Black Hawk Never Down.
By F0zz

We huddle nervously together; all shouldered kit and brimming pouches. Borne steadily skyward, above flak range and sniper sight, the whucka-whucka of our Blackhawk negates coherent thought. The din is syncopated by an occasional, desultory brrrrooooo from side-mounted miniguns, an extravagance of shell-casings, glinting like war confetti on the way down.

A burst of static, followed by radio squawk : "We've got company overhead, over." The dread delta of a fighter wing sweeps just outside of view, its deafening passage cleaving the air. Immediately, it shows in red on the mini-map. The miniguns whine in unison, spitting white-hot flechettes towards the shrinking target. Flares and chaff exude from the chopper's undercarriage, but it's strident warning klaxon continues, shrill and unabated.

The jet has us in its sights, and circles again in a tight blur around the sun's corona. Its’ heat-seekers have been foxed by our flares, but its main cannon screams death. Worse, there's a stoppage on the minigun. It has overheated, the gunner too intent on his quarry to notice the rising gauge. A long hiss of contracting metal as it cools, achingly, fatally slow. We are vulnerable. We are going to die.

I can see your mosque from here!

The fighter has passed us, barrel-rolling into the sky, coming so close to the side of the whirlybird that I can see the puckered 7.62mm holes which stitch the length of it's fuselage like impromptu surgery. Speculative tracer fire races up to meet us. Dots of industry swirl and sweep below in mounted stinger units and humvee tows: probing, seeking. We plummet hard and fast, and in the heat of the moment it's unclear whether we have serious rotor damage, or the pilot is taking evasive action. Two of our number forego the gamble and jettison, disappearing fast, their chutes finally opening far below, scorched earth consuming them.

Meanwhile our pilot has somehow slewed the crippled Blackhawk to an aerial standstill, and we are hovering just inside the huge maw of a cooling tower like a bloodied, pursued animal. The jet's signature whine sounds like a scream of denial as it blurts skyward, thwarted. It's a real war moment, devalued only very slightly by our squad leader's teamspeak announcement "I'll have to go, me burger's ready..."

And, in a way, this is the Maccy D's of gaming. No need for basic training, weapons knowledge, fitness or any of those signatories to the small print of war. You dive straight in, greasy brown bags bulging, and gorge to your heart's content. And because this is a true allegory on life, you die a bloated, unfulfilled death, again, again and again, without a hint of irony. In the first faltering steps of the n00b, you are the ultimate attention-deficit-syndrome warrior.

"OOh, shiny bird" *blam*. "Whoa, nice contrails" *whap* "Look at the way the webbing flaps about on that infantry guy as he runs" *thwip* as his blade vents your carotid. In other words, you go in like Rambo, and come out like Ross from Friends, with your balls in a Caramel Mcflurry cup, whining : “This is so not funny...”

Eventually, they just sew handles into your fatigues…

A minor grumble, and to be fair it’s up to you not be so soft. There are incentives to improve, with a plethora of medals, ribbons and better weapons to unlock. This is undoubtedly the key to perseverance, to aspire to a loftier rank. There’s a real sense of achievement when you are rewarded with a little fanfare and a nice big gong, for your exertions.

Classes are nicely weighted, as are the weapons. The sheer scale of, and tactical possibility within the maps is breathtaking. Medic, Sniper, Assault, SpecOps, Engineer or Resupply officer. Everyone has their place, and when it works, it’s because someone can’t be arsed running around and decides on sniper, someone else has a latent Florence Nightingale fetish and runs around brandishing medkits and defribillators, the latter serving to revive fallen comrades as well as provide fatal voltage to enemies, (undoubtedly the most fun of the classes) and so on. The mix is eclectic, and appealing. The gist of the game mechanic remains unchanged from the original Battlefield, and rightly so. Capture key flags, turn them to your team’s colours, which in turn runs your enemies ticket count down while they try to do the same to you.

Have you seen that film, “Flatliners…?”

However, once you get past the stunning graphics, slick interface and clever chain-of-command system (the lynchpin to successful online campaigns,) you come up against the inevitable factor; human nature. Or, perhaps more accurately, human greed.

This grumble is not so minor. Sadly the game's biggest asset is also its potential downfall. Stats and ranks are the central spur, and indeed what good players aspire to. EA have taken great pains to try and promote this, with their own ranked servers (an undoubted money-spinner for them) and online real-time stats menus. They are keen to eradicate cheating and exploitation from the start. An example of this would be running a 64 man server on a 16 player sized map, (imagine the carnage of Dunkirk or Normandy, re-enacted in a portaloo between rival football hooligans.) They are, in fairness trying to prevent this heinous practise with bans and the de-listing of offending servers. But it seems to be a losing battle.

"Stats Padders," as they are known, can increase their ranking points and status by legitimate, but shady means. For example, a Blackhawk helicopter with two gunners, one of whom is a resupply man, the other a spanner bod, a medic passenger and a squad leader pilot can boss the whole shooting match. Never running out of ammo, having damage repaired automatically, and enjoying limitless health. This, courtesy of a bit of BF2 leniency, meaning those classes don't have to get out of a vehicle to ply their trade (as in past incarnations.) They just sit in comfort, behind armour, capturing flags, killing opponents, then moving on, their deus ex machina laying waste to everything in its path. A patch is due out in October, which, if there’s any justice, will fix this by the simple expedient of forcing the lazy bastards to get out and brave gunfire, like real men.

The new Elizabeth Duke “Basra Bling” range was proving popular.

It is partly this though which can make the physical act of playing BF2 somewhat of a chore; a shame because it truly is a beautiful game. Suffice it to say, it isn’t the sort of thing you fire up after a stressful day at work. If you aren’t physically and mentally on top of your game, it can feel like conscription. And because we live in a democracy, and because games are meant to be fun, we can choose simply not to go, without having to cite sexual proclivity, religion or incontinence as a reason.

Mods will learn from this and improve upon it. The first of these is an official SAS add-on, due out in November, which promises tighter, more focused maps with less machinery, and more emphasis on infantry based skills. Many more will follow and indeed are already in progress from the same type of homebrew setups which spawned the successful Desert Combat series from the original BF1942.

So, in truth, and to be appreciated fully, it is a best bib-and-tucker sit-down meal, self-cooked, less enjoyed as a consequence, but mitigated by the sense of occasion, good company, and the gusto of noisy appetites. It is, at least, the sort of repast that leaves everyone sweaty, groaning, and tight-faced with suppressed flatulence. It really depends how hungry you were in the first place.

You want fries with that, muthaf*^&a !?!

Buzzing from our successful ex-filtration, we jump into a waiting jeep, braying peremptory “yee-haws” for no good reason.

“This here one'll do fahn, Bo Duke!” I mimic.

We wheelspin away, and, just as my teammate begins a drawling rendition of "Just some good ole boys....." over the mic, an enemy pops up directly in our path. We both glimpse briefly the whites of his eyes, before he is ballooned fully twenty feet into a tree, a scene of pure ragdoll Vaudeville. We are cackling helplessly, tears streaming down our faces as we attempt to keep the jeep on the makeshift road. It's a real gaming moment, a giddy cameo borne of adversity and a heightened sense of comradeship, to be savoured like a quick and dirty sugar high.

October 2005

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