Travelling Hopefully - Wombat!!

 The next day the Sun shone brightly.  Unfortunately it shone down onto a thick layer of cloud which the light, exhausted by its ninety two million mile journey, proved incapable of penetrating.  Between cloud and earth was a large amount of water moving as quickly as it could from the former to the latter.

The retired diplomat and I peered into the murk and mutually agreed that inactivity was the only sane course to follow.  At this point my correspondent bounced into the room radiating the kind of enthusiasm normally only seen in puppies and small children going to visit Santa.

“Who’s coming with me on a bushwalk?” she asked.  It is fair to say that the response was not entirely what she had hoped for.  I politely declined.  The retired diplomat was somewhat more forthright, nay, explicit in her refusal.

The three of us made our way to the resort lounge where the retired diplomat and I secured places in front of the fire and pulled out our books.  My correspondent plunged straight through into the rain saturated gloom and was immediately lost to view.  To be fair that was largely because we stopped looking.

“Do you think we’ll ever see her again?” I asked.

“See who?” asked the retired diplomat.

The hours flew by in well heated comfort.  The weather outside did a magnificent job of convincing us that our decision to stay inside was the only sane one.  Somewhere out there my correspondent was struggling through the rain and wind, matching her body against nature in the most primal of contests.  To this great battle it is fair to say that neither the retired diplomat nor myself gave the slightest thought.

At the time negotiated by the retired diplomat I wandered off for my massage.  I hold the massage responsible for everything that happened next.  I selected a massage that would “energise” me, whatever that means.  On completing the muscle manipulation equivalent of methamphetamine I discovered that my correspondent had returned cold, wet, muddy and deliriously happy.  Well she seemed happy and there was definitely delirium involved.

She extolled the delights of pointless exposure to the elements so effectively that I began to wonder how bad it could be.  At this point it is entirely possible that the massage oil had seeped into my brain.  Besides I really wanted to see a wombat and to hear my correspondent tell it vast herds of wombats roamed the land like the megalodons of old.

“I shall do it!” I announced, the invigorating effects of the massage still running through my body.  My correspondent cheered, the retired diplomat rolled her eyes and ordered another glass of wine.

In my defence the weather had improved over the course of the day.  The wind was merely biting rather than mauling, the rain had dropped from continuous to frequent and the mist had lifted to such an extent that it was possible to see the mist that concealed the mountains.  Previously that mist had been hidden by mist.

My enthusiasm carried me out the door and onto the bus that would take me to the national park on our doorstep.  While I was sitting there anticipating wombat flavoured glory I received a text from my correspondent.  She had photographed a wombat from the window of the lounge I had just left.  I was still cursing when the bus spat me out into the cold and fled before I could change my mind.  My massage induced energy was rapidly dribbling away.  Something else dribbling away was the massage oil that my masseuse had, for reasons of her own, rubbed into my scalp.  Under the impact of the icy rain said massage oil was trickling into my mouth.

With hope in my heart, rain in my eyes and massage oil in my mouth I set out across the alpine plain in search of wombats.  Or rather I set off just above the alpine landscape on a boardwalk built to protect the alpine landscape from the boots of all the idiots trying to cross it.  I clumped along the boardwalk enjoying the bracing (ie freezing and frequently wet) air and scanning the horizon for signs of wombats.

So deep in my search was I that I almost missed the couple on the boardwalk in front of me who were waving in my direction.  I stopped and looked down, there was a wombat six inches away from my foot.  I reeled in delight (or possibly it was the massage oil) and scrabbled for my camera.  Shortly afterwards I set off again leaving a spectacularly well photographed wombat in my wake.  Amount of interest the wombat took in the preceding; nil.

Determined to build on this initial success I carried on.  The open landscape changed to rock adorned with trees and the boardwalk graciously consented to permit my feet to touch the earth once more.  The landscape of hills, cliffs, forest and what looked like peat bogs was a spectacular symphony of grey.  I walked along a narrow, rocky path.  At least “path” is what it would be called in dry weather.  Currently a better term would be “stream”.

After a long soggy walk I encountered a sign directing me to Wombat Pool.  Inspired I pressed on and much gasping and heart palpitations later I arrived at Wombat Pool.  There was indeed a pool, and a complete absence of wombats.  In desperation I texted my correspondent 

“Where are the wombats?”

“Where are you?”

“Wombat Pool”

“Oh there aren’t any wombats there.”

Cursing I hurled myself down the track uttering blood curdling and utterly impotent threats against the twisted, malicious degenerate who had named Wombat Pool without apparently bothering to confirm the presence of wombats.  In addition to the disappointment was the fact that time was slipping by and I needed to be on the last bus out of Dodge if I didn’t want to spend the night here (for the record I didn’t).  My haste and anger are the reasons why I didn’t manage to get a photo of the large black wallaby that hopped across the path in front of me despite the fact that it paused for a decent period of time before losing patience and hopping away.  Fortunately I did manage to catch the bus.  Back at the resort my companions and ridiculous amounts of wine awaited.

Travelling Hopefully - Drive Journey

 The next day dawned bright and clear and I greeted it with a heartfelt moan.  Apparently there is only so much therapy I can take.  Still the open road was calling and my correspondent was disinclined to take a message.  While I crawled around trying to pick up bits of my psyche that seemed to have fallen  off in the night my correspondent dropped her dogs off on an unsuspecting victim, taught her fish how to cook and packed her bags.  Fortunately I had already packed my bag or rather I hadn’t bothered to unpack.

With all preparations either completed or forgotten we mounted our mid sized blue steed and set off on our journey.  Five minutes down the road to the retired diplomat’s house.  After a brief but vicious struggle we hurled the last schnauzer to the curb, packed the retired diplomat’s luggage (six romance novels and three bottles of wine) and fled Hobart while the schnauzers were regrouping for a counter attack.

Full of hope my correspondent pointed the car towards the marginal electorates in the north where by some miracle the roads were better maintained.  We were travelling through the largely rural middle of Tasmania which apparently glories in the title of The Heartlands; an area of farms, animals and oddly misspelled towns.  I did a double take when we passed through Bagdad.

I know we were in the Heartlands because of a plethora of signs announcing the fact.  More surreally the same signs had the words “Drive Journey” added in slightly smaller font underneath.  The retired diplomat suggested that the term indicated an acknowledgment that nobody would make the Heartlands the end of their journey.  I’d love to have seen her negotiate a missile treaty.

We stopped for lunch at Ross which is a bit of a tourist must see.  You know, quaint, colonial, sandstone this and that blah blah blah.  I bought a jar of humbugs there.  Two days later there are still a few left.  My tongue is now black as are my teeth.

Northwards, ever northwards we drove until we were in distinct danger of running out of Tasmania.  However just before we drove into the sea or worse, Launceston my correspondent stamped hard on the brake, wrenched the wheel over and sent us skidding onto a new, western, path.

Soon signs appeared saying “Western Highlands” which was an improvement on “The Heartlands” although bizarrely “Drive Journey” remained in place.  The roads got narrower and windier, the farms got fewer and patches of actual nature cropped up from time to time.  We passed through a forest that had a sign saying “This is a working forest” which I think is code for “Please be patient, we’re chopping it down as fast as we can.”

Our destination was Cradle Mountain an area of breathtaking natural beauty and a Mecca for bushwalking enthusiasts.  The retired diplomat and I privately agreed this was the last time we would let my correspondent choose the destination.  As we climbed towards the rather nice resort my correspondent had booked at the edge of Cradle Mountain National Park the weather got worse and by the time we arrived the much hyped mountain was obscured by mist and drizzle.  And by “obscured” I mean completely hidden.  I wouldn’t actually see Cradle Mountain for more than twenty four hours.  Visibility was so low we could have been in a leafy suburb of Hobart.  Well, a cold, wet leafy suburb of Hobart.

Inside our cabin however all was snug and warm.  At least it was once the retired diplomat had adjusted the setting on the heating to “Sahara”.  With our cabin warming nicely (and raising the average temperature in the region by a couple of degrees) we had an early dinner.  On our return the retired diplomat attempted to negotiate a two hour facial and pampering treatment for herself at the resort spa and wound up booking me an hour massage instead.  By this time it was 8.30 at night and we were sick of pretending we were still awake so we crawled under our respective covers, threw them off again because it was so hot and went to sleep.

The next blog entry has wombats in it so stay tuned.

Travelling Hopefully - Bright Lights, Small City Edition

 Since my correspondent’s platypus related murder attempt had failed there was nothing to do but continue on as if nothing had happened.  In keeping with this my correspondent took me along to meet the retired diplomat, the third member of our road trip triumvirate.  She actually lives a short distance down the road.  Along the way my correspondent regaled me with lists of animals I wouldn’t be seeing.  I mentioned that I would like to see a bandicoot.

“There’s one!” she announced pointing to an indeterminate organic smear by the side of the road.  I explained  as delicately as I could that while the bandicoot I was hoping to see didn’t actually have to be alive I would prefer it if it was still three dimensional.  My rank ingratitude formed a fruitful topic of conversation until we arrived at the retired diplomat’s home.  A cacophony of noise greeted us before the door was even opened.

“She has schnauzers,” said my correspondent.

“That explains the noise,” I replied.

“Does it?”

I entered the retired diplomat’s lounge room adorned with schnauzers and was treated to blue cheese and artisan vodka.  Sounds pretty diplomatic to me.

This being a Saturday night it was decided we would hit the town and see the bright light of Hobart.  For the record it’s down near the water.  After a very satisfying meal we headed to an elegant (it had couches) cocktail bar.  There was nothing as plebeian as a drinks list; rather you uttered some imprecise irrelevancies to the bar staff and a short while later they would present you with your innermost personality rendered in ethanol.  Mine had a raspberry in it.

After our liquid psychotherapy we wandered along to a pub which had a band playing covers of 80s and 90s hits, badly.  Very, very badly.  Being less attuned to the mental state of their customers (although the band should have given them a clue) the bar staff insisted that we tell them what we wanted to drink.  It helped if you managed to do that while the band was pausing for breath.

Travelling Hopefully - Fleeing the Diseased City Edition

 Normally Sydney Airport is a profoundly depressing place; an ill lit retail bunker from which aircraft occasionally evacuate the desperate.  On this day however it is my low wattage beacon of hope, a feebly shining gateway through which I shall pass to leave my plague riddled home town behind me and step out into the wide, glorious world.

After a short two hour flight I shall descend on Tasmania like the barbarian hordes of old and deliver myself into the tender mercies of my Tasmanian correspondent who for reasons best known to herself has volunteered to be my personal Virgil through the wetter, chillier parts of Purgatory.

Somewhat to my surprise there wasn’t a last minute COVID induced refusal to permit me entrance and we actually turned up somewhat ahead of schedule.  Hobart Airport looks like someone has cobbled together a row of portable classrooms and added a sign saying “Hobart” for the information of those who may have been disoriented by the flight and thought they landed in Paris instead.

Bio security measures were in force to ensure the new arrivals didn’t introduce any diseases.  Such measures consisted of my approaching a desk and being asked if I’d been anywhere dangerous.  On my answer of “no” I was waved through.

Out in the car park my correspondent didn’t duck out of sight quickly enough and was saddled with actually fulfilling her obligation to pick me up.  A quick car ride took me away from the airport, through Hobart and to my correspondent’s abode in the shadow of Mount Wellington.  For the record my correspondent lives on the side of a valley.  She is on the desirable side which can get up to three hours of sunlight a day.  The wretched denizens of the other side exist in a perpetual darkness penetrated only by the howling of wolves.

Actually it was the howling of my correspondent’s dogs.  I’m not saying she set the dogs on me but she did nothing to intervene while the local chapter of the Baskerville Appreciation Society hurled themselves upon me and promptly managed to transfer half their saliva and body fur to my person.

Once I had dusted (and dried) myself off my correspondent offered to take me down to a local rivulet so I could not see a platypus.  She had seen (and filmed) a platypus there quite recently.  Not seeing a platypus was appealing but on the other hand…

“We could use this opportunity to speak, get to know each other and connect on a deeper and more personal level than our usual email driven antagonism”

After we finished laughing we set out to not see a platypus.

At first things went well.  We wandered past dams under renovation and along a charming rivulet with lots of little pools where non existent platypus could frolic but didn’t.  After a while though I noticed that we seemed to be gaining elevation and my correspondent has ceased to talk about platypus and was waxing lyrical about fungi.  Finally when we reached an area where a platypus would have needed climbing gear to get about she admitted that there may have been a slight change in agenda.

As we struggled (well I struggled) upward we passed a disturbing number of memorials to those who had died until I started to wonder if anyone had ever survived the trip.  My favourite was the wooden bench set up to remember a little girl who had been hit by a tree.  The subtext was that the bench had been made out of the tree in question as an act of revenge.

Despite the vulture of death hanging over us we survived the walk and stumbled (well I stumbled) back to her place so that I could once again undergo ordeal by hound.

Travelling Hopefully Nay, Desperately

 How the mighty have fallen.  And I've fallen too in case anybody cares.  Last year I was preparing a holiday to random bits of Europe with confidence and enthusiasm.  This year I am sitting panic stricken in front of a screen lest the latest COVID news in Sydney should cruel a nine day trip to Tasmania at the last moment.  The Tasmanian government has already ripped up one application to visit their obscure little landmass and I'm waiting until the last minute to submit a replacement in the hopes of getting the latest news.  Because, yes I had planned a trip to Tasmania.  If people can just pretend not to have symptoms for another forty eight hours I will actually be going.  

It had to come to this eventually.  After years of sniping, criticising, ludicrous accusations and very serious death threats I am finally going to beard my Tasmanian correspondent in her den.  Her children have been hustled to a safe location and all sharp implements within a fifty mile radius have been removed.

"Come to Tasmania," she said.  "It will be fun," she said.  "I can show you all of the places where a body can be hidden so it will never be discovered."

"Why would I need to know that?" I asked.

"I didn't say you would need it," she responded.

Despite the threat implied in the previous remark I was so desperate to get out of town that I agreed.  Then she told me she would take me off to the most remote and uncivilised parts of Tasmania (no, not Hobart.  Apparently there are places even more remote and uncivilised).  To ensure I didn't try to escape she has recruited a relative to keep me from hurling myself from a moving car on the way.  

"Will I see platypuses and Tasmanian Devils?" I asked hopefully.

"There's every possibility," she said encouragingly.

"What does that mean?"

"It means no!"

I will however see dogs and such fish as have managed to survive her tender mercies to date.  Also on the agenda are trees, mountains and a train.  Plus pubs, quite a lot of pubs apparently.  Our destination is the west coast of Tasmania; home of trees, mountains and, well, that's about it really.  The scenery should be impressive.  The wifi access will not be.  Once we have revelled in the grandeur of nature we'll drop down to Lake Pedder to revel in the monumental destruction of nature.  Truly Tasmania has something for every taste.  Unless that taste includes warm temperatures, reliable electricity, a functioning health system and adequate internet access.

My metal bird flees suddenly diseased Sydney on Saturday morning and after a flight of two hours and fifty years back in time I shall arrive in Hobart where my correspondent will be waiting with a car.  She has assured me that the boot is spacious and I should be quite comfortable.  My correspondent has previously claimed that a platypus lives in a creek near her house.  Given my previous experience of not seeing animals on holiday I don't expect to see it unless somebody runs over it just before I arrive.  If they do I will take pictures.

So if you don't hear from me for several days its probably because I am roaming the remote parts of Tasmania.  Or I couldn't be bothered.  There is also an outside chance that my correspondent has buried me in a shallow grave.

Plague Update #50 - A Corporate Response

 "I forgot the nozzle for my butt cushion!'

It is statements like that that make me realise how much I've missed working in the office.  At present our little team of pusillanimous virus avoiders are still getting away with spending one day out of  the working week in the office.  The rest of the time we continue to lurk under the blankets in our various domiciles while the term "working week" becomes increasing deserving of the inverted commas.

I have missed the office and the vibrant interplay of personality on personality (although apparently HR are delighted that the interplays of my personality have become somewhat less vibrant) and just being in the presence of other people.  People going about their daily tasks, greeting their fellows and bemoaning the fact that their forgetfulness has left them without a vital component of what I am going to assume was part of a sophisticated sexual fetish and not merely an attempt to get comfortable in the office.  I heard the nozzle comment and knew I was back.

Each Tuesday such of our team as can be coaxed from their panic rooms slink nervously through the city flinching at every near human contact (and read that however you wish) until they gather their courage in both hands and charge for the doors to our building in a desperate attempt to put the disease laden outdoors behind them as quickly as possible.

It has to be admitted that the building management and my employers have have combined to make the experience of reentering the corporate domain as surreal as possible.  Signs abound warning us not to congregate in groups.  One of those signs is over the single hand sanitiser dispenser in the lift lobby that we're all encouraged to use.  

Lift use has been speeded up by making the whole process of ordering a lift take longer.  Rather than have masses of people crammed into slow moving lifts a handy new app allows one to order a bespoke lift that will whisk you and others heading in your direction (up) to your destination.  At least in theory, in practice the lobby is a crazed scrum of people hysterically waving their phones at an intermittently functioning security sensor which periodically permits the fortunate to enter a lift. Once actually on the floor the quickest way to access our offices is to wait for somebody walking by and hope they let you in, in violation of all security and disease prevention protocols.  Don't worry, they will.

I can't speak with authority about the women's toilets (honestly officer) but the men's have helpful advice on such matters of personal cleanliness as washing one's hands and when one should perform such an act.  This starts off sensibly by stating "after you have used the toilets" and rapidly deteriorates to the point whereby it is warning you to wash your hands after handling animals or animal waste.  This is not really useful to office staff unless you are part of the team that mucks out the ferret fighting pit we maintain in the loading dock.  I lost fifty dollars there last week.  Some people say it's cruel and degrading, others complain that matches clash with partner meetings.

Once you have navigated the lobby (ankle deep in hand sanitiser) and persuaded the security sensor to provide you with a lift and finally imposed on a less than security conscious colleague to give you access to the floor you can finally take your seat (if indeed you still have one) and commence the days work.  At the end of the working day you have to wipe down your desk with a wet wipe.  I would encourage you to do that as soon as you arrive.  After all there are only so many hours in the day and you've already spent most of them just getting to your desk and besides the ferret fights start at three.

Silly After Action Report - Blood and Guts

An assault engineer fiddled with the hose on his flamethrower and was rewarded with a squirt of fuel that soaked his uniform.  His comrades backed nervously away.  The rain was pouring down outside but there didn't seem to be any point in taking chances.  One soldier pulled out a cigarette, the warning label on the packet said "An exploding flamethrower can seriously damage your health".  With wincing care he put the cigarette away again.

"What are our objectives today?" asked one of the soldiers who had moved so far back he was practically in another unit.

A gefreiter pointed at a large building rather like the one they were in across the road.

"That's it."

"It looks just like this one.  Can't we just change the signs and say we captured it?  I'll bet higher command would never know."

"We tried that once, we occupied Dortmund decked it out with Polish street signs and told the fuhrer we'd captured Warsaw."

"What happened."

"Another unit did the same thing with Emden.  It all got a little bit embarrassing.  Particularly since some bunch of overachievers had actually captured Warsaw."

"Are you sure?"

"Well they said they did and there were plenty of Polish street signs all over the place so I think we have to believe them.  Anyway since that debacle its been a little harder to get away with tricks like that."

After my near endless list of screw ups in the previous scenario you will be pleased to hear that I lifted my game in this one and only barely managed to lose.  Having enjoyed a brief sojourn in east Africa Dave Wilson dragged me to the rain soaked streets of Stalingrad to play Blood and Guts a scenario from one of the seventy odd campaign games that revolve around the fighting in that city.  I think this one is from Red Barricades but it could be any of them really.

Here I shall take command of a large number of well motivated, well equipped Germans looking to capture the building next door (and associated rubble) from a similarly enthusiastic group of Russians.  The Germans have to select one of two victory options for this scenario.  They can either capture building K22 and two other multihex buildings within the Russian set up area or they can win immediately if they capture all stone building and stone rubble locations north of the road that neatly bisects the playing area.  This is the option that I decided to go for.

It certainly looks like the Germans have the tools to do the job.  I have seven 838 elite squads. A dozen 548 elite squads and fifteen first line squads looking a little shabby and out of place in such august company.  This bunch are led by no fewer than eight officers spearheaded by an awesome 10-3 (you just know he's not going to survive the game don't you).  To assist with the going forward they have eight light machine guns, two medium machine guns and two heavy machine guns.  Plus six demolition charges and three flamethrowers.  Three not particularly impressive StuGs roll on to provide close fire support assuming they don't bog on the rubble on their way to the front.

What can the Russians show against such magnificence?  Well how about thirteen elite squads, thirteen first line squads, a .50cal machine gun, two heavy machine guns, two medium machine guns, four light machine guns and a molotov cocktail projector.  To spread the love he has twenty two concealment counters, twenty four factors of minefields and a 76mm gun. These guys are led by five officers including a none too shabby 10-2.  Lurking in the rear are six squads of elite troops in reserve along with another leader and a flamethrower and DC of their very own.

At start

Above is the at start set up.  All non interior factory hexes are fortified and each of us got to fortify six more locations.  I had to display mine, Dave didn't.  As you can see I've divided my force into two groups.  The larger on the right to capture the factory across the road.  If I can take that I'm a long way towards achieving the victory conditions.  The other force on the left is to put some doubt into Dave's mind as to which objective I'm going for and to prevent his troops there from helping out their no doubt beleaguered forces on the right.

Things went quite well at first, on the right I fried and sizzled his up front troops and gained a lodgement in the factory.  In the centre I pushed forward, capturing a smaller and less sexy looking building which would serve as a base for my 10-3 commanding a pair of hmg toting squads.  On the left a half squad charged across open ground and blew a hole in a fortified building he was obviously keen to hang on to.  I say "obviously" because he had mined the actual building hexes so that anyone going in stood a good chance of being blown up before they reached the door.

End of German turn 1

Above is the end of German turn one.  Things look good don't they?  Unfortunately this is about as good as they would get for a while.  The two massive Russian stacks aren't all broken btw, they just have a broken unit on top of them.  My StuGs rumbled slowly forward through the rubble to support my main attack but then I forgot about them for a turn because, well, idiot.

It turned out that the large stack I was approaching in the factory consisted of a pair of elite squads, a medium machine gun and the .50cal guided by his 10-2 leader.  It was sitting in a fortified location.  This was the rock upon which my attack would break.  In his turn Dave unveiled this death machine and swept the bulk of my troops out of the factory again.  His 10-2 left to rally some troops but would soon return.  Over on the left it turned out that I had managed to set up a lot of troops in LOS of his 76mm gun with unfortunate consequences.

Not looking so great now are they?

Still thing could be worse.  I was definitely pushing forward in the centre and my own 10-3 kill stack had reached a convenient position on the upper floor of what appeared to be the only undemolished building in Stalingrad.  Expendable halfsquads had swarmed over the rubble and now the only thing that stood in the way of victory was the factory on the right.  I rallied the survivors of my first attempt (and finally rolled my StuGs forward) and prepared to assault again.  Incidentally you may notice a hero or two and the odd fanatic squad running about the place.  My dice weren't particularly impressive in this game but I appeared to have an absolute mania for rolling snake eyes on rally attempts.  I can't say that it did me any good.  Failing morale checks with nine morale troops was a challenge the dicebot was proud and pleased to accept.

My next effort in the factory would involve my freshly rallied troops going back in this time with a StuG in support.  Results were mixed.  My troops were once again swept away in a hail of fire but the StuG stayed put and mangled some of the other defenders.  Dave's defence was starting to rely more and more on that single kill stack as its supporting troops were whittled away.  In the centre my own kill stack amused itself by slaughtering anyone that Dave tried to send in to man the 76mm gun.  The crew died early and he lost another squad equivalent trying to reclaim it.

The way seems clear but I have no one who can take it

In bad news for my StuG Dave had managed to get a squad with a flamethrower into the factory and my StuG would not survive the experience (I had misjudged how effective flamethrowers can be against armour) but my third attempt against his kill stack would surely bring success.  Another StuG (commanded by a 9-2) was parked right next to them with a wide array of weapon toting psychopaths.  Nope, he shrugged off two 12 flat attacks, two 16+2 attacks and an 8+2 attack and then proceeded to sweep the area clean of German troops again.  The most positive thing that happened for me was he managed to malf his medium machine gun.  He then sent a squad into CC with my StuG and killed it.  One of my flamethrowers fried the life out of that squad immediately afterwards but it was poor compensation.

At this point I'm getting a definite sense of deja vue

Despite this things weren't looking great for Dave.  Most of the other troops in the factory were broken and I was creeping around occupying more hexes and squeezing him into a smaller and smaller area.  He was fighting a desperate rearguard action and didn't seem to have too much hope.  It looked a little different to me.  Yes I was pushing forward but his kill stack reigned supreme and I was running out of troops.  So I made a fatal decision.  I brought my own kill stack down from the building and sent them into the factory.  Big mistake, big big mistake.

Not only did removing the kill stack from its overwatch position give freedom of movement to his reinforcements previously lurking in the rear but entering the factory exposed my 10-3 to fire from his .50cal.  It wasn't really my fault that this was the occasion when Dave decided to roll a four on a 24 flat shot and it wasn't really my fault that of five separate units in the hex to take the KIA random selection it was naturally the 10-3 that went down but it was still an idiotic decision on my part.

That was it, I had three squads broken (and casualty reduced on the LLMC) my best leader dead and Dave's reinforcements swarmed forward recapturing much of the terrain I had taken.  I sobbed my way through a concession and booked in for therapy.  Bizarrely in comparison to the previous game I was actually happy with my performance in this one.  It's nice to get back to just ordinary levels of incompetence.

The last point at which it looked good.  It got very sad and ugly just after this picture

 The wreckage of the German assault force cringed inside their starting location grateful to be alive.  A pair of them, under the direction of the gefreiter, were engaged in hanging up a big sign with some writing on it in Russian.

"Do you think this will work?" asked one of the soldiers.

"As long as higher command doesn't have Google Maps," replied the gefreiter.