![]() I hear faint claps of gunfire in the distance and make my way towards them. In Hell Let Loose I imagine myself a lone rookie, barely able to use or carry my rifle. In another shooter this would mean I’m a tank, compensating for my lack of maneuverability with firepower. My running pace is only marginally faster than my walk. The recoil kicks the camera right up, and the reload takes several nerve-wracking seconds. My M1 Garand rifle feels heavy, its swing from side to side slow even with the control sensitivity turned up. I use the opportunity to get accustomed to the controls. I am a kilometer or more away from the bulk of the 50v50-player main forces. The Axis troops have retreated, pushed back by the Allies. ![]() The artillery craters and Czech hedgehogs are there, but the guns at the far end of the beach are silent. I am greeted instead by an eerie solitude. As a result, I deploy on Omaha Beach, expecting a D-Day landing scene similar to in Saving Private Ryan or Call of Duty: WWII – men crammed into landing boats, waiting for the ramp to drop, to rush onto sandy dunes pocked with machine gun fire, anti-tank obstacles, and barbed wire. I misread the ordnance map that’s displayed prior to spawning and indicates the current location of the game’s shifting frontline. My first match in Hell Let Loose is a study in failure.
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