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.