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. 

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.

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."

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.

Thwack Pokk!

 It is that time of year when all eyes in the tennis world turn to Paris.  And once they have turned to Paris those eyes immediately start watering due to all of the red dust in the air.  Underneath this sports created air pollution Roland Garros is presented to an admiring world. Originally designed as a way to weed the asthmatics out of tennis Roland Garros has come a long way since those early experiments in eugenics. Now the tournament takes its place among the greatest contests in the tennis world. The stadium surrounding centre court is filled with a thronging crowd shouting their adulation as two gods of the tennis world vie for glory within the hallowed compound. 

But tear your eyes from this display of tennis magnificence for just a moment gentle reader.  Look beyond the glittering confines of centre court, look past, too, the other show courts where lesser but nonetheless brilliant stars in the tennis firmament ply their dusty trade.  Keep going to the edge of the horizon.  There you will see it.  It might be an outer court, it might be a disused carpark, with red clay it's a little difficult to tell.  So far from centre court that it might technically qualify as a separate tournament a pair of scruffy figures slink to the middle of the space. Here the lowly foot soldiers of the tennis world do unattended battle with each other. The qualifiers, the wildcards, the also rans and the never wases.  Those whose tennis rankings are comfortably into three figures.  Here unheralded and unloved they will compete with each other for the unimaginable glory of being knocked out in the second round by someone with an infinitely higher skill set.  Each of the players is desperate to win enough prize money to afford a bus ticket back to the homeless shelter they're currently squatting in.

A thunderous roar greets these tennis minnows as they nervously approach the net.  Unfortunately it is the sound of fanatic crowds applauding the skills and efforts of others on the more select courts.  The noise pours through the outer courts drowning out the sound of the umpire's voice as they make the calls and wonder exactly who in the tennis world they offended to wind up officiating this match.  In stark contrast to centre court the crowd here consists of a dozen or so people evenly divided between relatives of the players who couldn't find a decent excuse for their absence and derelicts who have so far defied eviction.

After a decent pause to allow both players to think better of the entire idea a figure detaches itself from the tiny crowd and climbs a rickety chair.  I thought it was a derelict but it turned out to be the umpire.  Both players begin the match with a sort of enthusiastic hopelessness which would be endearing if it wasn't so unendearing. Each player attempts to prove that they can do anything the champions can do only slower and less efficiently.  Balls fly wide, sometimes landing in adjacent courts which are so close there is a real danger that the players might become intermingled.  Serves are buried deep beyond the base line, the occasional adequate shot is greeted with fist pumps from the responsible player while the opponent mutters and taps dust from their shoes.  Despite the best efforts of both players the score limps painfully towards the ultimate conclusion with an air that can best be described as "death march".  The occasional flashingly brilliant shot serving only to highlight the overall mediocrity of both performances.

On and on it goes until even the umpire's eyes are weeping blood although whether that's because of the performance or just the red dust that gets everywhere is a matter for debate.  Vultures circle lazily sure that one and possibly both of the players will provide them with a meal before long.  Finally when the umpire's mental state can take no more they call the final score and flee the court hoping to catch the last train back to centre court before being trapped for the night in this hellhole. The two players approach the net and hands are shaken to a thin spattering of applause (assuming the derelicts haven't passed out).  Then both players depart heads held high.  For the winner the prospect of being blown off the court by a player that security would normally keep them away from.  For the loser there is the comforting knowledge that at the very least they haven't sunk to the level of playing mixed doubles.

Silly After Action Report - Monastery Hill

"Are you ready for the new offensive?" asked Tenente Giro di Lombardia.  "This is where we conquer Greece once and for all."  His offsider was a grizzled veteran who had well "fought" was too strong a word but he had definitely been present (sometimes quite briefly) on every battlefield Italy had been involved in in recent times. 

"It doesn't bother you that we're starting the conquest of Greece by attempting to reconquer Albania?" asked the veteran.  Di Lombardia frowned, it did bother him a bit.  He was also unsure why the conquest had to start with charging towards the best defended hill in the country. Up above him he could see trenches cutting scars through the snow that covered the hill's upper reaches. There weren't too many ways up and di Lombardia was having uncomfortable thoughts about machine guns.

"What do you suggest?" he asked.  The veteran swept an experienced eye over the landscape.

"Best advice I can give for an attack like this, let somebody else go first."

A series of whistles, shouts and fits of hysterical weeping announced that the attack was about to commence.  Shabbily uniformed soldiers in broken boots started making their way towards the hill.  Di Lombardia gestured politely.

"After you."

"Smartarse," muttered the veteran.

So yes, we went there.  For some bizarre reason I have always wanted to play this scenario despite a truly stupefying win/loss record in favour of the Greeks.  I actually have a history of this battle and its amazing how accurately the scenario played out. Spoiler alert, the Italians piled up thousands of bodies for absolutely no result because apparently the entire of World War I wasn't a sufficient lesson in what happens when you send unsupported infantry against machine guns.  Still, I tried my best.  Secure in the knowledge that it would make no difference my opponent Dave graciously granted me the Italian balance (increasing the Italian ELR to three for the 347 squads, the lowly 346s remained stubbornly stuck on two).

So, to the formalities. I command a huge force, its size matched only by its inadequacies. On turn 1 no fewer than twenty six 347 squads, guided by four leaders including a not contemptible 9-1 set foot on Monastery Hill.  They carry a trio of lmgs, two dismantled medium machine guns and three dismantled 45mm mortars.  Lest the Greeks think that there are insufficient targets in the world on turn two fourteen 346 squads shamble on to make up the numbers. They too have a trio of lmgs and a single dismantled medium. A mere two officers lead these reinforcements.  Perched on the top of the hill Dave has fourteen Greek 457 squads, three medium machine guns and six light machine guns. Four officers including an awesome 9-2 command.  Eighteen trenches are provided for the protection of these Greek defenders giving them plenty of points from which slaughter the oncoming Italians.  By SSR level two and above of the hill have ground snow just in case this wasn't difficult enough for the Italians.  My objective was to at least five level four hexes on board nine.  At the start I control zero.

 

Greek set up. Everybody is in trenches, the mmgs are nestled safely in the rear. My initial force enters on the right

My plan was to send the bulk of my at start force to overwhelm his forward position while a few squads tiptoed down the middle valley attempting to find a flank.  Meanwhile the squads with the mortars would slink along the bottom of the map hopefully protected by trees and hills to meet up with my reinforcements, take out the small position on board two and hopefully be ready for an assault on the main position.  To a certain extent this was successful unfortunately that was only supposed to be a preliminary.

Things went well for the first turn or so. A couple of Italian squads were broken serving as bullet magnets persuading Dave to open fire but the remainder surged on as a sluggish grey tide.  My flankers dutifully flanked (to no good purpose) and the mortar crews thankful to be out of the firing line skirted the board edge at the bottom.

End of Italian turn 1

Having amassed what for the Italians was a couple of pretty impressive fire groups I managed to break one of his forward defenders and my reluctant stormtroopers shambled forwards pressing the other squad. At this stage I was pleased with how my dubious troops were standing up to morale checks.  I had a few broken squads but quite few, particularly for Italians.

End of Italian turn 2. At this stage I was, foolishly, quite pleased with my progress

Turn three was probably the highpoint of the game for me (not good in a ten turn game). I had swept away his forward defenders (two whole squads but whatever) and had snuggled into his trenches. My medium machine guns guided by my 9-1 (who until now had stayed safely in the rear) moved forward to bring firepower down onto his next position.  My flankers had foolishly emerged directly in front of his defenders (I really overestimated the resilience of my troops) but for a brief second it looked impressive. My reinforcements surged on heading through the trees for his defenders on board two and my mortar teams had every chance of being in position by 1945. 

End of Italian turn 3. Briefly things are looking good

Things started taking a bad turn almost immediately.  My bold "flankers" were driven from their forward positions by Greek fire. On the other hand my reinforcements made bold threat displays against his troops on board 2 and almost succeeded in looking like real soldiers. Back at the main battle one squad conducted its own personal flanking manoeuvre for reasons which escape me at the moment. The real disaster however unfolded behind the front line.  Dave rolled five 1's in a row on sniper activations. At the end of it my 9-1 was dead as was an entire squad and another squad was broken.  I practically conceded then. My mmg kill stack had been reduced to a single broken squad and my ability to rally broken squads had been seriously degraded. I did eventually manage to re-man the machine guns and get them forward (a little) but I had lost a significant chunk of firepower just when I needed to be pounding his next line of defenders.  What was left popped away but without much effect.  

End of turn four. The DM counter behind the trenches covers a single broken squad. At the beginning of the turn there were two healthy squads and a 9-1.

I took this morale shattering event with my usual good humour and sangfroid (shut up Dave) but I was reduced to long range shots at his boys in the trenches as I attempted to patch what was left of my firepower back together.  One hill two I assembled an impressive amount of firepower which helped me prove that a penchant for rolling eleven on fire shots can mess up the most impressive firegroup. In return a couple of six firepower shots crushed the aforementioned firegroup.  But not completely, as their colleagues whimpered and fled a couple of squads who hadn't got the memo weaseled their way forward and managed to keep pressure on his defenders.  On the main battlefront I lost a full turn or two trying to reassemble my force.  I broke the occasional squad but never managed to achieve significant results. Indeed the best results I got were when Dave broke a couple of light machine guns.  The rolls of eleven weren't all one way.  Sadly the troops holding these suddenly broken weapons were still sitting snugly in trenches I couldn't push them out of. My flanking squad flanked itself into a trench.  I think the intention was to divide the defenders fire but its entirely possible that I just had a psychotic break when moving that unit.

 

Despite ghastly casualties I'm pressing on board 2. The main front is a stalemate however

I finally overran his defenders on board two and seized the trenches for my very own.  I had now dealt with four of his fourteen squads and captured four trenches. It had only taken six turns.  Time was starting to get quite short and now that my attention was focussed I realised another problem the Italians had.  Due to the prevalence of cliffs I would have to charge up a slope dominated by a trio of medium machine guns led by a 9-2. Even the Italians wouldn't think that was a good idea.  Well you would assume that although the actual history of this battle suggests otherwise.  My mortar squads (remember them?) finally find a location where they could hit his trenches and dutifully started dropping tiny little little explosives which did little other than remind Dave of the existence of my mortars.  While my main attack was frozen I had made gains on board 2.  The trenches were mine and I could fire on his troops in their main defensive position.  Here's the thing though.  If it comes to a straightforward exchange of fire the Greeks are far more likely to hold up than the Italians, particularly when they have a 9-2 guiding their shots.  Despite the protection of trenches and trees it took Dave precisely one fire phase to virtually exterminate my entire force on board 2 for not a single loss of his own.  

Back at the increasingly ill named main front I finally gathered enough firepower to break a squad or two.  If this had been turn 4 that might have presaged good things for the future. In turn 7 it just produced some anguished arithmetic as I realised that my forces there simply couldn't reach the final target locations even if no one shot at them enroute. I gathered the shattered wreckage of my psyche around me and conceded to Dave with all the dignity I could muster (none at all if you believe him).  Bizarrely despite the thoroughly predictable outcome I enjoyed this game.  The Italian commander has a lot to do and the sheet amount of time can give the impression that victory is around the corner, all the Greeks have to do is sit in their trenches and roll low.  I made a couple of bad mistakes, leaving all three mortar squads in the one hex was foolish but there was a dearth of cover they could operate from effectively.  The fact that they couldn't operate effectively anyway is beside the point.  If I had my time again I think I would push my main force along board two and completely ignore his frontal defences.  Many thanks to Dave for the game and I can cross at least one thing off my bucket list.

Tenente di Lombardia staggered wild eyed into a billet behind the lines.  The veteran was there sipping on a coffee. He raised his eyebrows as di Lombardia arrived.

"There you are, what took you so long?"

"You said let somebody else go first."

"When we're attacking.  Leaving the battlefield is definitely the time to get on your bike."

"I don't think that's particularly funny," replied di Lombardia.

Travelling Pathetically - Blurry Bird Edition

It's getting harder to find bushwalks in my immediate vicinity that have not yet been graced with my clumpy unco-ordinated tread.  For this most recent walk I had to catch a bus, a train and a ferry just so that I could walk a kilometre to my starting point.  My walk started in Bundeena which according to wikipedia is both a suburb and a village on the outskirts of southern Sydney.  I'm not sure what you need to do to gain both suburb and village status but Bundeena wears it's dual title with a modest grace that more boxing champions would do well to emulate.  Bundeena is just across the way from Cronulla (which bears the lonely title of "suburb") however the "way" in question is largely water and thus requires the assistance of a ferry to cross effectively.  You can take a bus if you want to stay on the solid part of the scenery but why would you take a bus when you can catch a cute little ferry that putters gently across Port Hacking and deposits you at the more water adjacent portions of Bundeena.  From there its only a kilometre or two uphill until you arrive panting at your destination; the start of the walk.

Having dipped a toe into the Royal National Park a couple of months ago with a trip to Grays Point I felt sufficiently encouraged to go in up to my ankles. I panted through Bundeena sustained by thoughts of Greenland sharks (seriously, I may have a problem) until I bumped into the National Park.  My path stretched out before me, depressing in its width.  "Here we go," I muttered to myself, "another unexciting firetrail."  I muttered to myself as I've noticed that muttering to strangers tends to have unfortunate consequences.

The not particularly impressive start to my walk

 I was less than excited by this start but having committed myself I set out along the, well "path" isn't exactly the right term, road would be more accurate.  Things improved swiftly however and it wasn't long before my route took me off to the left making a beeline for the Tasman Sea.  Fortunately it turned again before I reached it.  I was following the Coast Track with the Tasman on my left heading towards Marley Beach.  Well actually I was heading toward Marley Beaches as there are two of them.  On the way I would pass Wedding Cake Rock which is apparently impressive enough to rate its own marking on the map.  Unfortunately it turns out that the wedding wasn't terribly successful and the rock is on the point of hurling itself into the sea.  I think we've all been to weddings like that.

 It has to be said that the walk was in no way scrambling through the bush.  Possibly in deference to the large number of people for whom a suicidal rock and a beach named Marley are irresistible attractions the parks authority has produced a well made track with boardwalks to take you over the more environmentally delicate bits.  The scenery was largely coastal heath with low but close packed greenery.  Well I say "greenery" a lot of it was brownery, some of it was distinctly charred blackery.

Some greenery and some blackery

The path takes an abrupt right turn ahead which is the only reason this blog entry wasn't fished from my waterlogged corpse

The sun beat down on me as I strode towards Marley beach, still several kilometres away.  The coastline capered in front of me flaunting cliffs and the usual chaotic mess that results when large amounts of water inadvertently collide with equally impressive collections of land.  I took photos because, well it seemed a little needy frankly.

 

There were plenty more but I don't want to bore you

Of course as everybody knows its all about the wildlife however here things were a little disappointing.  The path I was following was obviously very popular.  I know it was popular because it was overrun with people.  All of the wildlife had therefore very sensibly decided to make themselves scarce.  They hadn't gone far, they lurked in the nearby scrub teasing walkers with their cries but absolutely defying any attempts to actually see them.  By the time I encountered a small lizard sunning itself on a rock I was so desperate for material that I lavished photographs on this tiny reptile most people could find in a suburban garden.

A lizard, try and pretend you've never seen one before

And birdlife, my god was there birdlife?  Well I assume there was.  Certainly something was making a hell of a lot of birdlife like noises.  However they lurked buried in the scrub invisible to the human eye (well my human eye anyway) no matter how desperately I peered.  From time to time in a fit of sheer sadism one would erupt from cover in front of me and then dive into some more protection just before I got my camera ready.  Not many birds were seen on this journey and those that were seen weren't seen for very long.  I have to admit I got a little frustrated.  Other walkers were slightly aghast to see me collapse weeping on the path hysterically cursing invisible birds.  They skirted my twitching carcass and hurried on leaving me to my own somewhat dubious devices.  

I'm not saying that I did offer my soul to various dark powers if they could persuade just one bird to sit still long enough to be photographed.  I am certainly not saying I made certain reckless promises to ghastly monsters from the netherworld but if anybody does have a goat and a sacrificial knife they're not using you know where to find me.  Anyway by a wild coincidence one particular bird did pause in a reasonably accessible piece of scrub and I photographed the crap out of it.  I was so eager that most of the photos were actually lousy.  The best of a bad bunch is presented below as evidence of why I joined a Satanic cult in my declining years.  The bird in question is a New Holland honeyeater.  I found this out all by myself by a little research after I got home.  They were all over the place but this is the only one I managed to photograph.

For this I sacrificed my immortal soul?

 

With that out of the way let's get on with the walk.  As previously noted my path led through thick scrub with the sea always hovering to my left just out of reach.  With the shrubbery crowded in on the path it was quite quiet despite the constant birdsong, gossiping of other walkers, panting of those idiots who were actually running... okay, it was actually quite noisy but it gave the impression of silence even when it wasn't.

 

Perhaps you can see why the birds found it so easy to hide

Signs announced that the region was home to echidnas and humpbacked whales which is a species crossover I would pay money to see.  It will come as no surprise that I saw neither of these (given I was on a path the absence of whales wasn't astonishing).  Of course it couldn't all be wandering along clifftops admiring the lack of birds and taking occasional photos of photogenic rocks (see below). I was walking along a clifftop heading for a beach.  That meant there would be a certain amount of descent.  Followed of course, as night follows day, by ascent unless I wanted to stay on the beach forever.

 

Rocks; photogenic

 As it turned out I didn't want to stay on a beach forever (too much sand in the crevices) and thus I was committed to panting down not one but two steep descents and subsequently gasping back up them again all in a desperate attempt to return to a geographical position I could have achieved by going nowhere.  Some of the most enjoyable moments in life are basically well organised futility.

 

At least there were steps going down. Sadly there would also be steps going up

 Eventually my painful descents were rewarded with a glimpse of my target.  Marley Beach in all its glory.

 

Strangely despite the number of people I had encountered along the path the beach was surprisingly empty.  Indeed it could be said that Marley was dead (thank you, I'm here all week).  On the way back I took another photo of a bird and I didn't have to sacrifice my immortal anything.  Also I came across the Clare McIntyre memorial fungus lurking modestly behind a rock.

I couldn't manage to identify this one

 

The Clare McIntyre memorial fungus

I strode back light in heart and heavy of foot. Ahead of me Bundeena was already closed meaning that my desperate need for coffee would have to wait until I reached something a little closer to civilisation such as my kitchen.  This is possibly the first time that my kitchen has been described as "close to civilisation."