Travelling Hopefully - Random Rock Extrusion Edition

 I saw flamenco dancers in a cave.  I say cave, it was more of a tunnel.  Well I say tunnel, it was more of a room.  But it was a long low roofed room which gave off a definite tunnely vibe.  The rough, jagged ceiling was certainly reminiscent of a cave or possibly a poor stucco job.  On balance though I’m going to go with cave partly because it’s cooler to say I saw flamenco dancers in a cave than to say I saw them in a room with a poor plastering job but also because what with all the stamping if it had been stucco the ceiling would have been all over the floor by the end of the night.

Chairs had been set up against the walls of the tunnel (or cave or whatever) leaving a narrow runway in the middle for impassioned stomping.  It was advisable to keep your feet tucked as close to your chair as possible.  Drinks were provided and a procession of brightly dressed people made their way to the end of the cave (or tunnel or whatever) and assembled in a semi circle looking back at us.  There was a guy with a guitar whose sole purpose appeared to be getting drowned out by the dancers.

Once both artists and audience had been gathered together in roughly the same place the performance began.  A woman detached herself from the semi circle of performers and took her place on the runway between the audience.  The guitarist strummed a few notes relishing only moment when he could actually be heard and the performance began.

Describing the performance and doing it justice is difficult.  Imagine a drag queen on meth tap dancing and then imagine they are doing it with furious energy, incredible grace and tremendous poise.  Plus they’re doing it in a space where one false move will put them in the lap of an audience member.  It was spectacular, dramatic and very loud.  Grace and energy are difficult to combine effectively but here the two came together flawlessly.  It was an amazing performance and quite made up for the lack of stalactites on offer.

The cave flamenco was Granada’s farewell performance and quite a performance it was.  The next day a bus would perform its design function by transporting us to Seville in air conditioned semi discomfort.  Given the anticipated temperature in Seville air conditioned anything is preferable to the alternative.

Our noble metal steed barreled down a highway with olive trees stretching into the distance on either side.  From time to time a rock extrusion would rear up out of the olive tree covered earth and try unsuccessfully to assert the presence of other geographical features other than olive trees but sadly in vain.  The only other plants in evidence were oleander.  Our guide at the Alhambra the previous day had informed us that the Spanish line their highways with oleander.  The reason?  Oleander is incredibly poisonous and the mere smell dissuades wildlife from getting too close.  As a result Spain has one of the lowest roadkill rates in Europe.  This is good news for the wildlife (assuming they don’t need to cross the road) but it’s bad news for the desperate poor who are deprived of a vital source of protein and now have nothing to eat but oleander.

Travelling Hopefully - Pomegranate City

 In Granada it’s all about the pomegranates.  Well it isn’t actually nevertheless you will find various depictions of pomegranates popping up in unlikely places around the city including its flag. Even the name of the town reflects the pomegranate obsession held by the locals since earliest times.  Pomegranates were symbolic of wealth, abundance, fertility and a functioning market garden economy.  Since the founding of Grenada the Spanish have planted olive trees on every available piece of open land but it’s still the pomegranate that gets the shout out on the regional flag.  It is unknown whether this has caused resentment in the olive community.

After gazing at the Alhambra from afar the previous evening today today we would get up close and personal with all things red brick and monumental.  In deference to the hysterical weeping from one member of our tour group it was determined that we would catch a bus to the entrance rather than struggle up by foot.  Struggling by foot would commence once we alighted from the bus.

The Alhambra has a passport control stricter than many countries and we had to flash our proof of foreignership on multiple occasions just so we could continue to trespass on a national monument.  Immigration issues aside our path was smoothed by an excellent guide whose name I would repeat if I could remember it.  He was exceptionally knowledgeable and told us a lot of useful information about the Alhambra to add mental colour to our gawking.

The main thing he told us was that basically it was all about the plumbing.  The Alhambra is huge, basically a royal city encircled by a wall.  There is the palace where the Sultan hung out, a fort where the soldiers who alternately protected and menaced the aforementioned Sultan lived and the rest was occupied by all of the little people who rarely get a mention in history but without whom the Sultan would just be an overdressed guy with delusions of grandeur.  All of these people needed water, including the Sultan and this is a bit of a problem because the one thing Granada doesn’t have in abundance is water.

So for the Alhambra the whole place is designed to facilitate the flow of water (hijacked from a local river) from the top of the complex to the bottom through several kilometres of pipes and channels to ensure that every body got the wet stuff they needed and the Sultan could indulge his penchant for fountains.

Giving a silent acknowledgement to the Mario brothers of old we set off on the first stage of our tour which wasn’t the Alhambra at all but the Sultan’s summer palace a short way up the road.  It was called the Generallife a name which prompted our guide to assure us that it meant something different in Spanish and the Sultans were not in fact sponsored by an insurance company.  Given the average life expectancy of each Sultan there wouldn’t be an insurance company in the world that would touch them.

In keeping with most Islamic architecture the summer palace was pretty unimpressive on the outside with all of the cool stuff within.  This is partly modesty and a desire not to flaunt your wealth to the neighbours.  Modesty is all very well but if you happen to be sitting on a small (or large) fortune it’s probably simple common sense not to rub it in the faces of the less fortunate lest they decide to improve their fortune at your expense.

Surrounding the summer palace are vegetable gardens which have been producing edibles for centuries and continue to do so to this day.  Much of the summer palace is actually more modern as it was given as a reward to a wealthy Muslim family who betrayed the Sultan, abandoned their religion and discovered that the wages of sin were a large palace and marriage into the Grimaldi family.  You may remember the Grimaldi, they were a bunch of Italian thugs who captured Monaco by disguising themselves as monks and seizing the citadel by surprise.  They’re still there.  Anyway of course this family wanted to keep up with the latest trends so the gardens and renovations tend to be more French than traditionally Islamic.

Once past this monument to treachery and apostasy we followed the water channels down until we were in the Alhambra itself.  There’s quite a lot of it.  We first moved through the city where all those who laboured in the Sultan’s service lived.  Of this part not a shred remains.  As our guide pointed out it is the palace and the fort that gets all the publicity, nobody is going to pay scarce dollars to preserve a peasant hovel if there’s a palace crumbling next door.  And there is a palace crumbling next door.  In fact there are two.  Holy Roman Emperor (and King of Spain) Charles V demolished a chunk of the Sultan’s palace so that he could build a honeymoon palace on the site.  He stayed precisely one night and never came back.  To be fair this was at least partly because his empress (and co-participant in the honeymoon) developed an irrational fear of earthquakes and they decided to finish the honeymoon somewhere the roof was less likely to fall on their heads.

In place of the homes of the ordinary folk (although since they were direct servants of the Sultan they probably weren’t that ordinary) a handsome garden has been planted with gaps in the hedges representing the doors to various dwellings that had once been there.  My conclusion, houses were very small back then unless you were the Sultan or Holy Roman Emperor of course.

Past this leafy representation of the proletariat (or perhaps more accurately petty bourgeoisie) we come to the fort.  Towering walls with a view across the city of Grenada good enough to make anyone who lived there reconsider any treacherous thoughts they may have possessed.  There were also dungeons and grain silos which bore a remarkable similarity to each other.  The principal difference was you could exit the grain silo under your own steam.  Plus barracks which proved that the soldiers weren’t much better housed than the civilians.

And so to the royal palace where the Sultan sat in state and dispensed justice (at least it came from the Sultan so if you were interested in seeing tomorrow you called it justice and praised Allah for the Sultan’s wisdom and mercy).  As was traditional the palace started off unimpressive and got less so the further you got into it.  By the time you reached the room where the Sultan gave audience you had navigated twisting corridors, surprise opening doors, the obligatory pond and fountain combo and finally reached a room where the sun shone through stained glass and reflected onto the Sultan himself in such a way that it was difficult to determine what exactly you were seeing.  What you did know was you were in the presence of a man who could arrange the entire architecture of a palace so that you couldn’t quite see him even when you were looking straight at him.  Nothing about this was accidental.

At the end of the pond beyond the archway is the throne room

Having passed through the royal reception room (the Sultan was out) we emerged blinking into the sunlight and made our way through a conveniently planted forest back to the still inhabited part of the city which had the advantage of being closer to our hotel.

Travelling Hopefully - Bus Edition

 My solo travelling days, well day, were done.  After drinking deep of culture at the Prado I returned to find a semi random stranger installed in my room.  Sadly this wasn’t a mistake, I would be sharing a room for the remainder of my trip.  That evening a small gathering took place so that we could meet our tour leader and make ourselves known to her so she could identify our bodies should something happen to us that wasn’t on the itinerary.

And it was a small group, a mere five eager travelers gathered to hear the words of our leader.  As I have come to expect on these holidays we were a diverse group hailing from all over Australia.  We had two people from Perth which seemed a little excessive but I was prepared to be accommodating.  Our tour leader was perfectly qualified to guide us around all things Spanish as she came from Mexico.  She did however live in Lisbon and was quite delighted when in a pathetic attempt to impress we all announced that this was the particular part of the trip we were most looking forward to.

With the preliminaries out of the way we ate food and prepared for the next day’s journey.  The next day’s journey consisted of a five hour bus trip to Granada.  Pack snacks and water we advised.  I duly acquired a packet of crisps from somewhere but decided that flooding my body with water was not a sensible precursor to a five hour bus ride.

We left Madrid in what was essentially an air conditioning unit on wheels and headed south.  For the first time since my arrival I felt distinctly chilly.  Not that I was complaining, well I didn’t complain much.  At least I didn’t complain much once the other passengers threatened to throw me off the bus if I didn’t stop complaining.  So I shivered and looked at the scenery.

The scenery was amazing if you have a fetish for olive trees.  If you hate olive trees it’s going to be a long journey.  Actually the scenery reminded me quite a bit of Australia if you can imagine Australia covered in olive trees.  We crossed wasn’t quite a plain but certainly wasn’t rough enough to be considered hilly.  Every so often we stopped, I thought for a refreshment break but was actually so that we could change drivers.  No consideration was given to changing passengers.

As we approached Granada Spain got distinctly lumpier as we headed into the Sierra Nevada which constitute a major reason why Grenada was the last Muslim state in Iberia to fall to the reconquista.  Fall it did though but Grenada is still one of the areas of Spain where Islamic influence is visible.  As a stone example of said influence we would visit the Alhambra tomorrow.

For today once we had rinsed the travel dust from our bodies and made frantic dashes to the bathroom we had the traditional Intrepid tour familiarisation walk which consisted of finding the highest ground available and walking to it.  This took us through the old town of Granada with narrow streets and narrower alleyways and shops selling Turkish delight.  They sold other things as well but I focused on the Turkish delight.

Climbing up streets too narrow for cars, pausing to flatten ourselves against the walls when cars went by regardless, we made our way to a church perched above the city which afforded views of the Alhambra across the valley.  Even those of us muttering about the climb had to admit it was worth it.  The next day would have us up close and personal to the former centre of Muslim rule in Granada.  For some reason we needed our passports.

Travelling Hopefully - Mental Improvement Edition

 Something I’ve noticed about Madrid is they have quite the fountain fetish happening.  At least in the central part you can’t walk ten metres without some piece of stonework spitting water at you.  Not that, given the prevailing temperature, this is unwelcome.

After a brief twelve hour nap I bounded out of bed to see what Madrid could present me with.  I had one thing booked, a tour of the Prado Museum (it’s actually an art gallery but don’t tell anyone).  Aside from that my calendar was clear.  I soon discovered that I could probably have put a couple of other things in it.

My walk to the Retiro the previous day had left me physically prostrate (that’s a fancy way of saying “tired”) and I was concerned that getting to the Prado would be similarly difficult.  Happily the difference between me jet lagged and me rested would be decisive.

I set off at 8am for a 1pm tour which is taking caution to new heights but I was a man with a plan.  Having scoped out the way to the Prado yesterday I proceeded to go in a completely different direction.  My plan was to walk through a riverside park, turn right wander up to the royal palace, turn right again and approach the Prado from a completely different direction and, once culture had been imbibed turn right a final time and hopefully wind up back at my hotel.  Much to my surprise this plan came off flawlessly.

According to the park website the river is being “rewilded” which is a fancy way of saying “we’re letting the grass grow”.  The website waxed lyrical about the explosion of plant and animal life that has resulted.  I didn’t see too much of that but it was only eight in the morning so possibly they were still in bed.

I rather like Madrid or at least the part of it I was staying in.  Not only do they do parks on a grand scale but there are little plazas every block or so with a few trees and some seats for the locals to relax in.  I’ve also noticed that the population comes in two distinct types.  One half of the population are lean, fit and muscled, bursting with good health and fitness.  The other half are paunchy, flabby chain smoking wrecks.  There seems to be no in between.  I fit in nicely with approximately 50% of the population.

With the park at an all too soon end I girded my girdables and turned right towards the royal palace.  Handsome buildings and apartment blocks greeted my exit from the park.  To be fair many of the handsome buildings were apartment blocks.  At first I strolled up a broad, tree lined boulevard but as I approached the palace the roads narrowed and the buildings grew closer together.  Which meant that when I crossed a bridge and encountered both the royal palace and the Cathedral of Almudena, both of which are large enough to warrant their own post code, I was a little stunned.

The palace wasn’t anything special apart from being huge but the cathedral was as impressive as a cathedral next door to a royal palace should be.  It was now I wished I had booked a tour of the palace as well.  I had plenty of time unfortunately what I didn’t have time for was to stand in the lengthy queue to get a ticket.

I was taking a breather in the inevitable park next to the palace when the rattle of drums summoned me to my duty. They were changing the guard at the palace.  It was probably very impressive at the front gate but I was facing a side entrance where half a dozen soldiers and two guys on horseback were deemed sufficient to protect the most Catholic king from the ravening mob.  Speaking as an impromptu member of said mob I would have appreciated a few more soldiers.  Although if you want to overthrow the Spanish monarchy I can give you directions.

Once the amusement value of the exterior of the palace had been exhausted I turned right again and headed roughly in the direction of the Prado.  My path took me through narrow streets lined with cafes and shops, your basic “old town of European city” district.  It was appealing as such areas generally are but my eyes were on a bigger prize, the Prado beckoned.

Onward I strode, not just walked but strode, when I thought I was getting close I paused in front of a large building and checked the map.  If I hadn’t done that I would have face planted the Prado.  Once there it was a small matter to meet my guide, who was improbably named Macarena and set off for aging artworks.

I can’t really do the Prado justice so I shan’t try.  Large building, lots of paintings now you’ve got the gist.  I didn’t see the entire thing in a mere two hour tour but there was some creepily cool stuff by Heironymous Bosch, Velasquez hanging all over the place and paintings by a guy named van Eyck which seemed pretty impressive to a novice.  I was delighted to recognise Titian’s painting of Charles V possibly the only time I’ve ever recognised an artwork.  The tour finished with Goya and particularly the “black paintings” which were amazing; dull shades and metallic colours where there was colour at all.  The artist was apparently going through a period of depression which frankly was quite obvious.  They were grim, haunting and amazing.  He apparently painted them on the walls of his house and by some technique which was literally hit or miss they managed to transfer them to canvas so they could conveniently fit in a museum.

The Prado’s cafe lives up to the tradition established by all cafes located in a place where food isn’t the priority by serving truly dreadful coffee.  I didn’t risk the food but sat there sipping coffee, occasionally grimacing and feeling as cultured as anything.  Sadly the Prado doesn’t allow photos so I can’t actually prove I went there.  Although I can certainly prove I saw the outside.

Oh yes and I got a Spanish football shirt as well.

Travelling Hopefully- Random Fountain Edition

 It had to be said a brief lamination inspired moment of terror notwithstanding my trip was as smooth and easy as a three flight journey can be.  Turkish Airlines fed me honeycomb and clotted cream and topped it off with Turkish coffee and then while my eyeballs were still rattling around inside my head they deposited me in Madrid where clearing customs took less time than baggage collection.  There are definite advantages to flying during the week.

Having transformed my hotel room from a smart little location to an elephant’s graveyard of shabby clothes in the blink of an eye I looked about for something to do to stave off physical collapse until nightfall.  The next day I was booked in for a tour of the Prado museum and it seemed a sensible idea to wander up there the day before to get an idea of how long the walk was and to get the getting lost out of the way while I had time on my hands.

In my defence I only got lost once and not irretrievably (I obviously survived to make this post) and in more time than it takes to tell I found the Jardin Retiro..  Keen readers may note that I was looking for the Prado but the Retiro was right next door and a worthy target in its own right.  It is a large public park with the usual collection of trees and signs warning you not to feed the animals.  Hopefully birds don’t count as animals in Madrid because literally everyone seemed to be feeding them.  I took photos of the more photogenic.  “Photogenic being defined as those that stood still long enough to be photographed.

But the real draw card of the Retiro (apart from the Observatory, the Crystal Palace, random bird life and well sculpted nature) is the fountains.  It seems that everywhere that doesn’t have a tree has a fountain.  I had a particular fountain in mind and felt a ridiculous sense of accomplishment when I blundered across it.  This is the Fountain of the Fallen Angel and is possibly the only statue to Lucifer on public display.

It was definitely worth photographing although paying twenty Euro for a potato omelette from the little shop nearby was probably unwise.  On the other hand I may not need to eat again for the rest of my trip.  There were many other handsome statues and some equally impressive ducks but simply attaching that photo was a strain on my somewhat disheveled intellectual state so you’re just going to have to use your imagination.

Travelling Hopefully - Jet Lag Edition

 I must definitely choose to fly on Mondays more often.  It would appear that not many people do and the absence of other human beings makes for a much more pleasant journey.

On arrival at Sydney airport I was greeted by short queues, little confusion and a general lack of teeming throng.  I may have mentioned in the past that Sydney airport bears a strong resemblance to Limbo, the gloomy, featureless netherworld where the souls of the dead await their final destination.  No longer was that true, now it looked like Limbo from which most of the souls had been removed.  Even Hell is desirable if you have the place to yourself.

Smoothly I was whisked through baggage checks, smoothly I made my way to the departure gate and smoothly we boarded the plane as close to on time as makes no difference.  Then of course the captain announced smoothly that something had fallen off the aircraft  and there would be a delay while they nailed it back on.  We were an hour late taking off but it was a smooth hour delay.

It was at least thirty seconds into the flight before the baby started crying which I thought showed genuine restraint. Despite the hour long delay we were assured that we would arrive in Jakarta on time which begs the question what the hell would we have been doing for that extra hour if the plane had left on time?

We were waylaid at Jakarta airport by a guy with a laminated sign who demanded that everyone flying to Istanbul had to accompany him.  Such was the power of the sign that we all accepted this without question.  He could have been literally anyone.  Well anyone with access to a sign laminating machine.  Never underestimate the power of lamination.

Having herded those who admitted to an Istanbul destination into a deserted niche he of the laminated sign then vanished for ten minutes or so which was just enough time for some of us to envision cavity searches in our immediate future.  He reappeared with a couple of security guards (or cosplayers) and collectively they fired up a small X-ray machine and scanned both our hand luggage and ourselves.  Then apparently satisfied they released us into the wild a few short minutes walk from our departure gate.  At no point was it explained why we had been honoured in such a fashion.

Lest anyone think international travel is easy I should point out that I used my steak knife to butter my roll and was thus reduced to cutting my steak with a butter knife.  Also the steward dropped a cherry tomato into my lap; the struggle is real people.

After the lamination induced excitement at Jakarta our arrival at Istanbul was pretty low key, possibly due to the fact that it was four in the morning.  We appeared to be somewhat early which was handy as the airport was huge.  Still I managed to get to where I needed to go which was quite an achievement as my sleep patterns were so messed up by this stage that I was relying on my passport to remind me of my own name.  The picture in my passport was taken one day when I was quite unwell and it is pretty much perfect for identification at this stage of my journey.  If I ever get enough sleep and a change of clothes I’ll probably be detained as an imposter.

Silly After Action Report - They're Here! Reverse!

 Capitano Verdelho Frascati stood bolt upright in the turret of his M13/40 and struck a heroic pose as regulations demanded.  Around him the air was full of the sound of diesel engines doing their best.  Ahead little L6/40s, pilot fish to the mighty M13 sharks, nipped and weaved as they ploughed forward across the sand.  In Frascati's wake trucks hauled guns and infantry, dropping slightly behind but eager to be in at the kill.  Frascati adjusted his jaw to an appropriately Mussoliniesque angle, breathed deeply and promptly started gasping, coughing and retching.

At a rest break fifteen minutes later he was still gasping and choking.  Tears had transformed the dust on his cheeks into muddy channels.  It was difficult to attempt a heroic pose when you were doubled over retching but he did his best.  The maggiore was unimpressed.

"What the hell did you think you were doing Frascati?" he demanded.

"I was striking a heroic pose," wheezed Frascati, "to encourage the men."

"Well congratulations, you've sprayed your "heroic pose" all over the turret of your tank.  I think you can consider your men encouraged.  I've never seen a crew leave a vehicle that quickly.  Now get a squeegie and wipe down the gun mount we're moving again in five minutes.  And possibly you've learnt a lesson about not striking heroic poses in a dust intensive environment.  I suggest you go buttoned up from here like the rest of us."

"Buttoned up?" muttered Frascati glancing at the rather messy interior of his tank.

"Buttoned up," confirmed the maggiore.  "It's a good thing your men are so well encouraged.  You couldn't pay me enough to get into that particular tank right now."

At my increasingly pathetic pleading Dave very kindly agreed to play Scenario J47 - They're Here! Reverse! a scenario which has the highest ratio of exclamation marks to words in it's title that I have ever encountered.  I of course desperately wanted to play the Italians and Dave (who likes winning) was happy to oblige.  He even gave me the balance which added another two L6/40s to my OB.  This was almost a mistake as those little dinky toys punched well above their weight.

It is pre-Rommel north African desert and what's left of the Italian army is in fast rewind desperately attempting to get to Tripoli before the British do.  Unfortunately the sneaky British have cut across behind them and are now waiting in ambush.  There is intense heat haze, there is dust, there are smoke tanks.  What more could a man want?  I command an Italian tank force that is either attempting to clear the path for follow on troops or (more likely) stampede past the British and keep on running.  To do this I have to clear one of two hillocks of all British troops.  Standing in my path is Dave's doughty but outnumbered force.

It has to be admitted I have quite the force.  Thanks to the balance I have four L6/40 tanks, a dozen M13/40s and a pair of AB40 armoured cars.  An 8-1 armour leader commands.  I also have ten squads of bersaglieri commanded by a pair of deeply mediocre officers and carrying collectively a medium machine gun and a pair of hernia inducing 20mm antitank rifles.  Four trucks prove insufficient to cart all of these forward, some would have to march.  I also have three antitank guns, two 37mm and one 47mm all towed behind smaller trucks barely capable of carrying the gun crews.  This is the force that must sweep the British aside and gain Italy an unlikely victory.

For his part Dave is short on numbers but high on quality.  Nestled in sangars on the desired hillocks are six first line British squads equipped with a mmg and an antitank rifle.  They are led by a gallant 9-1 and a less than enthusiastic 7-0.  But Dave's real power lies in his armour.  He has four A13 MkII tanks carrying a 40mm gun, easily the equal of the 47mm mounted on my M13s and a pair of A13 MkI tanks with the same armament but sadly deficient in the armour department.  He also has a pair of A13 MkII CS tanks which fire smoke.  Just that and nothing else.  To ram the message home on turn four he receives another pair of smoke tanks.  At least they have a machine gun.  Possibly the most potent weapon Dave had was the 2 ROF on his A13 tanks.  A mild breeze is blowing across the battlefield and intense heat haze is in effect.

Here is the start set up with a horde of Italians waiting to enter

Despite the appearance of the map I had set up to hit the smaller, easternmost hillock with the bulk of my force while a group of tanks made threat displays towards the other hillock generated dust and generally attempted to divert the attention of his tanks on and around the other hillock.  L6/40s would lead the way and hopefully protect their bigger cousins with some dust.

The Italians obviously have a much larger force but the likelihood is that they will lose a decent chunk of it along the way.  The Italians are on the move making shooting difficult while the British are hull down behind hillocks (if the British have any sense) and the first couple of turns are a shooting gallery as the British try to whittle the numbers down while the Italians think dustlike thoughts and hope for the best.

End of Italian first turn

This was pretty much the situation for the first couple of turns.  Dave started as he meant to go on with one of his A13s getting rate and smashing up a couple of flanking M13s.  Burning wrecks would add to the amount of hindrances in the air.  There was so much dust it looked like a scene from The Mummy (the cool one with Brendan Fraser not the slobbering bucket of godforsaken crap with Tom Cruise).  Within that dust my surviving force ploughed doggedly onward.  Up front my faster moving armoured cars positioned themselves ostensibly so that they could start shooting up his infantry but actually so that his tanks would shoot at something less valuable than the M13s.  They were only partially successful in that regard.

By the end of Dave's first turn another M13 was knocked out and one of the armoured cars was ablaze.  The other had been shocked by a squad with an antitank rifle but at least it had lost concealment.  In my second turn I had pretty much reached the hillock and could start attempting to inflict some damage myself.  A trio of L6s surrounded his forward squad with the atr, admittedly one was immobilised and another had broken its MA but they were there goddammit.  M13s started to circle around to the east trying to find dust free shooting positions and my long suffering infantry gasped and stumbled towards the battlefield in support.  The trucks hauling my atgs were grimly battling through the dust as well.  I gained my first kill when I blew up the tank holding his armour leader and more smoke drifted across the battlefield effectively shrouding his mmg team and best officer.  Little did I know it them but that smoke was to prove my nemesis.

Incidentally how good are the L6 tanks.  They're nippy, they can place 6FP on infantry targets and that boxed 3 frontal armour makes them actually harder to kill through the front than the M13s quite apart from the fact that they're a small target as well.  They all died eventually of course but "they all died eventually of course" is basically the autobiography of any armour under my command.

End of Italian turn 2.  More dust, more smoke

In Dave' second turn a pair of L6s met their nemesis.  The atr killed one and another on the far west was immobilised.  Destroying it proved difficult but repeated hits eventually forced the crew to flee.  On top of that he shocked a pair of M13s and one which had broken its MA in the previous turn decided, wisely, to flee for the rear rather than take any further part in proceedings.  Meanwhile Dave had finally found a use for his smoke tanks.  We had spent much of the game to this point wondering what possible use they could be, now Dave proceeded to demonstrate.  He sent them forward into my rear and started shooting up my long suffering infantry as they attempted to catch up with the armoured spearhead.  I had disdained to shoot at them when I had the chance and now I paid for it as they made play in the backfield.

Suddenly the smoke tanks are useful after all

My third turn was one of ups and downs.  I killed the second tank on the hillock thus leaving only a pair of infantry squads between myself and my goal.  On the other hand armoured leadership was having a bad day.  Dave's armour leader was burning inside a tank and mine managed to break the MA of his tank taking a shot.  The tank would die before it was repaired.  One of my shocked tanks recovered but the other was killed by an A13.  On the target hillock Dave had been driven out of the first sangar and the smoke from his burning wrecks was hampering the efforts of his mmg team to gain useful results.  Such of my infantry as had ridden to the battle on trucks now pushed forward to the hillock but the stragglers were prey to his smoke tanks.  Foolishly I sent one of these squads into CC with a smoke tank and had to watch in disbelief as not only did I not get a result but the tanks return fired wiped out the squad.  A squad with an atr now felt obliged to linger in the rear to deal with these guys and I unloaded a 37mm atg as well.  The other 37mm was right up at the front on the east side of the hillock  The 47mm also unloaded to try its luck against his other tanks.

Casualties have been high but I seem to be getting somewhere

Things brightened up when my atr team shocked one of his smoke tanks and the other broke down while attempting to start.  Unfortunately the shocked tank recovered the next turn while the infantry I had at the front was insufficient to truly challenge for control of the hillock.  Still I was hopeful.  I had a pair of M13s behind the hillock and now the hulldown status would start to benefit me as well.  If I could deal with the remaining infantry Dave would have to attack and I hoped that what little remained of my armour could beat off any such effort.  Rather surprisingly he brought his surviving MkI (with the thin armour) closer up onto the road where it rapidly gained an accumulation of acquisition counters from what little remained to shoot at it.

Foolishly I'm starting to feel hopeful

My poor little L6s didn't survive the sudden renewal of attention on them now that the bulk of the M13s were gone.  In return my 37mm atg set his MkI ablaze thus providing more smoke while in the rear his smoke tanks dropped down smoke rounds rendering the other two atgs pretty much impotent.  Dave's reinforcing smoke tanks rolled forward and headed straight for the hillock.  Smoke and dust now shrouded the hillock to the point where it was almost impossible to see anything.

The reinforcing smoke tanks have arrived.  You just can't see them under all the dust and smoke.

In actual fact the term "almost impossible to see anything" turned out to be an understatement.  What with smoke from burning wrecks and vehicular dust it was impossible to see anything.  I rolled my remaining platoon of M13s up adjacent to his surviving sangar dwellers only to discover that even at point blank range they couldn't see the defenders in the next hex.  Dave moved his smoke tanks into the hexes occupied by his infantry to create more dust and make it impossible for such of the Italian infantry as was left to completely clear them out even assuming they passed the 1PAATC required to even try.  With five turns down and time getting late I gave Dave the concession.  I had been brought to a standstill.  The plethora of smoke and dust meant there was very little chance of his tanks inflicting any more harm on me but I could not get forward the final hex or so I needed for victory.

Literally no-one can see anyone else

This game would be appalling to play face to face.  As Dave put it, it was counter clutter from Hell.  On line however I found it enormously enjoyable.  I am deeply grateful to Dave for playing what was certainly not his first choice.  So victory to Dave and my surprisingly gallant Italians coming up short at the last.

"Well I see you manage to survive Frascati," noted the maggiore.  "I was hoping, sorry expecting you to find a hero's death on the hillock like so many of your comrades."

"I'm sorry sir but the dust and smoke were so bad that I couldn't see anything at all."

"You managed to see the exit clearly enough.  And what the hell did you do to that gun?"

Frascati glanced with embarrassment at his tank where a team of mechanics with rather nauseated looks on their faces were attempting to "repair" the main armament.  Finally one of them got a high pressure hose and simply sprayed the inside of the tank.  Finished he gave a thumbs up.

"Just needed to clean out the dust and organic matter," announced the chief mechanic.  "Where did you find organic matter in the desert anyway?"

"I believe Capitano Frascati provided it himself."