Travelling Pathetically - Hunters Hill

 With my home divided into warring camps and various plush toys staring suspiciously at each other over hastily constructed barricades I decided to go out for the day.  But where to go?  I gazed at a map of Sydney and my eye fell on a piece of land stretching somewhat phallically into Parramatta River.  Of course, Hunters Hill.  Why had I never been there before?  A good question bettered only by "why am I going there now?".  Still the day was warm, the sun was shining (there may be a connection between those two facts) and I was slightly desperate to get out of the house.

Hunters Hill was once a haven for bushrangers and was subsequently used as a dump for radioactive waste.  It is one of Sydney's more expensive suburbs.  Stapled to the east of it is Woolwich formerly an industrial site situated at what was then considered an appropriate distance from the expensive housing of Hunters Hill.  Now it is home to similarly expensive residential real estate.  I caught the ferry to Woolwich and pointed myself in the general direction of Hunters Hill because once you're in Woolwich there's nowhere else you can go really unless you want to swim.

At Woolwich ferry wharf you get amazing views of the city with the added advantage of not being there

I leapt lightly from the ferry and set foot on Woolwich soil for the very first time.  I breathed deep of the fresh air and gazed around ignoring the curses of the other ferry passengers who were trying to get off the boat.  Actually I hadn't set foot on Woolwich soil but rather on a pontoon wharf.  Woolwich soil was however just a minutes walk away.  In keeping with my usual practice I had studied the map and attempted to find patches of bushland or at least greenery to make my walk more pleasant.  With this in mind I had plotted a walk that would go along the southern shore of what was essentially a riverine peninsula where parks seemed plentiful.  As I stepped off the wharf (and finally onto Woolwich soil) I was greeted with the lush greenery of Valentina reserve which stretched for metres before running into the backs of various houses.

Undeterred I strolled up the street (strolling is like walking but with more casual elegance), took a left turn and headed for the Goat Paddock.  Yes Woolwich has a goat paddock or more accurately it has a park called the Goat Paddock.  There aren't any goats there.  Woolwich also has another park called the Horse Paddock which doesn't have horses as well.

The goat paddock.  Homeless ruminants need not apply

You may be wondering why there are so many parks and suchlike in what is a rather wealthy suburb (as if that didn't answer your question) where land isn't particularly plentiful.  The answer is a combination of military, nimbyism and unions.  Both the goat and horse paddocks used to be military land which is a great way of keeping it out of the hands of developers.  One of the prevailing characteristics of people is that when they find themselves living in a beautiful and desirable location they tend to want to prevent anyone else from living there too.  Thus when the military moved out and the government planned to sell the land for development the residents complained.  And because the complainants were both wealthy and well organised their complaints were successful.

Strolling down the goat paddock towards the water one can see the resident's point.  If I lived here I wouldn't be keen about losing this to a housing development either.  Trimmed grass gave way to slightly less manicured trees as I got closer to the water and by the time a fear of drowning blocked my passage I was surrounded by trees.  And a dockyard, although a rather modest one.

Woolwich Dock was built in the late 1800s by the simple expedient of gouging a rectangular hole in the sandstone big enough to hold what were then considered large ships.  The water is deep here (the attraction for the dockyard in the first place) and Woolwich Dock was large enough to berth and repair the largest oceangoing ships that visited Sydney in those days.  After the Second World War business dropped off and the dock was sold to the military.  When the military moved out a private concern bought the dock and now it provides berthing and repair facilities for yachts both the Sydney to Hobart kind and the sleazy Russian oligarch kind.

Woolwich Dock

In a desperate (and slightly pathetic) attempt to make themselves part of the natural landscape the walking path that takes you from the goat paddock to the horse paddock actually takes you through Woolwich Dock where you can look at the boats (sorry, yachts) and avoid the hundred tonne ship crane (they're very proud of that, it's all over their website) which is the centrepiece of their facilities.

When I said the dock was gauged out of the sandstone I wasn't kidding

As one passes the dock one also passes a fine dining experience where you can presumably watch the storied hundred tonne crane at play while enjoying a good meal.  It must be nice to be so easily amused.  Says the man with a bunch of plush toys and random walking habits.  Fortunately for those of us who aren't hungry the reserve leading to the horse paddock is just past the restaurant.

Leaving Australia's maritime history behind me I stepped into a reserve/large park.  It was hardly virgin bushland, indeed it didn't even qualify as slutty bushland but it was open, green with carefully placed trees and a large water frontage.  The Horse Paddock awaited.  Even more appealing was the sign announcing that one could remove their leashes.  I pulled the collar from my neck and slipped it into my pocket while gazing around guiltily to ensure my dom wasn't watching.  Breathing somewhat more easily I wandered down to the waterside and took photos of what I am informed was a white faced heron.  Ignore the fishing rod in the photo, I'm pretty sure that belonged to a different bird.

A white faced heron

So far my walk, while pleasant, had been heavy on artificial parks and light on natural bushland but this was about to change.  Past the horse paddock and an inconveniently place patch of buildings is Kelly's Bush Park, the last piece of undeveloped natural bushland on the entire peninsula.  Surrounded on three sides by development (and on the fourth by the Parramatta River) Kelly's Bush owes its continued existence to the third of the three determining factors I mentioned earlier.  When a developer planned to build over the entire area a local women's group contacted Jack Mundey, then head of the NSW Builder's Labourers Federation for help.  He responded by placing Sydney's first green ban on the site which meant that no union labour would work on the project.  When the developer threatened to bring in strike breakers the union responded by banning work on all of their other projects as well.  Eventually the developer sold the land to the local council who in turn sold it to the state government which made a virtue of necessity by keeping it as a park.

 So into Kelly's surpringly saved bush I went.  For the first time I felt genuinely separated from people (it was a lovely day and naturally the parks were busy).  The quiet that accompanies such areas was somehow unspoiled by the fact that apparently every aircraft in creation had been rerouted to fly over the area on this day.

Native bushland

Somewhere in there is the Parramatta River

 Kelly's Bush actually isn't that large but when you're in the middle of it you can fool yourself that it goes on forever.  I wandered down to the shore to see a piece of land where the river meets the land without a seawall in place and then hiked back up again through trees and ferns until finally I stumbled out the other end and into Hunters Hill.

There were more parks I could have visited but shadows were lengthening and that seemed like an appropriate ending so I made my way back down the spine of the peninsula past handsome sandstone houses to my starting point in Woolwich for a ferry home.  It occurs to me that I spent far more time in Woolwich than Hunters Hill but I couldn't be bothered changing the title of the blog entry now.

 

Travelling Pathetically - To the Shops and Back

 "Are you sure you want to do this?" asked the plague doctor tremulously.  All around me plush toys begged me not to journey outside with two notable exceptions.  The puffin was in rehab after mainlining drain cleaner but...

"Where's Humpy?" I demanded.

The platypus and the spider examined the ceiling.  The plague doctor had the grace to look a little embarrassed.  Lucius the bear looked furtive.  A swift and not entirely Geneva compliant interrogation later and I freed Humpy from the bottom of the linen closet.  I fixed the motley crew with a stern gaze.

"When I return we shall have words about this.  And following the words there will be a considerable amount of violence."

With my domestic situation satisfactorily sorted I set out on my journey to the shops.  It isn't a long journey, there's no need to take water.  In fact I've stopped doing that altogether since I discovered the puffin was lacing it with windex.  Going to the shops is simply a case of walking out of my driveway and turning left.  What happens if I turn right I have no idea.  The puffin says that there are dragons and unspeakable horrors in that direction but I'm not sure if its wise to trust the judgement of someone who's been caught huffing Mr Sheen on a dining room table.

Concrete artistically decorated with dogshit guides my path until my narrow country lane (sorry, broad suburban street) intersects with a somewhat broader road travelling roughly north-south (or, more accurately, northeast-southwest).  Here at last I turn right and find myself among a cluster of buildings touting their various wares to the public.  It has to be said my local shops are a little disappointing.  There are hairdressers, a wellness clinic (whatever the fuck that is), two car repair places, a Thai restaurant which is permanently closed and a mental health facility, possibly for those who use the wellness clinic.  Redeeming the situation slightly are a bottleshop and a pair of cafes.

There are also roadworks although the works are pretty catholic and have spilled over onto the non road parts of the area as well.  Part of this is the upgrade to my railway station so it can accommodate sexy new metro trains and with an air of making a bad situation worse the local and state government collaborated to give the entire area a face lift with the aim of making this small and rather insignificant gaggle of shops into a desirable retail area.  So far the main result of their efforts is that a number of pre-existing shops including three cafes have had to shut their doors due to the disruption to trade.

It was 11am on a grey Sunday morning so naturally my first destination was the bottleshop (don't judge me).  The people there know me although they think my name is "Get Out You Irritating Freak" they do usually serve me eventually if only to hasten my departure.  Once the essentials have been procured its time to stop into one of the surviving cafes to buy coffee.  I can make coffee at home of course but I like to support local business.  Particularly I like to support local businesses that stop me from having to do things for myself.

With my purchases made I should have headed home.  Instead I lingered to enjoy such of the upgrades as have been finished (and not at all because I dreaded the domestic situation upon my return).  Part of the refurbishment has involved laying handsome grey tiles in place of the dull concrete footpath that preceded them.  Some parts of these tiles have been laid three times as no sooner are they laid than the builders find some reason for digging them up again.  It's entirely possible the whole thing is an elaborate work for the dole programme.  Traffic lights have been installed at an intersection that was previously bereft of such things but since they aren't working yet the sole result has been the confusing of motorists.  There was a pedestrian crossing there which has been temporarily moved about twenty metres up the road so that once they are over the confusion of non-functioning traffic lights motorists can be surprised by the presence of a crossing where no crossing has stood before.  So far casualties have been surprisingly light.

With nothing else to do and with the amusement value of temporarily laid paving slabs rapidly exhausted I turned my head for home.  This example having been set the rest of my body reluctantly followed suit.  As I strolled up the drive I could already hear the arguments and as I rounded the corner of my block a platypus came flying through the air in a welter of shattered window glass.  I turned around and decided to take my chances with the dragons.

Silly After Action Report - Goats to Lure the Tiger

 The ancient French staff car wheezed to a halt and sous-lieutenant Hugo Beformé alighted, tipped the driver and saluted the capitaine who was waiting for him.

"Did you get the helmets?" demanded the capitaine.

"I'm afraid not mon capitaine.  The Americans don't have any to spare.  Apparently they sent them home as gifts for their children."

The capitaine shrugged, not because he had to but because he was French.

"It's too late anyway Beformé, look over there."

Beformé stared in the direction the capitaine was pointing, clusters of soldiers were making their way purposefully towards the ill armed French positions.  Their helmets were adorned with what appeared to be feather dusters.

"Oh crap," muttered Beformé.  A sudden roar filled the air as an ancient artillery piece belched fire and shed rust in response.  Where the shell went neither of the two officers saw as both of them had hurled themselves beneath the dubious protection of the staff car at the noise.

"Get to your position Beformé," ordered the capitaine.  Beformé couldn't help noticing a column of armoured vehicles lurching towards that same position.

"I'd really rather not," he replied.

So this is ASL scenario J205 - Goats to Lure the Tiger in which I forego taking the Italians in favour of commanding a force even more wretchedly equipped.  I shall command the gallant Recently Free French as they attempt to defend a small but apparently vital part of Tunisia from the depradations of a combined German-Italian force commanded by Richard Weilly.  We actually played this game some months ago but I went overseas before I had a chance to write it up.

To win the Axis need to gain more VPs than the French.  VPs are awarded for possession of buildings controlled on or west of hexrow M.  Also the Axis gain 2VP for each French gun eliminated and the French gain 1VP for each Italian AFV and 3VP for each German AFV eliminated.  Finally a VP is awarded for every inherent FP factor from good order MMC that can be applied to any road hex from 25Y1-V6.  Forget tactical ability, I'm not sure I'm up to the mathematics required for this game.

To defend this position I have ten squads, six second line and four green.  These heroes are led by a single 9-1 with a pair of 8-0s making up the numbers.  Equipment consists of a single mmg, three lmgs plus a 37mm squad served gun.  In support are two 75mm artillery pieces dangling VP options for the Axis.  On turn one armoured support arrives in the form of four FT-17 tanks which one can only assume were included to make the Italian player feel better about the quality of his own armour.  Nobody even pretends they are worth victory points.

As the Axis Richard has a mixed Italian/German force consisting of fourteen squads of bersaglieri equipped with five lmgs and led by a trio of officers including their own 9-1.  Entering on turn one are no fewer than eight armoured vehicles, two M14/41 tanks and six SMV 75/18 self propelled guns commanded by an 8-1 armour leader.  As if that wasn't enough on turn 3 German reinforcements in the form of one PzIIIJ and two PzIIIHs turn up to add weight and professionalism to the Italian attack.

Here is the at start set up.

I set one of the guns up on the highest hill I could find and hid the other in a batch of trees on ground level.  In the south I focussed on defending the road approaches the the victory village while for the most part I let the terrain on board 25 do my defending for me.  I hoped to slow his progress in the south long enough for the world's slowest tanks to creep forward and bolster the village defence.  The village holds both victory buildings and victory road hexes and thus must be defended to the last.

Richard did indeed send his main force down the road in the south but with subsidiary efforts in the north and the hill mass to the south.  I had written the southern hill mass off as undefendable (although I did leave a squad on the reverse slope) and hoped that the ability of my 75 to sweep it with fire would dissuade Richard.  I had forgotten that an integral part of the "sweeping with fire" theory is that said fire has to be effective.

Down on the road Richard bulled past a dummy stack sitting forlornly out by itself and closed up with my forward defences.  His armour was, shall we say, discreet lurking out of LOS of my 75s and cheering the bersaglieri on from the rear.

End of Axis turn 1.  Richard has named his armour after warships in the Italian navy

Things went rather well for me in the first turn or so.  The bersaglieri's first attempt to storm my forward positions was shattered by French musketry and so far the 75mm shells his SMVs were lobbing at the defenders had had little effect.  In the south however his forces had rounded the hillmass and were getting ready to bring fire from two directions.  In the north his flankers inched their way painfully over the rough terrain.  A problem for the future but not right now.

With his infantry temporarily down Richard was forced to bring his armour a little further forward and a combination of tanks and semoventes started monstering my forward positions.  Except for the one that broke its MA of course.  The B11 on the SMV's main armament would be a curse for Richard throughout the game.  Meanwhile in the rear my reinforcing FT-17s are inching towards the battlefield at a speed that can only be described as "bureaucratic".

End of Axis turn 2. A grey tide is enveloping my defenders.

My forward defences were now little patches of blue in a grey sea.  But they held out, buying precious time which I did remarkably little with.  So far my 75s had not been the superweapons I had hoped.  The one down on the valley floor had signally failed to destroy a SMV as it made its way along the ridgeline and the one on the hill had actually managed to hit a moving M14 only to see the shell bounce off its armour.  So much for sweeping with fire.

And now the Germans had arrived.  Richard managed to repair the MA on his SMV and celebrated by breaking the MA on another.  Nevertheless the writing was on the wall for my forward defences.  Completely surrounded and under fire breaks started happening.  My squad manned 37 managed to stun a M14 but otherwise things were looking grim.  Far to the rear my FT-17s were still limping towards the battlefield.

End of Axis turn 3.  Another day another SMV MA malf

In my third turn my gallant forward defenders finally fell to the weight of fire and Richard disabled the MA on his SMV.  Delay had been imposed but now there was a formidable armoured force (less one SMV) ready to exploit.  On the plus side Richard's broken Italians had fled to a building within LOS of my 75 on the hill and in another week or so my FT-17s would be ready to join the fray.

In turn four Richard's force swept forward and in doing so paid the price with a SMV and one of his PzIIIs going down to a modest rate tear from my 75 on the hill.  The other was amusing itself taking potshots at the SMV with the disabled MA despite the serious situation developing right in front of it.  My FT-17s arrived just in time to become targets for vengeance crazed German panzers.

End of Axis turn 4.  Axis casualties are mounting but defenders are increasingly thin on the ground

In my turn 4 I shot up the SMV with the disabled MA.  Yes bottom feeding I know but a VP is a VP.  Somehow my FT-17s survived the first burst of fire from the German PzIIIJ.  In return a FT-17M pointed its stubby 37mm at its persecutor while the crew searched frantically for an AP round.  The AP number on these vehicles is 7.  Richard made the comment that given the age of the vehicles I should be searching for an OAP round.  I curtly informed him that I make the jokes in this blog.  He apologised and promised not to do it again.

A small patch of woods shielded the victory locations from the onrushing horde.  This patch was home to one of my 75s and an lmg squad which was all that was left of my forward defences although my forward FT-17s were now placed to add their machine gun fire to the defence.  The FT-17s are in position, the French are saved!

With time starting to get a little tight Richard decided the time had come.  Rather than trade blows with my FT-17s his PzIIIJ roared right past them and into the victory village.  Second line French infantry held few fears for these mighty panzertruppen.  Meanwhile such of the Italian infantry as could be cajoled back into the fight were hurled forward to take on my 75mm gun crew in CC.  There were casualties, there was pain but it could not be denied that my defences had been cracked open.  The remainder of the game would be a desperate struggle to survive.

End Axis turn 5.  The French are crumbling

Struggle desperately I did.  He sent some troops up the hill to take out my remaining 75 but some lucky shooting delayed them beyond the end of the turn.  The close combat in the woods turned into a mutual bloodbath which wiped out everything in the hex including the 75.  Suddenly bold his remaining armour rolled forward (losing another panzer to my 75 on the hill) and started crashing into buildings.  The point behind this was simply to hold my troops in melee and thus prevent them from bringing firepower down onto the road as per the victory conditions.  Richard naturally broke the MA on another SMV but otherwise his plan worked to perfection.  I had a slight last fillip when a green squad that had been hiding in a sangar in the south all game sallied forth and snatched back a building at the last while Richard's troops were focussing on more important matters further north.

The end.  Now for the mathematics

 

Once the game was over we sat down to the serious business of trying to figure out who had won.  It was close, very close.  Richard had more buildings but I had eight points worth of armour kills.  It all finally came down to who could place the most firepower on the road.  And here I think I screwed Richard over although I assure you it wasn't deliberate.  He had rolled a tank into a building containing a concealed French squad.  I had forgone CC in order to maintain concealment and thus was not held in melee.  However in retrospect I'm pretty sure that if a vehicle stops in your hex you lose concealment and thus I would have been held in melee.  That squad's firepower placed on the road was the difference between victory and defeat.

So a "victory" to me courtesy of a blatant rules violation that we were both too addled by mathematics to notice at the time.  Apologies to Richard please feel free to amend the result on ROAR.

Sous-lieutenant Beformé peered around a convenient olive grove.

"Did we win?" he whispered.

"If we won we'd be shouting," replied the capitaine equally quietly.  "No we didn't win but if we keep our mouths shut we might be able to pretend we did."

"What's the point in that?"

"It'll make the wikipedia entry look better."