Rose
06-07-07, 04:18 PM
I decided to get into Medal of Honor: Pacific Assault again, because I remember loving the realism and the storyline. I have decided to take a bunch of screenshots along the way, and make a story out of it, from the 1st person point of view. It will follow the Pvt. Thomas "Tommy" Conlin from bootcamp in July 1941 to the horrific battle of Tarawa Atoll in November of 1943. My story will follow the general storyline of MOH:PA, with many things added by myself.
Btw, I am going to use the word "jap," as I think it's acceptable in the historical context. If anyone has any objections, I will gladly remove the word.
This could turn out pretty ****ty, or okay. We will see :D.
Here goes nothing
-----------------------------------------
PROLOGUE
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0010.jpg
My name is Tommy Conlin, third child in a family of four boys. Ma sure was outnumbered. As I sit in one of the 2nd Marine Division's transport craft on our way to Tarawa, my thoughts turn to home, and then to my brothers. Robert is off giving the krauts hell in Italy -- he's a bombardier in a B-24. I don't know how he does it... I was never one for heights but I remember when he used to climb up to the roof of our little house in Oregon and just hurdle himself into the fish-pond from 30 feet. He always used to scare the bejesus outta me. Damn near broke his leg once that way. He was made for the air -- that glamorous kinda stuff suited him just right. James is 23 -- he's 4F back home with a back problem. Scoliosis I think they call it. One lucky bastard. Harrison was 17 when he died in a car accident three years ago.
But that was a long time ago. That was before Pearl, before Makin, before Guadalcanal, before that damned flight -- before this. I was nothing back then. I was just a goddamned sack of skin and bones.
But I am nothing again. I am a drone. I kill. I kill or be killed. I deal in death. And that is what I am to do today as I have done the past two God-forsaken years of my life.
And so we sack up, we load up, we get into our Amtracks. Myself and my buddies are dispersed throughout two Amtracks. The engine starts up, a spewing, tangled mess of steel and machinery sputtering and coughing and -- ahh, the sweet smell of diesel. Does more for me than any cuppa Joe could.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0012.jpg
The alligator slithers and slides down the LST ramp. We are in our element. Water. Men. Rifle. Machine. Moving as one toward the smoldering beach.
Me, Tommy Conlin
VV
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0015.jpg
Jimmy inquires as to how there could be any Japs left on that island. They sure are pounding that tiny strip of sand. Jimmy Sullivan should know better. He's been with me since the beginning, since training. He's been to Makin and Guadalcanal. He's seen all with me. He's our corpsman -- saved my life and my buddies lives countless times.
He's been with me. He's seen all with me.
He should know better.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0011.jpg
There was a shortage of Amtracks. I guess the tide wasn't right and those damned Higgins boats couldn't get over the reef. Those boys had to walk in. Those boys all died.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0016.jpg
Our Sgt. yells out something, bellowing at the top of his lungs. I can't hear him -- the .30 cals on the Amtracks have started firing. I look up and see chunks of brain lying at my feet. How did I not see it? Our gunner got hit. Our Sgt. yells again. What is he saying? Ah, he wants me to get on the .30 cal. Yessir. Right a-****ing-way sir. My life is in sarge's hands. The order to die has come.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0017.jpg
The Japs are on that pier. The stupid buggers are standing straight as a tent-pole. Brrrrraap. Brrrrraaaap. I already have four to my name, and alas -- I am not dead. I am very much alive and carrying out the duties of my humble occupation.
Another three go down. The pier streches on into oblivion. The island, Betio, has disappeared into the smoke and haze. Maybe I have died. Maybe this is Hell, and I am doomed to forever drench the pier in endless amounts of lead.
But then: Betio. And more death. Direct your fire to the beach Marine! I comply. Brrrrrrrrrrrraaa ----
Direct hit. Everyone out. Go go go. Direct hit from a mortar shell. Twenty guys can't hit me standing ten feet away on a pier, but one mortar round can take us all down from sixty feet. What the hell is this? I will never understand.
But no time for thoughts.
Actions only.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0023.jpg
PLEASE let me know what you think. Critisizim is, of course, welcome and encouraged. The prologue isn't finished yet. I just wanted to hit POST before I lost everything! Also, lemme know if the pics are too big.
Btw, I am going to use the word "jap," as I think it's acceptable in the historical context. If anyone has any objections, I will gladly remove the word.
This could turn out pretty ****ty, or okay. We will see :D.
Here goes nothing
-----------------------------------------
PROLOGUE
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0010.jpg
My name is Tommy Conlin, third child in a family of four boys. Ma sure was outnumbered. As I sit in one of the 2nd Marine Division's transport craft on our way to Tarawa, my thoughts turn to home, and then to my brothers. Robert is off giving the krauts hell in Italy -- he's a bombardier in a B-24. I don't know how he does it... I was never one for heights but I remember when he used to climb up to the roof of our little house in Oregon and just hurdle himself into the fish-pond from 30 feet. He always used to scare the bejesus outta me. Damn near broke his leg once that way. He was made for the air -- that glamorous kinda stuff suited him just right. James is 23 -- he's 4F back home with a back problem. Scoliosis I think they call it. One lucky bastard. Harrison was 17 when he died in a car accident three years ago.
But that was a long time ago. That was before Pearl, before Makin, before Guadalcanal, before that damned flight -- before this. I was nothing back then. I was just a goddamned sack of skin and bones.
But I am nothing again. I am a drone. I kill. I kill or be killed. I deal in death. And that is what I am to do today as I have done the past two God-forsaken years of my life.
And so we sack up, we load up, we get into our Amtracks. Myself and my buddies are dispersed throughout two Amtracks. The engine starts up, a spewing, tangled mess of steel and machinery sputtering and coughing and -- ahh, the sweet smell of diesel. Does more for me than any cuppa Joe could.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0012.jpg
The alligator slithers and slides down the LST ramp. We are in our element. Water. Men. Rifle. Machine. Moving as one toward the smoldering beach.
Me, Tommy Conlin
VV
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0015.jpg
Jimmy inquires as to how there could be any Japs left on that island. They sure are pounding that tiny strip of sand. Jimmy Sullivan should know better. He's been with me since the beginning, since training. He's been to Makin and Guadalcanal. He's seen all with me. He's our corpsman -- saved my life and my buddies lives countless times.
He's been with me. He's seen all with me.
He should know better.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0011.jpg
There was a shortage of Amtracks. I guess the tide wasn't right and those damned Higgins boats couldn't get over the reef. Those boys had to walk in. Those boys all died.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0016.jpg
Our Sgt. yells out something, bellowing at the top of his lungs. I can't hear him -- the .30 cals on the Amtracks have started firing. I look up and see chunks of brain lying at my feet. How did I not see it? Our gunner got hit. Our Sgt. yells again. What is he saying? Ah, he wants me to get on the .30 cal. Yessir. Right a-****ing-way sir. My life is in sarge's hands. The order to die has come.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0017.jpg
The Japs are on that pier. The stupid buggers are standing straight as a tent-pole. Brrrrraap. Brrrrraaaap. I already have four to my name, and alas -- I am not dead. I am very much alive and carrying out the duties of my humble occupation.
Another three go down. The pier streches on into oblivion. The island, Betio, has disappeared into the smoke and haze. Maybe I have died. Maybe this is Hell, and I am doomed to forever drench the pier in endless amounts of lead.
But then: Betio. And more death. Direct your fire to the beach Marine! I comply. Brrrrrrrrrrrraaa ----
Direct hit. Everyone out. Go go go. Direct hit from a mortar shell. Twenty guys can't hit me standing ten feet away on a pier, but one mortar round can take us all down from sixty feet. What the hell is this? I will never understand.
But no time for thoughts.
Actions only.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c191/JMR2012/shot0023.jpg
PLEASE let me know what you think. Critisizim is, of course, welcome and encouraged. The prologue isn't finished yet. I just wanted to hit POST before I lost everything! Also, lemme know if the pics are too big.