came across this somewhat nasty and vindictive guest editorial piece from the August 1974 edition of “Wargamer’s Newsletter,” written by a P. Haythornthwaite. In it, he complains about the new generation of fantasy gamers but, apparently never having actually met any, goes on to attack some historical gamers he encountered and to pretend that they were fantasy gamers!
Haythornthwaite opens up his tirade with a quote from poet Robert Burns: “O wad some pow’r the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us.” Would that the author could have seen himself as others saw him: a peevish nerd who chose to reject rather than embrace newcomers to his hobby because their tastes differed from his own. One can only imagine how he would have reacted if he had been exposed to an actual fantasy role-playing game.
I believe I am correct in my assumption that members of the higher echelon of the wargaming fraternity have of late been concerned with the “public image” of the hobby, as presented to the public at Conventions and demonstration wargames. There is, on the surface, no reason why wargamers should not be considered as a branch of the more serious military hobby spectrum (which already embraces history, militaria-collecting, modelling, etc.) especially as a number of leading wargamers are also authors of military history of international repute. However, when one hears of wargames involving Tolkienesque wizards, dragons and elves — not to mention those reproducing “Star Trek” (complete with bog-eyed monsters) — I confess to feeling not a little disquiet that those who play with monsters and death rays should be (in the eyes of the general public) classed under the same tent as serious military students.
As far as the “public image” of wargaming is concerned, the following account — I hasten to add not at all fictionalised — might be of interest to those concerned with the public relations angle of the hobby. I hope the following won’t cause offence; wargamers will (I hope) realise that I write with affection and good humor, though with the bewilderment of all outsiders upon looking in. Any resemblance to persons living or otherwise is purely intentional, though with the names changed to protect the author.
I have never been an active wargamer; my spare time has to date been spent on research and writing on the more serious aspects of the military spectrum, on history and costume. But out of curiousity I have read books and rules on wargaming by the dozen, so am not a complete novice at the subject. When I heard, therefore, that a large demonstration wargame was being mounted for public examination within a short distance, I decided to see what I had been missing.
I rolled up at the appointed time and entered the hall which was to contain the battle, previously broadcast as a re-fight of Quatre-Bras, an action which I had researched quite deeply. Full of expectation, I entered. As a part-time model-maker, I could fully appreciate the ingenuity which had constructed the battlefield (mounted on two table-tennis tables); it was a remarkable reconstruction of the actual terrain. I awaited the beginning of the action with enthusiasm.
Before the opposing forces made their appearance, I was attracted to a “Brown Bess” musket on display on a side-table, whose owner, one Jim, was talking quite knowledgeably about the firearm. The fact that he knew his subject raised my hopes for the ensuing conflict even higher — but I should have known better. After a short perambulation around the room, I returned to find Jim discussing his contribution to the wargame—a brigade of immaculate Nassauers, to whom he was referring with an affection which belied the fact that they were but small pieces of metal. “I’d stake my life on them; they once charged uphill and took a battery, and then repulsed the Guard Dragoons — single-handed! Was this apparently intelligent, sane person talking about little bits of painted tin as if they lived and breathed — or was I hearing things?
Pondering this, I moved back to the table where the opposing armies were at last to be deployed. A long-haired gentleman was unpacking his troops, and I politely enquired who they were — “Kozuks” he muttered giving me a baleful glare. I was about to punch him in the mouth when I caught sight of his men — squadrons of COSSACKS. No doubt some of Platov’s finest, but at Quatre Bras? Aware of my recent misjudgement of the gentleman, I nervously ventured to say as much , and he eyed me as one might look at a Martian. “I only finished painting them last night” he said, which he apparently considered sufficient explanation.
I moved off in search of sanity, and came across a small, cross-eyed man marshalling some beautifully painted companies of Imperial Guardsmen. I remarked on the high quality of his painting; he replied that he couldn’t talk very well as he had mislaid his top set the day before (which fact he demonstrated by gaping open his mouth in a most unnerving fashion), and then proceeded to go into a well-rehearsed monologue about the merits of Napoleon. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” he said. I should have run away then. But before I could answer, he explained that he had just realised why he had such an affinity with the Emperor — in a previous existence he had been Napoleon. That explained why he had an ulcer, as well as other ailments which he enumerated. Of course; so simple when you think about it. Follow that, I thought. How does one follow a madman — with a net?
At the other end of the table I heard “Wellington” — a mournful-looking postman complete with cap (which I expect he thought added a certain martial air) — discussing whether or not his Royal Fusiliers wore fur caps in action. At last I was on firm ground, on a subject familiar to me. I ventured my thoughts on the matter, but was halted by the sight if the “Royal Fusiliers” under discussion; they had fur caps all right, but wore white jackets and sky blue breeches as well — they were Hungarians. At Quatre Bras? Of course — their owner didn’t want to repaint them.
Another commander was deploying troops from a box labeled “4th Tennessee”. I was prepared for anything by this time, so it came as no surprise to learn that as their uniforms were the same basic colour as those the Brunswick Avante-garde, they “doubled” as both American Civil War and Napoleonic armies. I refrained from remarking that their “Stars and Bars” flag looked a little out of place; it somehow didn’t seem to matter, as the 4th Tennessee Brunswickers were brigaded with some Union Zouaves. I hadn’t courage to enquire who they represented — Hobbits, perhaps?
At last the battle got under way, with our resurrected Napoleon ordering “Marshal Ney” — an acne-faced youth who was apparently Napoleon’s son — to attack the Allied right flank. Jim of the “Brown Bess” had set up his Nassauers on this flank, and then had gone off in search of a cup of tea, foolishly leaving his Nassauers under the eye of young Ney — who promptly faced them about to oppose the other Allied troops, announcing to all within earshot that they had changed sides. This naturally increased Wellington’s melancholy, and he moved half his center to annihilate the Nassauers. When Jim returned from his foraging, all his pride and joy were either dead or fled, and he went off to sulk after lashing Ney with some well-chosen words, to the great delight of the hordes of small children pressing round the table, making a noise that would have drowned any battery of artillery.
As the battle progressed, I made an interesting observation that the increasing volubility of our latterday Napoleon bore a direct correlation with the amount of alcohol he was freely imbibing after every dice-throw. I wonder if this is a phenomenon common to all wargamers??? [Editor’s note: It is certainly one common to me!]
The climax came when Napoleon hit the weakened Allied center with all his cavalry. There was a furious battle of words — far fiercer than anything which had thus far taken place on the table — over whether he could charge so far without receiving a volley, which debate was almost resolved with actual physical conflict between the rival commanders, but Wellington was forced by weight of opinion to relent. The Hungarians were caught in line and ridden down, and the Tennessee Brunswickers fled. The tension was electric. Only a battalion of Highlanders stood between the French and victory; the Allies hadn’t even an odd Dragoon to throw into the fight. But Wellington had his ace up his sleeve; three exquisite horse artillery teams, which he had deployed at his rear before the battle began and since then moved them about aimlessly in ever-decreasing circles until it seemed that they would vanish up their own gun-barrels. It was obvious to all that they were his pride and joy, and now they could save him. A few rounds of canister judiciously placed, then his untouched left wing would have time to arrive, and the day would be saved. I suggested as much to the postman-Duke. He looked at me in astonishment, then said: “It took me three weeks to paint that battery. I’m not letting his scruffy voltigeurs get their hands on them,” and removed them instantly from the field.
That was enough — I beat a strategic withdrawal while still in possession of my sanity. I hadn’t exactly wasted the afternoon — after all, I now knew how the Kozuks routed the 4th Tennessee at Quatre Bras; perhaps I could use that in my next book. And I know enough wargamers to be convinced that they were not all mad, though what the other spectators seeing their first wargame must have thought I tremble to imagine; but my bewilderment at how one can regard small pieces of metal and plastic as having an entity of their own was only increased. But for the main participants of the day’s events, for Napoleon, Wellington, Ney, Jim and Co., they had a marvelous time — which is really what the whole business is about — isn’t it?
"Time Machine" is a series that will feature legacy gaming article, includes some representative paragraphs from the afore-mentioned editorial and, if it proves amusing, we will continue to expand it. Misspellings, nonsensical hyphenations, fruity British spellings, etc., have been preserved as originally written.
