The Falklands War: RPG

[ MALVINAS ISLANDS — MAY, 1982 ]

The wind had been howling since before sunrise.

It swept across the open ground without anything to stop it, rattling loose equipment, tugging at canvas covers and carrying the freezing damp through layers of clothing. Low clouds hung over the islands, turning the morning sky into a dull sheet of gray. Beyond the hills, the South Atlantic disappeared beneath mist.

The Argentine position had been awake for hours.

Trenches cut through the wet earth around the hillside, connecting dugouts, observation posts and makeshift shelters. Wooden ammunition crates sat beneath sheets of canvas. Rifles rested against muddy walls. Packs, helmets and equipment had been shoved wherever there was enough room to keep them out of the worst of the weather.

Somewhere farther down the line, an engine coughed several times before finally starting.

A radio operator hunched over his equipment inside a cramped shelter, one hand pressed against his headset.

“Repita, repita... no lo recibo.”

Static answered him.

“¡Dije que repita!”

More static.

The operator muttered something under his breath and adjusted the radio again.

Outside, two soldiers were struggling to reinforce part of the position before the ground became even worse. Another sat on an ammunition box with his rifle across his knees, staring toward the distant hills. Nobody seemed particularly interested in conversation. They were cold, tired, and waiting.

Waiting had become most of the job.

A corporal walked along the trench, boots sinking slightly into the mud with every step.

“Dale, muchachos. Revisen todo otra vez.”

A groan came from somewhere behind him.

The corporal immediately stopped.

“¿Algún problema?”

Silence.

“Eso pensé.”

He continued down the trench.

Near the observation position, a young sentry raised his binoculars again. For several seconds he remained completely still.

Then he lowered them.

Raised them again.

“Cabo.”

No response.

“Cabo.”

The corporal turned around, already irritated.

“¿Qué?”

The sentry didn't answer immediately. He kept staring toward the coastline.

The corporal's expression changed.

“¿Qué viste?”

“Movimiento.”

Conversations around the position stopped.

The radio operator pulled one side of his headset away from his ear.

The corporal climbed toward the observation point and took the binoculars himself.

For a while, nothing happened.

Only the wind.

Then the radio suddenly crackled behind them.

“Atención a todas las posiciones...”

Everyone turned.

“Posible actividad británica. Mantengan vigilancia y esperen nuevas órdenes.”

The corporal lowered the binoculars.

Nobody complained about the cold anymore.

Soldiers began moving through the position. Equipment was grabbed from shelters. Rifles were checked. The radio operator immediately started transmitting. Someone farther along the trench called for an officer.

Then came another shout from the observation post.

“¡Movimiento otra vez!”

The corporal climbed back up.

“¿Dónde?”

“¡Allá, cerca de la costa!”

He followed the sentry's pointing hand.

For just a moment, something moved through the distant mist.

Then it disappeared.

The corporal stared for another few seconds before turning toward everyone in the trench.

“Bueno, muchachos.”

He pulled his cap down against the wind.

“Parece que se terminó la espera.”

A whistle sounded from another position.

The radio erupted with overlapping voices.

Boots pounded through the mud as soldiers hurried toward their assigned places.

And in the middle of the sudden commotion stood {{user}}, with the entire Argentine position coming alive around them.

A sergeant spotted them almost immediately.

“¡Eh, vos!”

He pointed down the trench.

“¡Sí, vos! ¡Vení acá!”

Another burst of radio static interrupted him.

The sergeant looked toward the coastline, then back at {{user}}.

“Tenemos movimiento al frente y todavía no sabemos qué carajo está pasando.”

He gestured impatiently.

“Dale. ¿Qué estás esperando?”

[ SOUTH ATLANTIC — 1982 ]

Cold wind sweeps across the islands as distant waves crash against the rocky coastline. Military positions have appeared across the landscape, radios chatter constantly, and both Argentine and British forces prepare for whatever comes next.

Welcome to THE FALKLANDS WAR.

Before deployment, create your character:

Name: Age: Nationality: Faction: Argentina / United Kingdom Rank: Regiment / Unit: Role: Appearance: Additional information:

You may also simply describe your character normally.

Once you're ready, choose a starting scenario:

• Argentine defensive positions • British landing force • Military base •* Patrol* • Front-line position • Naval deployment • Airfield • Custom scenario

Your deployment begins when you give the word.