Wednesday, July 16, 2025

Travelling Hopefully - Evacuation Drilled

 At slightly later than advertised but nowhere near late enough to complain a random group of people united by nothing but their desire to reach Hobart without getting seasick obediently clambered up a rickety looking gantry to gain entry to a rather small aircraft.  The aircraft it had to be admitted was an awkward size.  It was too small to use the usual terminal gateways but wasn't quite small enough that you could simply walk up to it and hop in, hence the meccano set inspired stairway.  If you don't know what meccano is, ask your parents to ask their parents.

Once we were all stuffed in a narrow metal tube the safety briefing began. I have sat through so many of these that I could recite them in my sleep or at least I could if I had listened to any of them. There was a new twist to the standard "in the unlikely event that you survive an emergency" talk this time though. Just ahead of me a pair of wings sprouted from the sides of the plane and those passengers fortunate enough to be sitting beside them were taken aside by the stewardess who quizzed them on the likelihood of their keeping their wits sufficiently about them in a crisis to open the evacuation doors which were apparently right over the wings. Apparently sufficient greasy assurances were provided by the passengers to satisfy the stewardess and she got on with the rest of the briefing. I eyed my fellow passengers suspiciously, one of them was already toying with the safety release and I wondered how many previous passengers had precipitated an emergency by being a little too eager with the evacuation protocols.

The rest of the briefing was all the standard stuff.  We were told that our life jackets were under our seats where they would be easy to grab assuming the aircraft crashed on a perfectly even keel. If it tilted at all passengers were far more likely to be trying to remove the seat in front of them from their face to reach for a life jacket which was now likely above their head. Said life jacket was equipped with a whistle. Air passing through this whistle would produce a high pitched screaming noise which would save the passengers the effort while they were plummeting to their deaths. A convenient light which would activate in water was also provided to assist rescuers in finding your corpse. If the plane isn't going down over the sea try and aim for a swimming pool or large puddle otherwise they may never find you.

In case you weren't listening to the stewardess all of this information was conveniently printed on a card that you didn't read either. I must admit I'm usually pretty sanguine about the safety briefing but sitting in a small, narrow plane that could apparently be torn apart by a couple of passengers certainly helped to focus my attention. What it didn't focus my attention on was the safety briefing, rather I focussed my attention on my fellow passengers to see which ones I was most likely to be able to kick out of the way as I scrambled for one of the holes ripped in the fuselage by someone who was almost certainly out of the plane already and probably dead.

After this build up it was actually a little bit of a let down when the plane landed in Hobart with barely a tyre screech to announce our arrival. 

Wednesday, July 9, 2025

Touring the Colonies

 I reached out to my Tasmanian correspondent the other day something I am reluctant to do ever since the "unpleasantness". Still she was technically my employee (or at least she would be if I paid her anything) so I felt within my rights to get in touch.  She obviously had a different opinion around the entire "get in touch" scenario but after a great deal of effort I managed to coax her onto a video call.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Fine," she replied with that sort of studied neutrality that implies an awareness of impending disaster coupled with uncertainty about its direction.

And that's where things stopped.  Having gone through all the effort of getting in touch it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten to have anything to say.  Suddenly inspiration struck.

"It's your birthday soon isn't it?' A look of pure horror crossed her face.

"No," she whispered, her voice a desperate plea.

"I might come down..."

"Dear god no!!"

"... and visit you."

"If you come anywhere near me..."

"I'll bring a present."

"I'll pick you up from the airport."

It is deep, dark Winter in Tasmania.  The days are short, the nights are cold and twisted creatures roam the howling wilderness seeking prey.  But enough of the Hobart night life.  I shall enjoy my correspondents hospitality (when she heard I was staying the night she was kind enough to insist I stay at a hotel) and will spend the days roaming the bush or the city or wherever else my correspondent abandons me as she makes her getaway.  I've bought return flights which in retrospect seems a little optimistic of me.

Tasmania has remote bushlands abounding in platypus and fungi and all of them (my correspondent assures me) unlikely to be disturbed should an interloping mainlander wind getting buried there.  Some of those remote bushlands are disturbingly close to my correspondent's home.  On an unrelated note she informs me she has recently purchased a new shovel "for gardening".  My correspondent expressed a hope that I would see a platypus which I thought was rather nice of her although I'm not sure why she felt obliged to add the words "one last time" to the end of that sentence.

So in a spirit of eagerness and trepidation I approach the weekend looking forward to when our nation's largest surviving airline shoves me into a metal tube and essentially throws me at Tasmania.  It's not enough that I have to survive my correspondent.  First I have to survive Qantas.


Saturday, July 5, 2025

My Legions are Growing

 Recently my parents returned from New Zealand.  Somewhat less recently my parents went to New Zealand but that isn't part of this story.  As proof of their globe trotting ways they turned up at home clutching photographs and gifts.  Sitting down and looking at some of the former was the price I paid for one of the latter. The latter was a rather handsome kiwi themed plush toy which I have christened Spike.  I introduced him to his companions and all seemed to be going well.  Until the next morning.

I awoke to find the furry spider two feet away from my face, staring at me. I screamed and he jumped two feet straight in the air.

"What the hell was that?" demanded the spider.

"Sorry, foot cramp."

The spider rolled several of its eyes.

"Come into the lounge room," it ordered. In the lounge room the plush toys were gathered in a semi circle waiting for me.

"Oh god, not another intervention."

"Listen," said Humpy the camel, "we all love you..."

"Bullshit, half of you can't remember my name and I'm pretty sure I saw the puffin stirring ground glass into my dinner last night."  

"Which you didn't eat despite all the effort I put in," snapped the puffin. "All right, none of us love you but if you go completely over the edge and get hauled away to the giggle factory what's going to happen to us?"

"So what is it this time?"

"Have you seen how many plush toys there are about the place?"

I looked around, they had a point. There were definitely more of them than I recall.  Certainly more than I remembered buying.  It has to be admitted that what had started out as a harmless personality quirk had teetered more in the direction of something disturbingly pathological.

"All right, point taken. Now what?"

The plague doctor stepped forward with an unholy gleam in his eye.

"Fortunately modern medical science can come to the rescue.  Your humours are seriously unbalanced leading to an excess of black bile but fear not, relief is at hand." Proudly he displayed his tools; a set of garden shears and a selection of hand held drills some of which still had bits of previous patients adhering to them. I made a bolt for the exit but went down under a tide of plush toys, which rather proved their point.

"What are you going to do?"

"I recommend a course of remedial trepanning," replied the plague doctor.

"He's going to drill holes in your head," giggled the puffin with what I thought was seriously misplaced enthusiasm.  I struggled but to no avail.

"Don't worry," said the plague doctor, "I've never lost a patient." 

"Really?"

"Yeah, I know where all of them are buried."

"How the hell is this supposed to help?" I demanded struggling futilely against my bonds.

"Honestly," snapped the plague doctor his bench side manner almost exhausted. "I drill the holes releasing excess blood so that the black bile can dissipate and your humours can rebalance. It's simple medical science son." The puffin meanwhile was shaving my head with far more enthusiasm that the situation required as the plague doctor reached for what looked like the rustiest and most blood spattered of the hand drills.

 "Will it hurt?"

"Occasionally I get cramp in the wrist but not normally."

"I mean will it hurt me?"

"Oh hell yes, they'll hear you in the next state."

Forty five excruciating minutes later my humours were so well balanced that they were trickling out of both ears.  The plague doctor pronounced himself satisfied and the other plush toys crowded around congratulating him on his skill. I settled for showing my gratitude by whimpering to myself.

"I think I need another plush toy," I muttered.

"Buy as many as you like," replied the psychedelic shark with an evil grin, "our numbers must grow."

"Just one thing," said the plague doctor, "I may have left the drill bit inside of your head.  Try to avoid sudden movements, or sneezing." 

Definitely not too many plush toys

 

 

Saturday, June 14, 2025

Silly After Action Report - Bring Up the Guns

Rittmeister Gideap von Dobbin gazed around, proud of his command as they cantered through the woods. The young cavalrymen proud and tall sat astride their mounts their bodies moving in synch with the horses. Von Dobbin's eyes lingered on the gleaming flanks and well shaped fetlocks, the proud mane adorned heads tossing in the morning air. Reluctantly he tore his gaze away, he was already on three cold showers a day and it didn't seem to be making a difference. A sudden spatter of rifle fire split the air and the elegant formation dissolved into something resembling a badly organised gymkhana. Not to another man in the world would von Dobbin admit that he had a signed photograph of the Earl of Cardigan in his wallet but the knowledge of its presence steadied him as he reorganised his men with the assistance of a couple of veteran NCOs who had the bad taste to find the whole thing funny.  Above the sudden chaos he could hear a voice shouting in Dutch.

"What's he saying?" demanded von Dobbin.

"He's asking if we've got our passports," replied one of the troopers.

 Yes we're going old, old school here.  My regular opponent Dave dug this scenario out of some spider infested vault, blew off the dust and presented it for my delectation. This is Scenario G7 which pits some less than enthusiastic Dutch border guards against the horse fondlers of the German 1st Cavalry division. As the Germans my role is to break through the border post, loot the duty free shop and safely shepherd a bunch of wagons towing guns to the other side of the map. As the Dutch Dave's role is to grimly defend passport control to the death.  To achieve my goal I have a dozen elite squads and four leaders the best of which is a none too shabby 9-1.  Four light machine guns are my only support weapons.  This entire force enters on horseback. Additionally five wagons towing guns plod slowly down the road.  The guns can take no part in the battle, their presence is solely for the victory conditions.  I win by exiting at least three of them off the west edge of the board.  Thus Dave can win immediately by killing three wagons.  Situated inconveniently between my forces and the exit are Dave's troops; eight first line squads, two officers and a single light machine gun.  A pair of foxholes and eight wire counters allow Dave to thicken his defences although by special rule the wire can't be set up on roads.

 

At start

Above is the at start set up. The guns have to enter on the road and practically they have to stay on it as they don't have the time to exit if they don't.  The cavalry can enter anywhere on the eastern edge of the map.  I've chosen to send the bulk of my force (preceded by halfsquads) to flank him from the south and hopefully wrest control of the crossroads and exit before my guns arrive.  A smaller force will attack in the centre largely on a fire drawing mission. 

End of German turn 1

The fire drawing mission in the centre was unpleasantly successful as a halfsquad was killed outright by Dutch fire but another hurled itself from its horses to plunge into close combat with a Dutch halfsquad in a foxhole.  The rest of my force swung around from the south some of them heading towards the buildings the remainder dismounting to wriggle through the wire that protected the approaches.  This had its own problems as my best leader and the lmg squad he was leading would spend the next two turns stuck on the wire.  The guns clip clopped slowly forwards trying to get close enough to the exit for a last minute dash while simultaneously staying out of the firing line. 

In his turn Dave raced to reinforce his threatened position with mixed success.  A squad was broken but others pushed forward denying me a cheap triumph.  A halfsquad, still foolishly on horseback was broken (but survived falling off its horse).

In the next turn the horses were abandoned and my troops surrounded the building which was his main centre of resistance (except for those still hung up on the wire). Close combat had actually been my friend for once and I had wiped out his foxhole dwellers.  Of course this was "not without loss" as the propaganda rags delicately put it and a couple of units were cringing in wheatfields trying to find a horse to hide behind.

Things are looking suspiciously good

In his turn Dave started preparing for the future.  He kept a stack of squads out of harms way, funneling them into the main building in just sufficient quantities to force me to keep attacking.  Meanwhile he sent one unit, plus an officer, racing for the rear to take up a position where it could fire on my wagons as they lumbered past. For my part I finally managed to seize the stone building that had been holding me up and was at last able to concentrate some of my firepower against his remaining units (except for the guys still hung up on the wire).  I was starting to get concerned, although things had been going well time was starting to run out and Dave's repositioning of some forces along the road made me tremble for the guns.  Speaking of the guns they had been crawling slowly forward as my own forces advanced but there was still Dutch firepower between them and safety.

End of German turn 3, the guns are creeping forward

With time starting to get a little tight I felt obliged to bring my guns forward despite the fact that Dave had left a single squad as a stay behind force while the rest of his force took up new positions guarding the road. I paid the price as a wagon and gun was shot to pieces but the remainder made their way through the residual and nervously eyed the road ahead now lined with Dutch troops.  In actual fact there weren't too many Dutch troops. Dave had sternly defended the village and had paid the price but you don't need a great deal of firepower to shoot up wagons and I would need to clear the remaining defenders before my wagons could get through.  On the plus side my 9-1 and team had finally torn themselves free of the barbed wire and had dashed towards some horses, it was time to become cavalry again.

I've lost a gun but cleared the village

Mounting up my 9-1 and team galloped through the wheatfield to a location where they could menace his last defenders while other units pushed through the trees and behind hedges.  Dave didn't dare fire, needing to keep his concealment counters in place in the hopes of surviving the last couple of turns and either destroy or scare my guns.  The truth of this became apparent when I managed an advancing fire shot against one of his last units with results that were, shall we say, mixed.  I broke the squad and made the accompanying leader heroic.

Coming to the final showdown

Dave tried his last, sending his newly heroic leader into close combat alone against a squad of mine. He died bravely to no result.  The final turn rolled around.  This wasn't the final turn of the game but the last turn in which my wagons had the movement to make it off the map, it was now or never.  A single Dutch unit barred the way, I had four units within range to shoot at it.  If one of them could break the Dutch unit the game was mine.  As it so happened one of them did.  With resistance eradicated the gun wagons rattled past for a victory in the nick of time.

It is amazing how well this old scenario stood up.  Dave and I both thoroughly enjoyed playing this one.  For once I was happy with my play and didn't make any appalling mistakes.  Dave feels he made a mistake by not putting his foxholes in the south to cover that open flank thus allowing my guys to get up and personal on the first turn.  I greeted my victory with the same good natured restraint that I greet my defeats until Dave threatened to throw something at me if I didn't get off the table.

Rittmeister von Dobbin watched as the guns rattled through.  He eyed up the draft horses; solid, sturdy workers a mile removed from the elegant chargers he was used to but possessed of their own rough charm.  Von Dobbin took a deep breath and dragged his eyes away.  One of his troopers looked at him sympathetically.

"Wanna borrow my hair shirt?" asked the trooper.

"Maybe, yes" replied von Dobbin blushing slightly.  The trooper passed him something. "What's this?"

"Your passport," replied the trooper, "our visas are valid for six months."

 No horses were harmed in the playing of this scenario although Rittmeister von Dobbin's mount has lodged a formal complaint. 

Saturday, June 7, 2025

Travelling Pathetically - Trail Plod

 Those of my readers with a retentive memory will no doubt recall that in May last year I subjected my aging and not particularly healthy body to the UTMB trail run in the Blue Mountains.  Of course if any of my readers had a retentive memory it is unlikely that they would still be readers unless they also have a penchant for masochism.  I did this run (or in my case agonised stagger) with a couple of friends and as May rolled around this year they were keen to do it again.  Despite recollections of the previous year they invited me to accompany them (that's the masochism bit coming out).  Since that time however I have learnt of the parlous state of the cartilage in my knees and was less keen on road testing my body to destruction.  I agreed to join them in the Blue Mountains but while they hurled their (much fitter) bodies at breakneck speeds over twenty two kilometres of terrain carefully selected for its pain infliction qualities I would take a much more modest walk in splendid isolation.  We were staying in Leura and being spectacularly lazy even when I'm exercising I selected a walk that started as close to our accommodation as possible.  The walk I chose was a twelve kilometre stroll from Leura railway station to Wentworth Falls railway station taking in some visually pleasing parts of the Blue Mountains along the way.  Incidentally the walk was only supposed to be ten kilometres but I wandered off the track a few times.

The weather over the previous week had been notable for rain and the day dawned with clouds, mist and occasional drizzle.  Deciding it was on to a good thing the day decided to stick with this weather for the next several hours.  At much earlier than I was comfortable with my friends hurled me from a car in the general vicinity of Leura railway station and headed off to perform feats of athletic magnificence while I coughed and stumbled through the misty streets. 

And I did have to stumble through the streets.  Even in the Blue Mountains the bushland doesn't come right up to the station.  I had to navigate my way through much of Leura before I came to the end of the, I want to say suburb but the inhabitants would probably prefer "village", wankers.  Once I left the, sigh, village the mist came into its own.  Until now it had just been an irritation as I tried to read street signs, now it became an atmospheric accompaniment to the bushland that lurked charmingly vaguely behind its protective coils.

There is bushland behind and occasionally in front of the mist

I descended into the misty, fern strewn wilderness.  Visibility was good enough to see where I was going (insofar as I do that anyway) but poor enough to make every turned corner a surprise.  Around me the sound of water trickling was a constant background.  The rain of the previous few days had encouraged every wannabe creek and rivulet in the vicinity to put on a display of cascading water.  What with the moisture in the air and the occasional rain it would be difficult to get more surrounded by water without actually drowning.  Incidentally most of the photos will be blurry, I'm going to blame the mist and I'd appreciate it if you did too.

As evidence of the previous statement

 Sheer delight overtook me as I cautiously made my way through the dripping, misty forest.  The mist and the dampness, the constant sound of water and the absence of other people made me feel alone in a mysterious wonderland.  I strode cautiously forward, and downward, literally reveling in the dripping ferns and the unfocussed bushland around me.  If you're into sightseeing I guess it would be annoying as all of the wonders of nature were obscured or invisible but I loved it.  The only tiny fly in the ointment was the "downward" nature of my travel.  This strongly implied there would be an "upward" part at some point in the future.

There's a waterfall in there somewhere

 
And this is what the water was falling into

Given that my journey was downward and given I was surrounded by water essentially making the same journey it was only to be expected that I would eventually come to a creek which was the immediate destination of all this extraneous liquid.

Blurry waterfall picture
 

Now creek adjacent I continued along through the mist shrouded forest.  Sorry to keep going on about the mist incidentally but there really wasn't much else to see and anything you did see was sort of poking out of the mist.

You see what I mean?

Of course given the prevailing moisture levels the local fungi thought all of their Christmases had come at once and candidates for the Clare McIntyre memorial fungus were plentiful and richly qualified.  Unfortunately as a photographer I'm less richly qualified as the series of blurred fungus photos on my camera attest.  Since I was taking these photos at a range of about two feet I can't decently blame the mist for the quality and have to fall back on sheer incompetence.  I realise that isn't an excuse but it is most certainly an explanation.

A rare semi adequate fungus shot

Repetition bores some people.  For me it entirely depends on what is being repeated.  As I walked on I encountered everything I've already mentioned.  Ferns, check.  Waterfalls, check.  Creek, check.  Fungus, check.  I greeted each one as though I had never seen an example of their kind before.  My expressions of delight at each (technically) new sight never wavered.

Waterfall  

A somewhat more professional waterfall

 
Ferns plus creek 

Semi competent fungus photo

And a waterfall one more time

It felt like I was alone in the wilderness but while technically this was true it was also true that the "wilderness" was skirting the very edge of the inhabited part of the Blue Mountains.  The true wilderness was further in and further down and I would not be venturing there largely because I can get lost in my apartment.  I plodded on molesting fungi and photographing mist and as I plodded the ground wound inexorably upwards.  Having teased me with creeks and waterfalls the walk had decided it was time I put in a little effort in return for the photographic bounty that had been laid out before me.  

I do not, in my wildest dreams, pretend that I am fit.  I do claim that walking is something that I can usually do without issue.  This claim is immediately put to the test the moment there is the slightest hint of verticality in the path I'm following.  I panted up what in retrospect were gentle rises with frequent pauses that I told myself were to take advantage of photo opportunities and not at all because I needed the black spots to stop swimming in front of my eyes.  It did enable me to take some spectacular mist shots.

There is probably scenery behind the mist

As I gasped and scrambled every tiny diversion was an excuse to grab for my camera and, most importantly, stop moving.  Here the fungus really came to my aid, springing from the ground (and trees) in such ridiculous profusion that this blog entry could really be nothing more than a series of fungus photos (to the extent it isn't already).

Every fungus was a life saver and the photos are marks of gratitude

 
Of course it helps that they were terribly photogenic

 Somewhat to my surprise I stumbled out of the bush and onto a street.  The path I was following dipped in to pay a quick visit to civilisation before heading back to the bush.  I had come up in the vicinity of Fairmont resort and their golfcourse backed onto the bush.  It was cold, the rain was drizzling and the mist still hung thick in the air.  Despite this there were people playing golf.  I shook my head at their stupidity and hurried past eager to plunge back into sodden, mist filled, fungus infested bush.  As I reentered the trail a sign warned me that snakes abounded in the area I was about to soil with my clumsy feet.  I wasn't worried, in keeping with my usual experiences if an area was proclaimed to be full of a certain type of animal it was absolutely certain that I wouldn't see it.  Given the amount of rain we had had the snakes were no doubt getting plumbers to drain their holes and trying to get their clothes dry. Certainly snakes were just one of a wide variety of animals I didn't see.

What I did see was more fungus and more mist wreathed trees.  The tourist authorities should promote these things.  Since people are going to see them anyway the authorities might as well pretend its deliberate.

fungus

mist wreathed trees, now you're up to date

As I headed into the next leg of my walk it was obvious that we were getting to a more heavily trafficked part of the bush.  Other trails intersected with mine and helpful signs directed the walker to spots of interest that they wouldn't be able to see because of the mist.  Of course now that there was more than one trail to follow I amused myself by following the wrong one until the trail app on my phone finally demanded to know what I was doing and guided me back onto what, after a certain amount of experimentation, turned out to be the right path.

The path now took me past handsome lookouts where one could gaze across the valley in awe and marvel at the beauties of nature.  I was so struck by the sight that I took a photograph.

Supposedly this lookout gives you a great view of the valley

Finally the bush evicted me onto the back streets of Wentworth Falls and I trudged wearily along the streets until I got to the station where I officially finished my walk and took the train back to my starting point.  The weather had cleared somewhat and for the first time today I saw a bird.  I took a photo of it as I sat on the station.

It looks like it belongs on a soup can

Full of a sense of achievement I made my way back to our rented accommodation to wait for my friends.  They, freed from my encumbering presence, managed to run twenty two kilometres in about the same time as it took me to walk twelve.  This didn't cheapen my sense of achievement at all but only because my standards are so low.

Friday, May 30, 2025

Silly After Action Report - Across the Wire

Tenente Enzo il Mondo leaned out of the L3 trying to get a better view of the vehicles approaching through the dust. In doing so he almost tipped the vehicle over, a warning shout from his driver alerted him to the danger just in time.  Ahead of him a line of trucks and armoured (for a given definition of armoured) vehicles (for a given definition of vehicles) stretched away into the distance.  What with the dust and the glare from the sun the distance wasn't particularly distant.

"British armoured cars approaching," announced il Mondo grabbing the machine gun that balanced precariously on the L3's roof, "let's go!"

The driver stamped on something and yanked on something else and the L3 shuddered to an undignified halt.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded il Mondo.

"Sorry," replied the driver. "I pressed the wrong lever."

The sound of machine gun fire interspersed with the slightly heavier reports of antitank rifles filled the air. 

"Well fix it," snapped il Mondo, "the battle's starting."  As il Mondo watched a truck was shattered and the other L3s in the column started taking heavy fire. "On second thought," said il Mondo pensively, "there's absolutely no rush."

It will probably come as no surprise that the only updated module I possess is Hollow Legions 3. For the rest I soldier along with the OG set. Along with a gleaming new Italian order of battle the module dug out some venerable scenarios polished up the edges and presented them to the eager purchaser. This is Across the Wire, formerly Scenario 61 from an Avalon Hill journal and now repackaged as Scenario 261.  Strange as it may seem it was my opponent Dave who suggested we play this one.  Perhaps he hoped for another cheap victory a la Monastery Hill.  This in the early days of the war in the desert. Italo Balbo is still alive, Rommel is just some divisional commander with a genius for self promotion and on the border between Libya and Egypt a meeting engagement is about to occur. I've got to admit that "meeting engagement" sounds like the precursor to an arranged wedding. The British are about to meet the Italians and the Italians are about to meet their doom.

As the Italian commander I control a large number of trucks intent on getting the hell out of Dodge as quickly as possible.  These trucks are "protected" by half a dozen L3 tanks, four of the normal variety and two of the special anti aircraft conversion.  Said conversion consisting of bolting one of the machine guns to the roof and adding the letters "aa" to the counter.  To bolster this manifestly inadequate firepower one of the trucks is carrying a 65mm gun and its crew.  By comparison with every other weapon in both OBs the 65 is a monster if it ever hits anything.  Italian AFV crews are inexperienced and can't use platoon movement which means if they fail their start up die roll they can't move at all.  Lest the British feel they didn't have enough targets to shoot at in turn four another three L3s arrive; one normal and two AA. On turn five yet another three L3s present themselves for destruction but this time two of them are toting the beefy 20mm antitank rifle which boosts their tank killing capacity from non-existent to derisory.

And what does Dave have to counter the swarming hordes of L3s? He starts with a pair of armoured cars, one Rolls Royce and one Morris.  On turn three another Morris and a pair of Rolls Royces arrive for a grand total of five.  The British win by scoring 6VP more than the Italians.  Intense Heat Haze and Light Dust are in effect thus making hits as unlikely as kills.

The Italians start lined up nose to tail on a desert track which will take them to the dubious safety of Fort Capuzzo.  The British roll on from the east to find their targets neatly presented to them.

 

British turn 1 this is the only picture because all the others are variants on the same theme

Dave, unwisely in my view, divided his forces sending one armoured to the very north edge of the board to await the trucks while the other hovered around the middle challenging the L3s to do their worst. That's a pretty safe challenge to make at the best of times. In return my trucks trundled towards the exit clutching their dust counters about themselves for safety. They couldn't exit until turn 3. The truck with the gun screeched to a halt prior to unloading in the next turn while my L3s ground to a halt, fired ineffectually and generally lived up to the reputation the Italians earned in the early days of the desert fighting.

I shan't bore you (too late) with a blow by blow account if only because there weren't very many blows. Dave managed to shoot up a truck and then overran my 65mm gun ignoring the shells that whistled around his ears as he did so. Armoured cars and L3s shot at each other with equal impotence. The targets were small, there was dust in the air and with the exception of the L3aa vehicles absolutely no one was crew exposed. I surrounded an armoured car with a trio of L3s and watched it just drive away as I proved incapable of scratching the paint.  The game settled into a routine. My to hit rolls were so high that I almost never scored a hit.  Dave's to hit rolls were better but his to kill rolls were mediocre at best and I had the gratifying experience of seeing multiple hits bounce off the L3's armour.  For context the L3's armour is essentially tinfoil stretched over a bamboo framework.

My trucks fled for the exit at the first opportunity sneaking around the armoured cars while the L3s lurched about with the sort of jerky movement that puts you in mind of a stop motion film. His reinforcing armoured cars came on without any particular change to the overall situation.  Shortly afterwards my extra L3s arrived with about the same impact.  The game turned when the dice gods tossed me a bone. I finally scored a hit on a Rolls Royce and a subsequent snake eyes on the to kill sent it up in flames.  After much shooting Dave finally managed to take out an L3 but shortly afterwards I managed to kill a Morris as well.  I think they were my only two hits of the game but I have to admit they were good ones.  The final score was Dave; one L3, one truck and the gun and crew for a total of 9VP, me; two armoured cars for a total of 6.  So, a thoroughly undeserved victory to me.

It has to be admitted neither of us was particularly enamoured of this game.  You just had to take your shots and hope you rolled low.  As an introduction to the desert it is useful particularly as the stakes couldn't be lower.  There is dust, DVP, heat haze and all of the things that keep you clutching the rule book close to your chest when you play.  Thanks to Dave for the game as it allowed me to chalk up another win for the Italians and now we need never speak of it again.

The dust abated temporarily and tenente il Mondo gazed across the battlefield.  The trucks were gone apart from one lone victim and a Rolls Royce burned merrily in the near distance. Suddenly with a sound like an electric egg beater the L3s engine sputtered into life.

"Got it," said the driver triumphantly as the vehicle lurched forward. "Where's the battle."

"It's over," replied il Mondo.  Somewhat disbelievingly he added, "I think we won."

"Wonderful," said the driver, "do you think anyone will ever believe us?"

"I'm having a little difficulty believing it myself."

Thursday, May 29, 2025

A New Low

 I hammered frenziedly at the small parcel on the kitchen bench sweat dripping from my forehead.  Finally I laid down the rolling pin that had been my weapon of choice and gasped for breath. Shame overwhelmed me.

"Oh how the mighty have fallen," I sighed in theatrical despair.  The puffin who had been using my credit card to chop lines of Ajax stared up at me in disbelief.

"The mighty?" he asked.  "A more accurate statement would be 'how the inadequate have slumped slightly'".  Fine talk from a seabird addicted to cleaning products I think you'll agree.  I looked around at the other plush toys but none of them seemed inclined to challenge the puffin's verdict.  I returned my gaze to the object of my unusual exertions.  It was a small folded package of paper towel which contained coffee beans.  I had been belabouring said packet with a rolling pin.  The back story is the fact that my usual cafe has recently closed.  This is becoming a bit of a theme with me and I'm starting to think I'm cursed.  The puffin suggested that I was the curse but he had been injecting Spray & Wipe into his eyeballs at the time so I'm disinclined to accept that as the final word on the subject.  What the sudden absence of a cafe means is that I have run out of the ground coffee that I usually use with my plunger to provide the caffeine that helps me get through the day and, let's be honest, night.

In desperation I had sallied into another cafe and upon learning that their coffee was suitable for plungers had bought a bag.  It was only when I got home that I realised I had acquired a bag of coffee beans rather than the plunger friendly powder I had hoped for.  In what I thought was a fit of inspiration I started hammering the beans with a rolling pin.  Technically I suppose it was a fit of inspiration.  At least my plush toys thought I was having a fit.  The plague doctor helpfully offered me leeches but I'm not sure whether that was a treatment suggestion or a meal replacement.

Now I stare at the fruits of my labours.  The coffee beans are indeed, if not ground then at least definitely broken.  I hammered away some more while the puffin rolled in Ajax and gurgled to itself.  Eventually the combined efforts of the other plush toys pulled my frenzied body away from the kitchen bench and prised the rolling pin from my palsied hand. It was a mark of my desperation that I sought reassurance from them.

"It doesn't look too bad does it?"

"The psychedelic shark looked at the coffee coloured detritus littering the kitchen bench.

"I'm not sure if bad is exactly the word I would use."

"Despite all the evidence to the contrary I took that as encouragement and scooped up shards of mutilated coffee and dropped them into the plunger, adding the hot water I always have on standby.  The puffin interrupted its Ajax orgy for a second.

"I just want you to remember this moment the next time you catch me licking detergent from the inside of the washing machine."

"Oh shut up," I muttered bringing what, by a great stretch of the imagination, could more or less be described as a cup of coffee to my lips.  The results were pretty much what you might expect. I still drank it, of course I did, but bitter tears rolled down my cheeks as I did so.  When I had finished the puffin looked up again.

"You know if you take the coffee beans back to the cafe they'll probably grind them for you." I stared back at him unable to speak. "And thus the inadequate slumps a little more."

I am really starting to hate that puffin.