text: [Themes: edutainment, historical]
  
  It's all gone to shit. Hell in a fucking hand basket.
  
  The gun running was a mass failure. A German cargo ship was heavily disguised as a Norwegian vessel. Given Norway's neutrality, it was thought this would get the weapons through. The ship bore Norwegian colors, the crew wore Norwegian clothes, all the charts and books were even in fucking Norwegian, yet it to shit. The British apprehended the ship, forcing the crew to blow their ship up, sinking it to avoid capture.
  
  Desperately, Casement plans to head to Ireland, to inform the rebel leaders of the change in plans and the necessity to postpone the uprising until a more better time. He plans to sneak their via submarine with German assistance, and has asked you to go with him. As an Irishman, you'll have no trouble blending in when you arrive, plus, having an extra man to assist in convincing the rebel leaders wouldn't go astray.
  
  > stay in Germany
  You stay in Germany, allowing Casement to travel back to Ireland without you, as he instead takes Sergeant Daniel Bailey. Unfortunately, at this point, it all turns to shit.
  
  Casement attempts to travel to Ireland via a German submarine, to meet with the other leaders. His plans were to convince them to call it off, as they didn't have the arms or manpower to succeed. Ironically, he was caught and arrested before he could do so, and imprisoned. In order to avoid setting off alarm bells, the Irish revolutionaries made no attempt to rescue him, focusing on the upcoming rising.
  
  In Easter, 1916, the rising began, but it was doomed to fail from the beginning. Disputes among the Irish volunteers meant that only a fraction of the members showed up for the rising, with the rest staying home. Little over twelve hundred Irish men fought, against a thousand British Royal Constabularies, and sixteen thousand British troops. There was a lot of early success, with the rebels securing key points of the city, but when the British reacted with full force, even sailing a gunboat up the river Liffey to shell the city, they were forced to surrender to avoid more civilian causalities for a lost cause.
  
  The rebels counted sixty six brave Irish men among the dead. The British lost a hundred and forty three. Of course, they combined were less than half the dead. No, the true losers were the civilians, poor Irish men and women like yourself, like your family. Two hundred and sixty men were killed, with thousands more being injured.
  
  Casement was executed for treason, along with sixteen of the main leaders of the uprising. One of the men, James Connolly, was so wounded by the fighting he couldn't even stand for the firing squad. They had to prop him up in a chair before the firing squad could finish him off. Casement wasn't even given the honor of a soldier's death. After his knighthood was taken away, he was hung like a dog, like a common criminal, like only an Irishman ever is.
  
  Over the next six months, the reaction to this changes, surprisingly. While initially, the rebels seem like villains, disturbing the peace and betraying Britain while she faces the evil Huns in the Great War, this quickly changes.
  
  Early on, dozens of cases of atrocities committed by the British come out. Prisoners having been executed in the fighting. The destruction of property out of spite. The use of a pacifist activist as a human shield. Journalists being rounded up and executed by firing quad. Over a dozen civilians being rounded up and shot or bayoneted to death. All of that didn't even take into account Britain's indiscriminate shelling of the area. All of this coming to light quickly turns public favor, as makes the rebels, who took care to avoid civilian casualties, seem like the heroes of this uprising. Just as Padraig Pearse wanted, his men didn't achieve a tactical victory, but have become painted as martyrs for a cause, gaining huge support and lighting the fire of patriotism in the soul of every Irishman there.
  
  Then, the British saw fit to execute the sixteen key figures of the rising: Pádraic Pearse, Thomas Clarke, MacDonagh, Joseph Plunkett, Edward Daly, Michael O'Hanrahan, Willie Pearse, John MacBride, Eamonn Ceantt, Michael Mallin, Sean Heuston, Con Colbert, Thomas Kent, Séan MacDiarmada and James Connolly.
  
  These executions further made the British seem as oppressors rather than peace-keepers. Some of those executed weren't even leaders of the rising. John MacBride hadn't been aware of the rising until it began, while Thomas Kent hadn't participated in it. The manner of execution was worse. John Connolly was so wounded he had to be tied in a chair to stay standing before his firing squad. Joseph Plunkett married his wife Grace Gifford, a Protestant who converted to Catholicism, seven hours before his execution. They weren't allowed to speak to each other or touch each other. He was shot later that day.
  
  Stories like this quickly turned public support in favor of the rebels. Support for Sinn Féin, a nationalist political party, surged, as republicanism gained massive support. It became clear Britain was sitting on a powder keg as it tried to focus on dealing with this. With Sinn Féin rising into power, republicanism on the rise and a desperate longing for independence arising in the Irish zeitgeist, it seems clear that violence is coming.
  
  You, however? Well, you're straight shit out of luck. Without Casement or hopes of an Irish Brigade, the Germans toss you back into prison, where you can rot.
  
  > Two years pass...
  Within two years, the war has fallen apart. Back in a POW camp, you're imprisoned once again, going through the same bullshit. You're moved to another camp, with all the reports of your betrayal of the empire being lost to the pangs of bureaucracy so you hope that you'll manage to escape the hangman's noose when the Brit's take over. Still, Germany's losing the war. The Germans try to hide that fact from you, but given that the rations grow smaller and there's less and less guards everyday, it's clear.
  
  Eventually, German surrenders, and the Central Powers buckle. With morale failing, the German people were left without a will to fight, and with their industrial production being crushed, they lost the means to do so. The Central Powers crumbled under the Summer Offensive of the Allied powers, finishing off the Great War.
  
  With Germany's fall, you and the rest of the POWs are released. Thankfully, it seems due to the records of the falling Germany leaving everything to fall apart, Britain's doesn't find out about you agreeing to Casement's offer. Like the rest of them, you're sent back to the Ireland.
  
  > return home
  You stroll down the path to your house, wearing your spick and span uniform as you stroll along the path. A newly polished medal is pinned to it, for your "brave service" in the war. You walk down the path, your thick-soled boots crunching as you step over pebbles, the polished leather shining in the sun.
  
  For once, the weather in Ireland is actually nice. The sun's out, there's clear skies above. There's a cool breeze, birds flying overhead, and the a general beauty in the world that feels delightful.
  
  God, it feels good to be back in Ireland. What a homecoming.
  
  You arrive at the old wooden door to the place, pulling it open as you stroll inside.
  
  "Hello?" you ask loudly.
  
  Mary appears out of the kitchen, looking at you. She certainly looks older now, her hair longer, her face more matured and like a woman rather than a girl, her body less boyish than you'd have hoped as she's matured into a full, grown woman. No doubt she'll be attracting every man in the city now. You'd do well to keep them away and keep her chaste and virtue. Mary blinks slowly, staring at you in shock.
  
  "Michael?" she asks. "Michael! Ma, Joseph, Michael's home!"
  
  Mary rushes towards you, embracing you, You wrap an arm around her, lifting her into the air as she laughs.
  
  "I'm glad to see you too, Mary," you grin. "How are things?"
  
  Ma appears in the hallway, rushing towards you as fast as the hobbled over woman can. With almost surprising strength she squeezes you tightly, planting a kiss on your lips before another goes on your cheek.
  
  "My two boys, both come home to me after being taken!" Ma shrieks loudly, pulling you in for a tight hug. "Oh Michael, the Lord has blessed me. He's so good to me, Michael, so good to me."
  
  "Two boys? Where was Joseph?" you ask.
  
  Then, Joseph appears from outside, his hands and face covered in dirt. His bearded face grins wide, as he wraps his arms around his entire family, squeezing you to an almost painful degree.
  
  "It's good to see you, Michael. I can't believe you're back? How was it? France, Turkey, Germany?"
  
  "They were all as miserably cold and rainy as Ireland, except without there being any Irish there. So shit," you say.
  
  "Michael! Just because you could swear like that in the army does not mean you can swear like that here!" Ma says.
  
  "For fu...! Gone for four years, and that's the second thing you say to me?" you say.
  
  "Oh Michael, I'm making sure you don't become some brute. You just know I'm glad you're here. I'm so glad to have my two sons under my roof again. I can't tell you how desperately lonely it was for me and Mary living in the same house."
  
  You raise your eyes, looking at Joseph, as the grin slips from his face and he pales.
  
  "Where were you, Joseph?" you ask, before cracking a smile. "You didn't try run off with a Protestant girl, get hitched off in Cork and get the ferry to England, did you?"
  
  "I was imprisoned on Frongoch, in Wales," Joseph says sternly.
  
  "For what?" you say, growing serious, the grin slipping off your face.
  
  "I fought in the Easter Rising with the rebels," Joseph says.
  
  You pause, nodding. Joseph was among the rebels who fought in the Easter Rising. The men who you would've been fighting alongside if not Casement's capture. You pause, thinking that through, remembering what's happened. Although it's probably best to keep the amount of people who know about the betrayal and your treason to a minimum, it might be worth telling Joseph about your attempt to help him.
  
  > tell Joseph about your involvement with Roger Casement
  "Ma, Mary, I need to talk to Joseph alone for a minute," you say.
  
  "I'm not some child, Michael, I can here what you have to say!" Mary says.
  
  "Ma, take her away, please. I just need a moment. This isn't woman talk, this is men talk."
  
  You grab, Joseph, leading him aside. You walk out to the farmyard, moving along the path with your brother in tow.
  
  "You're mad, aren't you?" Joseph asks.
  
  "Not in the slightest," you respond. "Joseph, during the war, I was approached by Sir Roger Casement."
  
  "Casement?" Joseph asks. "Casement was supposed to secure the arms for the rising. He was caught and hung though."
  
  "That's not all he planned do you," you say. "Casement was recruiting Irish POWs, like myself. I was going to join him, to be trained in Germany and to come back to Ireland with him to join the rising."
  
  Joseph's eyes widen as he looks at you, grinning.
  
  "Really?" he asks.
  
  "I did. Unfortunately, Casement was arrested before we could ever be deployed, and after that we were disbanded. But I just wanted you to know I served the cause to the best of my abilities."
  
  "I'm impressed, Michael. Well done. I'm grateful. The cause is grateful."
  
  "Screw the cause for the rest of the day. Let's go get a cup of tea. I'm dying for a taste of the Irish stuff."
  
  > Two Months Later...
  The 1918 Irish general elections are a shocker, but make it clear how polarized the nation is thanks to the radicalizing effect of the Easter Rising and its aftermath. Of the 105 seats the Irish people had in the House of Commons, the last election had left the main Home Rule party, the Irish Parliamentary Party, with 74 seats, with 17 going to the Irish Unionist party which sought to keep Ireland as part of Britain. The nationalist Sinn Féin did not hold a single seat.
  
  After the elections, the Irish Parliamentary Party had six seats left. The Irish Unionist Party was left with 22. Sinn Féin now held a whopping 73 seats. Led by Éamon de Valera, a prominent commander in the Easter Rising who had been spared the firing squad due to his American citizenship and the fact that Britain was hoping to get America to join in on the war, Sinn Féin had become the most prominent party in Ireland. However, their members have taken a drastic policy, refusing to attend British parliament for fear that would legitimize Britain's rule over Ireland. What they plan to do next is anyone's guess.
  
  Now, it's the 21st of January, 1919. Thanks to winter, there's little work to do at the farm other than maintaining the animals, so you're left with a little free time. Given that it's nearly Mary's birthday, you've went into the city to try purchase a gift for her with Joseph.
  
  You walk along the cold streets, your hands in your coat. Joseph walks alongside you. A cigarette hangs in your lips, while you listen to Joseph trying to justify his gift idea.
  
  "It's good for her, but it's good for the whole house! That doesn't mean we're being selfish, we're just being logical."
  
  "Mary doesn't drink, Joseph. She's had a few sips, but she'll never appreciate anything worth giving as a gift."
  
  "Well, what do you suppose?" he asks.
  
  You pass a group of young girls walking together. You tip your hat and smile at them, as they all smile respectfully back. You turn back to Joseph to continue your conversation, but your brother has a big, goofy grin on his face.
  
  "She was looking at you, Michael. She seemed like she was dripping," he laughs.
  
  "Dripping?" you ask.
  
  "Yeah. You know what I mean."
  
  You shake your head, shrugging.
  
  "Christ, you really haven't been with many girls. Or more accurately, any girls. She liked you, Michael. Speaking of, I've heard there's more than a few girls are on the hunt for a man like you, you know. Katie Hales, for instance."
  
  "The one with the face like a horse? I'll pass, Joseph."
  
  "Alright, don't be a bollocks. Jane Garrety. She's a pretty girl, you can't argue with me there."
  
  "Barely a personality there at all. I'd sooner marry horse-face."
  
  "You're an awful man. There must be some woman you like."
  
  You shake your head, as Joseph groans in frustration.
  
  "You know, maybe those rumors are true, for fuck's sake."
  
  You've heard the rumors before, and this. The accuracy in them might be what makes them so enraging.
  
  "Watch your fucking tone with me," you growl." I swear to fuck, I will put your head through a fucking wall."
  
  "Shit, sorry, sorry!" Joseph says, raising his hands defensively. "Didn't mean to start anything."
  
  "Then don't," you say tersely.
  
  You walk on for about a minute as Joseph goes silent and cowers down. Finally, he decides to break the silence again.
  
  "So, shall we get the whiskey?" Joseph asks innocently.
  
  "Christ above," you mutter.
  
  "Well, I don't hear any suggestions from you."
  
  "Something girly. A dress, or something."
  
  "Do you know Mary's size?" Joseph asks, as you stare at him blankly.
  
  "Ah for fuck's sake, I don't know. She's fairly small."
  
  "I doubt "fairly small" is a dress size."
  
  "Christ above, then get her a book, or a fucking c...!"
  
  You slam into another man, knocking his papers to the ground as he nearly tips backwards. You grab his wrist, keeping steady, before dropping low to gather his papers.
  
  "Excuse me, sir," you apologize. "I was distracted by my brother."
  
  "Not a problem, my man," the man replies, running a hand through his dark hair and he takes the papers back from you. "I'm sure it's easy to be distracted when you're accompanied by such a great big fool."
  
  "Rory O'Connor! How are you doing, my fine friend?" Joseph grins.
  
  "You know each other?" you ask.
  
  "Joseph and I fought together in the Easter Rising, and we were imprisoned together at Frongoch. We shared a cell."
  
  "Fought together? Bollocks, Rory, you didn't do any fighting. You went down and were captured almost immediately."
  
  "I was hit by a sniper on a reconnaissance mission," Rory O'Connor says, lifting his shirt slightly to show a scar where the bullet must've entered.
  
  "No one wants to see that old scar again," Joseph says. "Don't you have somewhere to be? You were in an awful hurry."
  
  "I do indeed, I've a lot to do, actually," Rory O'Connor says. "Speaking of, you could help me in that. I'm on a recruitment drive."
  
  "For what?" you ask.
  
  "The Irish Republican Army. We're reorganizing the Irish Volunteers, turning them into a proper fighting force. I'm taking on the role of Director of Engineering."
  
  "There's no republic for there to be an army to fight for," you point out.
  
  "That changes today. The Sinn Féin politicians are getting together to found the first Irish parliament, Dáil Éireann, the assembly of Ireland. We will declare an Irish republic, and with that, the IRA will have a nation to fight for. So, Joseph, will you join the IRA and fight for this newfound nation?"
  
  "I'm in," Joseph says, extending his hand as the two shake hands. "I'll happily shed my blood for this country once more."
  
  "Delightful," he says, grinning, before turning to you. "You're welcome to join as well, you know,"
  
  "I never was an Irish Volunteer. In fact, I served the crown in the Great War, in the Royal Army."
  
  "Then you have experience fighting," Rory O'Connor says. "We could use that, without a doubt we could use that. Would you consider it?"
  
  > join the IRA
  "I'll happily join," you say, nodding.
  
  "Perfect," Rory says, extending his hand.
  
  You grab his hand as he gives you a firm handshake, smiling at him.
  
  "Go raibh míle maith agat, mo chara," he says, nodding firmly.
  
  "I'm glad to hear, Michael," Joseph says. "That's terrific. Can you imagine just the two of us, fighting alongside each other at last for the greater good?"
  
  "I suppose," you say. "It'll go badly."
  
  "We're meeting tomorrow at the McGregor's farm at noon. Do you know it?"
  
  "I know it well," Joseph nods. "Thank you for this opportunity, O'Connor."
  
  "It's my pleasure, Joseph. I need to hurry, but I'll see you soon."
  
  "Perfect. Goodbye, Rory. I'll see you later," Joseph says, as Rory moves off. "Now, let's go buy a candle or some bullshit, OK, Michael?"
  
  "Yeah, let's do it."
  
  And like that, you're a soldier in the Irish Republican Army, serving the newly declared nation of Ireland.
  
  > Later that day...
  Later that day, where Dáil Éireann declares an Irish republic, similar to the Proclamation of Irish independence during the 1916 Easter Rising. Of course, that's not the main event of the day. In an event inspired by the declaration, a group of nine Irish volunteers, in an unauthorized action, organized an ambush at Soloheadbeg.
  
  In hopes of provoking off a brutal conflict, the group ambush a convoy of two council officers and two RIC officers with the hopes of taking the guns and gelignite, an explosive. After calling on them to surrender, the RIC officers opened fire. They were gunned down, and the two council officers captured so the explosives and weapons could be taken. The group fled, releasing the hostages and escaping off into the farmlands.
  
  However, it's clear that this isn't the end of the story. The actions of the volunteers provokes a brutal response. This action is such a serious event that it's clear the situation in Ireland has changed. It is the start of the Irish War of Independence, as the Irish Republican Army (IRA) is forced to defend the existence of the newfound Irish republic, and the Royal Irish constabulary and British army desperately attempt to defend their right.
  
  The Irish War of Independence has began.
  
  > The Next Day...
  You sit around the kitchen of a farmhouse, waiting patiently for the other Volunteers to arrive for training. You sit next to Fionn, a young man who is an adamant supporter of the cause who even at his young age is willing to spill blood, your brother Joseph, and an older man by the name of John who is remarkably quiet.
  
  "Sean Treacy always was a remarkably aggressive man. I'm not surprised at this," Fionn says.
  
  "You don't support his actions?" you ask.
  
  "Of course I do. They're for the best. It was only a matter of times before Britain attacks. So, probably the best we made the first move."
  
  "Now, we can't submit to the British anymore," Joseph says. "Today, we're forced to live or die, fight or break. It's freedom or death, now."
  
  "Sean Treacy and his group did their crimes without the approval of the Dáil. That wasn't an act of soldiers, it was an act of terrorism. They didn't fight for any nation, they fought to force us to act," Sean says, breaking his silence.
  
  "Perhaps," Fionn says. "But perhaps it was necessary."
  
  The door to the house opens, as a man strolls in, a pipe clenched between his teeth. He looks to Fionn, smiling.
  
  "McGregor, I presume?"
  
  "That's right. I can't say we've met before. You are?" Fionn asks.
  
  "Ernie O'Malley," the man smiles. "I'm in charge of organizing the IRA rural branches. I was told your branch was meeting here."
  
  "You're the college student who took pot shots at the British from UCD, didn't you?" Joseph asks, as Ernie O'Malley grins, embarrassed.
  
  "Aye, that was me. I admittedly wasn't a big nationalist back then, but that tendency has grown, clearly," he nods. "Anyway, I hitched a ride here with a cart and carriage carrying a few men. How many are you expecting?"
  
  "Nineteen men, myself included," Fionn says.
  
  "Perfect. More than enough men to do what needs to be done. Now, it's best to keep drilling to night, and as quietly as can be, but this'll do for now. I'm in a bit of a hurry. Shall we begin?"
  
  "Yes, we shall," Fionn says, as you all head outside.
  
  "Sorry, I didn't catch your names," Ernie says, turning to you.
  
  "Sean Craig."
  
  "Craig? Hardly a Catholic surname. Are you a Protestant?"
  
  "That a problem?" Sean asks.
  
  "Of course not. Wolfe Tone was a proper Irish patriot, and he was Protestant. There's rumors that the IRA are a Catholic supremacy organization, but that's a load of drivel. We want equal rights for Catholics and Protestants. We want nothing more ,and we'll take nothing else."
  
  Ernie O'Malley turns to you two again, nodding.
  
  "And you two?"
  
  "Joseph McCarthy. This is my brother, Michael."
  
  "A pleasure to meet you two. You're the soldier, aren't you, Michael?"
  
  "I am. Or, I was," you say. "I fought in the Great War."
  
  "Ah. My brother signed up when war broke out, too. Congratulations, I respect your service. That skill will be useful."
  
  You're led outside, where about a dozen other men have assembled. A few hold rifles, taken from Fionn's shed. Ernie strolls over, grabbing a rifle from a recruit. He shoulders it, checking to make sure it's loaded, before staring down the iron sights.
  
  "This'll work," he nods, before looking around. "Any targets?"
  
  "I've a scarecrow that I've used before," Fionn says, as you spot the old scarecrow down the field, among the cold, winter-stricken fields.
  
  "The scarecrow, then. A shame we don't have a British uniform to stuff it in. Anyone care to be the example?"
  
  You're shoved forward by Joseph, as Ernie grins, handing you the rifle.
  
  "Ah, we have the professional soldier to give us an example. Thank you, my delightful Tommy. Do your best."
  
  You grab the rifle, aiming down it the iron sights as you stare at the scarecrow. It's very, very far away, and you highly doubt you have a chance to actually hit it.
  
  "You're trying to ambush this British soldier, before he gets to your house, shits in your bed, pisses in your tea and eats your dinner. Take your time, he hasn't seen you yet. Go."
  
  > take a few potshots
  You raise your rifle, quickly aiming down the iron sights and pulling the trigger. The bullet thuds into the ground near the scarecrow, before the next show flies past the scarecrow. You take another shot, but it also misses, before you lower the rifle, sighing.
  
  "Oh come on, that was miserable," Ernie says. "Shoulder the rifle, cock your head to stare down the sights, and get into a position where you're comfortable. Don't anticipate the recoil, that'll do nothing to effect your shot. Try again, in a shooting position."
  
  > drop to a knee and take a shooting position
  You drop down to you knee, crouching with the other leg as you raise your rifle to your shoulder, cocking your head to stare down the iron sights as you train your gun barrel onto the scarecrow. You take a deep breath, focusing slowly. The trembling of your hands goes away, as your finger slips to the trigger.
  
  You fire once, as the shot flies through the air, straight over the scarecrow's head. The second shot hits the soil just to the left of the scarecrow, shooting up dust. You fire once more, as the bullet nearly glances the side of the scarecrow, but instead flies past and hits the earth.
  
  "Good shots," Ernie O'Malley says. "Far better than your first disastrous few."
  
  "I missed every shot," you say.
  
  "Bah, at this distance, I'd be shocked if you could land a hit, But it's a good shooting position either way. Notice it men, try to emulate it. He's even keeping low down, so that if they're firing back, they're going to have a great deal of issues trying to hit him. Now, let's try focus on a potential ambush position. Let's continue your streak, Michael. You're trying to ambush a convoy going down a long road with plenty of cover. You have, let's say... ten riflemen. How do you space them out?"
  
  > spread out your riflemen at equal intervals alongside the road
  "You spread the riflemen at equal distances along the road, creating a long hallway of death," you suggest. "Then, you can pick off the troops as they try to make through it, until there's none left."
  
  "An interesting answer, but not an acceptable one. If the convoy had even two or three men, they'll always outnumber whatever gunman's attacking. Once they run into the first, they can eliminate him or fall back. No, the ideal system we have, like the one used at the Soloheadbeg Ambush, is to have a primary body at the ambush point. They attack in superior numbers, wiping out the enemy, but if the enemy, try to blow on straight through and drive on, have two more men further up ahead to eliminate the drivers if they try to escape. That's the system we go with."
  
  The soldiers all nod thoughtfully, as you nod as well.
  
  "That's the tactic we're going to use to deal with the RIC convoy we're going to be raiding. That's our plan. The gracious Michael Collins have given us information on a weapons convoy we're going to hit."
  
  Quite a few of the men around you nod eagerly. Apparently, Michael Collins has made quite a reputation for himself in Frongoch, and now as the Minister of Finance of Dáil Eireann, a commander of the IRA, and director of information, he's a very powerful man. He controls vast networks of informants, and a near mystical group of assassins known as the Squad, or the Twelve Disciples, that hunt down spies and informants as well as performing assassinations.
  
  "We're going to hit them to fully arm this group. Until then, we're using weapons borrowed from Liam Lynch and the No. 2 Cork Brigade. We're going to hit in the formation discussed, and wipe out the convoy. I'll be taking the ten best shots here, so let's get to work and show me what you can do."
  
  The rest of the day is spent drilling and going over tactics, as well as O'Malley and the locals establishing the various levels fo support held for them among all the various locals. Various safe houses and villages with high nationalist tendencies, as well as areas with a high unionist presence that are likely to be filled with informants. The locations of various RIC barracks and where the presence of the British army is strongest, as well as the area that this branch was expected to deal with, a large section of outer and rural Dublin. It's going to be hard work, and you're under-supplied, under-armed and under-supported, but most importantly, you're underestimated. The Crown think the problem in Ireland is a bunch of peasants mucking about in their pigsties, trying to rise up without knowing what they're doing.
  
  They'll learn never to underestimate an Irishman.
  
  > The day of the ambush
  You sit on a rocky hillside, a rifle in your hands. Fionn sits next to you, another rifle in his hands. The two of you wait patiently, sitting there.
  
  "How are you feeling?" you ask.
  
  "Confident. We have this handled, and we're fighting for the cause," Fionn says.
  
  "Really? That's impressive. I'm fucking shitting myself," you chuckle.
  
  "Oh, we're being completely honest?" Fionn asks. "Then I threw up this morning, and I'm sitting on my hands to stop them from shaking. I'm fucking terrified."
  
  "We'll deal with it, I suppose. Or maybe we won't and we'll get butchered," you say. "Who knows? We'll see what happens, I suppose."
  
  "They're approaching!" a voice hisses, as you stare across the road to where Joseph and Sean wait.
  
  "Get down! This happens now," you say, crouching down and raising your rifle.
  
  You stare down, as a horse-drawn carriage begins approaching down the road. Four RIC are aboard it, slowly approaching as the horses pull the carriage down the road. You pull up your balaclava, partially obscuring your face, as you take slow, deep breaths. Finally, just as they hit the target point, Ernie holds up his fist as you all rise, taking aim at the carriage.
  
  "Hold!" Joseph yells. "You are ordered to surrender by the Irish Republican Army!"
  
  The carriage stops in it's tracks, as the RIC quickly begin looking around, reaching for their guns.
  
  "Don't! I have the best crackshots in the country all aiming at your hearts, and trust me, they have itchy trigger fingers they're just scratch with their triggers. Something loud might just set them off and pump you all full of lead."
  
  You watch as the lead RIC slowly reaches down for his gun, where the pistol sits in the holster.
  
  > take him out
  You fire your rifle, as the man topples back from the force of the bullet that explodes through his chest, crumpling onto the floor. In a blind panic, the other guns go off, as a hail of bullets rain down on the group. They manage to raise their rifles, exchange a short amount of gunfire, as they dive for cover, but it's a brief moment and they don't last. In the quick flash of gunfire, they're all dead.
  
  "What a fucking massacre," Joseph says. "Let's check the guns, then."
  
  "Wait!" Fionn shouts. "I think there's one still left."
  
  Or perhaps not.
  
  You stare down at the corpses, and thick you see one moving slightly, twitching ever so slightly. Of course, it could easily be your imagination. Still, you raise your rifle again, aiming at it.
  
  "Any of ye still alive?" Fionn asks loudly.
  
  "I hear him whimpering," Joseph yells. "He's probably playing dead."
  
  "Shoot the corpses, make sure they're dead," Sean suggests.
  
  "Please, I'm still alive," one of them suddenly screams. "I surrender! I surrender!"
  
  "For fuck's sake, hold your fire!" you shout. "He's wounded."
  
  "Stay back, he could be trying to trick us," Sean snarls.
  
  "Fuck's sake," you say, standing up from the ridge you're hiding behind.
  
  You quickly step down the rocky terrain, strolling towards the carriage. The injured police officer raises his empty hands pathetically. You reach down, grabbing his sidearm from his holster and pulling it out, as you toss it out of his reach.
  
  "You can come down now," you say.
  
  The various men hidden in the ambush site arise, slowly creeping down to the road. You all surround the wounded
  
  "He's the enemy. We can't afford to take prisoners. We execute him," Sean says.
  
  "We can't," Fionn says. "He surrendered. The republic doesn't execute prisoners. We're a civilized country."
  
  "We don't get to be a country if men like this exist. Men who subdue their own kind so they can hold onto their own power."
  
  "Jesus Christ above, I don't own land! No one working escort missions is rich and powerful, for God's sake! I'm not even Protestant, I'm a Catholic!"
  
  "Bullshit! What diocese?" Sean says.
  
  "Cork! Queenstown, I'm from Queenstown!" he says.
  
  "Samuel's from Cobh, aren't you, Samuel?" Sean asks.
  
  Samuel nods slowly, looking down at the man.
  
  "Yeah, I am."
  
  "This doesn't matter," Joseph says. "This war isn't between Catholics and Protestants! It's between Republicans and Unionists!"
  
  "We need to know if this man's honest," Sean says. "What was the name of the priest there?"
  
  The man goes pale, the blood draining from his face.
  
  "I... I don't remember."
  
  "Then he's a liar, and we shoot him," Sean shrugs.
  
  "No! For fuck's sake, I just don't remember! We just called him 'Father'! He, he had a big nose, really flat! He constantly had blood noses, so we called him Tomato Nose! I swear to God, I'm not lying."
  
  You almost laugh at the absurdity of a man pleading for his life telling you about how he called his priest Tomato Nose. You all look to Samuel, as he nods.
  
  "Father Jacob had a very big nose. It did look sort of like a tomato."
  
  There's a moment of silent, as the RIC lets out a sigh of relief.
  
  "Thank god, you know I'm not lying," he says.
  
  "So what, he's Catholic?" Sean says. "That doesn't matter. He's a traitor to the country! If we let him go, he might gun down our soldiers some other day."
  
  "Shoot him, then," Ernie says.
  
  "What?" Sean says, startled.
  
  "Shoot him. Go ahead," Ernie says.
  
  Sean raises his pistol, pointing it the man's head.
  
  "Please, please don't!" the man begs.
  
  He holds his position, pausing. His brow furrows, as his finger starts to tap on the trigger. The RIC closes his eyes, beginning to pray silently.
  
  "God our father, please grant me mercy for all the sins I have committed against you..." he begins to pray.
  
  "Shut the fuck up," Sean snarls.
  
  "...and please grant my soul the gift of eternal life alongside you, serving you..."
  
  "I said shut the fuck up!" Sean shouts.
  
  Sean aims the gun at his head for a moment for, before swearing.
  
  "Goddammit," Sean says, lowering his revolver. "I can't do it."
  
  "I thought so," Ernie says. "It's easy to sentence a begging man to death, but it's hard to pull the trigger. If any man thinks that we should kill this man, step forward and have the guts to do it yourself. If not, then it's our duty to spare him."
  
  You look around, but none of the others seem eager. You suppose you're faced with the same choice as everyone else.
  
  > execute him
  You step forward, raising your rifle as you point at the man's head. You take a deep breath, focusing the gun barrel and staring down the iron sights.
  
  "Are you willing to do it?" Ernie O'Malley says, intrigued.
  
  You pull the trigger, and the man's head explodes in a burst of pink, grey skull matter and chunks of skull bursting out in front of you.
  
  "Jesus," Ernie says, stepping back. "You called my bluff. Fuck's sake, you're a cold son of a bitch."
  
  You nod, feeling a strange rush of emotions as you look at the dead man by your feet. Joseph looks at you, a worried look on his face.
  
  "Jesus, Joseph," he says nervously. "How... how the fuck could you do that?"
  
  "I did what needed to be done," you say. "We can't have mercy in this war."
  
  "Damn right," Sean says. "You're a better man than I."
  
  "Yeah, I suppose," Fionn says.
  
  "You've changed so quickly, Michael," Joseph says. "I don't think I'll forget this."
  
  "Forget it, we need to act. Let's check on the guns," Ernie says.
  
  Ernie steps away from the scene of the execution, strolling over to the carriage. You follow him to the back, where he climbs inside, pulling open the door to let you all see inside. Boxes of ammo and rifles sit inside, as Ernie busts the first one open to reveal a bolt-action rifle.
  
  "Let's bring those horses out from where we left them and load up the rifles so we can get out of here," Ernie says. "Now, let's get out of here, men. We follow the plan."
  
  > A few months later...
  Over the next few months, you take part in a few more raids with your group. As the IRA attempts to spread and organize, it's focus is mainly the founding of the new cells and units, as well as the information war. The British refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Dáil, or even that it's fighting a war. They claim that it's simply an enforcement of martial law by the British army as well as a heavy reinforcing and militarization of the police in Ireland. You recruit young more patriots to the cause, raiding enough weapons and ammo to keep the unit supplied as the war rages on. Still, it's not a particularly brutal war, and there's hope peace may still come about.
  
  You stand in the fields, working away as you plant endless seeds. There's sweat in your brow and a desperate hunger in your stomach, but you're nearly finished. As you let out an exhausted yawn, Joseph appears from the house, strolling towards you, followed by a worried looking Mary. Joseph holds a crumpled up letter in his hands.
  
  "Joseph, stop!" Mary says.
  
  "I'm not going to do anything!" Joseph says. "I'm just talking to my brother about family business!"
  
  "It's none of either of your business, Joseph?"
  
  "What's wrong?" you ask, tossing down your sack of seeds and strolling towards him.
  
  "Mary's gone and got herself a suitor."
  
  You crack a smile, looking at Mary.
  
  "Anyone we know, Mary?"
  
  "He goes by the name Arthur," Joseph says. "I've a little love letter from him here."
  
  "Arthur? That's hardly a name for an Irishman," you say.
  
  "That's because it's not, is it? He's an Englishman, or at least his parents are. Proper unionist, runs the local Irish Unionist party." Joseph says.
  
  "If you touch a hair on his head, I'll take your rifle and shoot you both!" Mary shouts.
  
  Admittedly, in the past, you have been a bit rough with Mary's boyfriends. Not because you're bad people, but she does have a habit of falling in love with various scumbags and villains. But a Unionist is a step worse than even you'd have thought.
  
  "We'll go have a talk with him," you say.
  
  "A talk like you had with Seamus, who he ended up with a broken collarbone?" Mary says, accusatively.
  
  "A talk like we had with Seamus, who we found out was screwing Sarah from the butcher's behind your back," Joseph says.
  
  "Don't worry, we won't do anything awful," you say. "Let's go, we'll head into town."
  
  "Michael! I...!" Mary says, before you hush her.
  
  "I promise, nothing much," you lie. "Why would Joseph or I have any issue with a unionist? Come on, Joseph, let's go."
  
  > head into the city
  You walk down the bustling city streets next to Joseph, your hands in your pockets as you head towards the Irish Unionist party headquarters. It's late enough that it should be closing, and you'll be able to grab Arthur as he's walking home. After a short stroll, you arrive at an elegant stone building, and lean against the wall, lighting a cigarette.
  
  Time passes, as various women leave the building, secretaries and that, presumably. Eventually, after about half an hour past closing time, as you're beginning to head home, a large, tall, muscled man with cropped blond hair walks out.
  
  "Fuck me, he's a big bastard. No wonder Mary likes him," Joseph says.
  
  "Are we sure it's him?" you ask.
  
  "Must be. No one but women have left."
  
  You step forward, blocking the man's path with a smile.
  
  "Arthur, I presume?" you say.
  
  "Yes, I'm Arthur," the man replies, nodding. "How can I help you?"
  
  "We were wondering if we could get some information on the Irish Unionist party. We were considering changing our vote for future elections."
  
  "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm Arthur Jones. You're looking for Arthur Craig."
  
  "Ah. Could you by any chance point him out to us?"
  
  Jones nods to a pale, skinny man walking out after him. You turn to look at the man, raising an eyebrow. He's about as frail and thin and Ma is, with a pair of thick black glasses.
  
  "Thanks," you say, as Jones walks off down the street.
  
  You step out in front Arthur Craig, as he looks at you with a worried expression.
  
  "Arthur Craig?" you ask.
  
  "Yes, that's me. How may I help you?"
  
  "The same Arthur Craig that's courting Mary McCarthy?" Joseph asks.
  
  "Yes, that's right. What's this about? Is she alright?" the meek figure asks.
  
  You look down the street to make sure the more intimidating Arthur is gone, before shoving Arthur up against the wall, glaring at him.
  
  "My name's Michael McCarthy, and that's Mary's my sister," you smile, keeping Arthur pressed against the wall as he offers little resistance.
  
  "I've heard what your kind do," Joseph says. "Having poor Catholic girls fall in love with you, fucking them until your balls are drained and then dumping them more a more prim and proper Prod like yourself. Did you think we'd just let you do that to sweet Mary?"
  
  "I don't want to do that!" Arthur frantically mutters. "For god's sake, don't hurt me, I've done nothing wrong."
  
  "I'm not going to hurt you," you say. "If you stay away from Mary, we'll never see each other again. But we're not letting you lead her around and making a whore of her. You go near her again, and we'll break your legs. Got it?"
  
  Arthur looks at you in terror, before shaking his head.
  
  "No, you bloody fool, nod if you agree and will stay away from her," Joseph says.
  
  "I will not," Joseph says, quiet but determined. "I'm not letting a pair of thugs like you keep me from the woman I hold dear! I won't do as you say!"
  
  "Fuck sake, I'll show him we're not kidding," Joseph says, grabbing Arthur from you and immediately planting a fist in his stomach as Arthur doubles over with a yelp of pain.
  
  > stop Joseph
  You grab Joseph, pulling him back as Arthur keels over, vomiting onto the pavement.
  
  "Leave it, Joseph," you say. "Let's talk to the stupid fool."
  
  You crouch down, next to Arthur, who raises his hands defensively in fear of the next hit.
  
  "For Christ's sake, what does Mary see in you?" you ask. "You really care for her, do you?"
  
  "With all my heart," Arthur says. "I'll happily take a beating for her."
  
  "Well, you won't need to. I suppose we'll leave you off," you say. "But listen to me closely. Me and Joseph have connections with a lot of powerful members of the IRA. We can't give you the details, but I promise you this, if you treat her badly, we'll kill you. If you break her heart, we break your head open. And so help me God above, if you raise a hand against her, you're going to beg for us to kill you after what we do. Got it?"
  
  Arthur nods, as Joseph stares at you in annoyance.
  
  "We can't let our sister date a unionist!" Joseph says indignantly.
  
  "She's a grown woman, she can be with who she pleases, I suppose," you say. "Plus, she's half one herself."
  
  "Fuck's sake," Joseph says, rolling his eyes. "Fine."
  
  "I suppose I best be on my way then," Arthur says, stepping back.
  
  "No you don't," you say. "You're heading to the pub with us. We owe you a pint after all this, and it's best to find out for sure you're not some piece of shit before we let you continue seeing our sister."
  
  > Months Later...
  Over the next few months, the British government puts forward the Government of Ireland Act 1920, where three of the four Irish provinces, Munster, Leinster and Connaught, all combine into an entity gaining it's own "Southern Parliament" while the Northmost Ulster remains under the British parliament, and Southern Ireland gains home rule. However, it's too little too late, as the Irish people already wants full independence now, and home rule clearly isn't enough.
  
  In order to help deal with the Irish dilemma, the Englishmen begin recruiting vast quantities of English veterans from the Great War. Due to their expertise in fighting they're perfect for waging war on the IRA, but due to the fact that they're not soldiers and are hired as police men, the British can continue to pretend like they're not at war with Ireland and that they're simply putting down a wave of crime and terrorism. As they wear a mixture of tan military uniforms and black police uniforms, these men are known as the Black and Tans.
  
  The Black and Tans are brutal in their oppression of the Irish people. A lack of discipline allows them to perform endless atrocities. In retaliation for losing men to IRA attacks, they burn down towns, beat up civilians, rob businesses, shooting innocent people and executing prisoners. Of course, this oppression fails to break the spirit of the Irish people. Instead, it forces the Irish people to pick sides, and they almost all side with the less brutal IRA. A wave of nationalism surges through the country, and it becomes clear peace is impossible. No, the path forward is one of war and bloodshed.
  
  You walk down the busy streets of Dublin, a cigarette hanging in the corner of your mouth. You hold a bag of bottled apple juice for Ma, her favorite, as well as quite a few other bits and bobs for the house. You hurry down the road, quickly trying to reach home before sunrise.
  
  "Shut your fucking mouth!" a voice screams. "You fucking Irish cunt, I will blow your husbands head off and make you tongue the neck-hole!"
  
  "Jesus," you mutter, turning to see what the dilemma is.
  
  A young man lies on the street corner, covered in blood. It's clear he's been heavily beaten by the bruising covering his face. A woman is being held against the wall by a Black and Tans' fist, as three others stand over the man.
  
  "Stay the fuck back!" one of the Black and Tans says, raising his rifle to aim it at your chest.
  
  You quickly raise your hands in a gesture of surrender, stepping back.
  
  "Relax, I'm not trying to start anything," you say. "I served in the Great War the same as you, I'm a veteran."
  
  "I didn't ask for your fucking story, paddy. What do you want?"
  
  "I just wanted to know what was going on."
  
  "This man is a traitor to the Empire!" the Black and Tan explains. "He proclaimed we were "invaders", the fucking pig farmer. I'm so sick of this fucking civil war, I'm not showing mercy to any fucking supporters of the enemy."
  
  "You called it a civil war," you remark. "Haven't the British argued that they're only putting down terrorists?"
  
  "Watch it, paddy," the Black and Tan says, glaring at you. "Don't get smart with me."
  
  "That's not a crime, is it?" you ask.
  
  The Black and Tan spits on the ground in front of you, snarling.
  
  "It is if I go and fucking say it is, you understand? Best stroll on before it gets dark. We'll deal with this."
  
  Fuckers. If you had your IRA unit, you'd make short work of these pricks. Of course, now you don't, so maybe fighting isn't the best option.
  
  > stand up to them
  "You can't treat people like this! He's done nothing wrong!" you say.
  
  The fist swings in from the side, connecting with your jaw as you're knocked to the floor, smacking against the hard stone of the sidewalk. You look up at him defiantly as the boot kick lands on your face, knocking your head against the street. You look up, knowing violence will just get you beaten to death.
  
  "Fucking pest," the Black and Tan spits, leaning over and grabbing your groceries.
  
  The Black and Tan pulls out your bottle of apple juice, hurling it at the street corner as it shatters, juices pouring out across the ground. The Black and Tan pours out your other goods, quickly hurrying to crush them under his heel as he grins. You stare up at him, imaging aiming down the sights of your rifle as you ambush him like you've ambushed so many of his allies. You'd just line up the shot, and the fucker's brains would blow out the back of his skull.
  
  "What? Are you going to swing at me? Come on, I'm waiting, you little fucker," he says. "Let's go."
  
  He holds out his chin, staring down at you with a disgusted look in his eyes.
  
  "Come on, you pig-fucking farmer, go ahead and try something!"
  
  > Swing at him
  You swing your fist, knocking him backwards as they collapse to the ground, his head smacking against the ground. The Black and Tan looks up at you, embarrassed and shocked. Anger flashes across his face as he snarls.
  
  "Fucking paddy cunt!" he yells.
  
  Suddenly, the Black and Tans are upon you, as dozens of boots quickly lash out, striking you in the face and stomach as you're knocked to the ground. A boot heel smashes into your windpipe, crushing your throat with a well placed kick. You gasp, desperately grasping at your throat as you choke on your own blood. The Black and Tan you punched stands up, repeatedly planting his boot on your face as he breaks your nose, bruising your face heavily as your forehead is cut open. He continues to stomp your face repeatedly as you drown on your own blood.
  
  After a few minutes of brutal beating, one of them raises their rifle, pointing it at your head. A second later, your skull explodes, your brains spilling out into the streets.