The Dark Heart of Paradise

 Near where I, for the want of a better description, work is a food court. In this court dispensers of "protein" frequently liberally adorned with "leaves" hawk their wares to a stream of office dwellers apparently unconcerned that protein and leaves could well mean fruit bat and oleander. Protein and leaves present themselves in all sorts of ethnic variations and combinations referred to as "fusion" or "mutation".or (in a rare burst of honesty) "I accidentally dropped one food tray on another". All around are happy people gorging themselves as they try and find the strength to face the afternoon.

But wait gentle reader, what's this? Is there a rotten heart to this nourishment for profit paradise? Indeed there is. A dark looming presence that casts a pall over the happy scene. Customers avert their eyes as they hasten past the grim location. Small children whimper and dogs flee. Actually given that the customer base is exclusively office workers there are no small children or dogs but if there were they would whimper and flee respectively.

It squats, a dark barren place in the midst of plenty. From time to time the brave attempt to penetrate its depths to no avail. Despite their hopes, their dreams, their ambitions, all come to naught in the face of this squat malevolence. It is the boarded up shop! Once there was a food vendor here indistinguishable from any of the others. Possibly they sold indigenous sushi or Lithuanian fusion pasta but it matters not. Whatever implausible collection of leaves and protein was foisted on the general public from the glistening counters and faux something or other bench tops are long since gone. The vendors transgressed! Some foul crime against the Gods of Semi-fast Food was committed and those mighty deities unleashed their wrath. 

Their hopes in ruins the vendors fled, thankful at least to have got out with their lives even if their artisan cheese board was sacrificed to make good their escape. Since that time the curse has festered, its dark tentacles worming into the very structure of the haunted location. From time to time a new vendor arrives with a heart full of dreams and an trailer load of animal parts and leaves. Surely fame and fortune are just a few deconstructed sandwiches away. But no, even as they unveil the gleaming counter and stock the fridge with bottles of juice so adorned with words like "cold press" and "artisan" that it is difficult to identify the fruit that purportedly went into their creation, dark forces are moving against them.

What exactly happens no one knows. The other vendors know better than to ask questions. All anyone can say for sure is that a few weeks to a couple of months after that proud, hopeful opening the place is surrounded by boarding once more. No longer will customers be able to purchase cumquat and cape buffalo sandwiches on artisan rye bread hand fired in their own oven according to a traditional recipe used by a Gypsy tribe that starved to death in the fourteenth century. Grateful to have escaped with their lives the vendors themselves have been forced to work at McDonalds in order to survive.

Still it could be worse, at least they're not forced to eat at McDonalds in order to survive.

Silly After Action Report - Danger Forward

At some point during the extended period of self harm that was the Italian war effort in World War 2 the high command demanded that the infantry be provided with a support vehicle that would add a little sorely needed firepower to their attacks. Thus the semovente L40 da 47/32 was born. Or rather thus the semovente L40 da 47/32 was hastily cobbled together in Ansaldo's version of Frankenstein's laboratory. Essentially Ansaldo plundered the graves of various Italian armoured vehicles and patched the semovente together from the pieces. The chassis was that of the L6/40 light tank. The gun was the 47mm that had been serving the Italian army with decreasing effectiveness since 1937. These two things were merged together by means of a rectangular metal box which was also (in a burst of misplaced optimism) intended to house the crew. Ansaldo thus managed to produce a vehicle which was simultaneously brand new and hopelessly out of date. Nevertheless the Italian high command, secure in the knowledge that they themselves wouldn't be called upon to operate it, declared themselves satisfied. A bottle of champagne was broken across the first vehicle to christen the series and as soon as the armour plate dislodged by the impact had been replaced the little semovente trundled off to war.

In trundling off to war the semovente was aided by the fact that the war was now significantly closer to its manufacturing facilities and it didn't have to trundle too far. With its cramped crew compartment which made loading the gun under fire an act of suicide, its absence of machine guns, its thin armour and open top the little semovente was, well probably as good as any other Italian AFV at the time. The 47mm was aging but its high explosive rounds could definitely support infantry and its HEAT round could at least notionally penetrate the frontal armour of a Sherman if said Sherman somehow failed to blow the semovente to scrap before reaching point blank range. In the upcoming scenario I command two of these magnificent beasts. A measure of my faith in them is the fact that I placed more reliance on the two armoured cars I was also equipped with. 

For reasons I cannot begin to justify I have been eager to play this scenario for quite a while. This is scenario AP 16 - Danger Forward which depicts an Italian force attacking the town of Alimena in Sicily despite the fact that the Americans have just attacked it themselves. The locals of Alimena refer to this period as "the time of popularity". 

To win I need to finish the game in possession of at least four stone buildings only one of which is within my set up area. Hampering me is the fact that the Americans set up and move first thus allowing them to plunge deep into the village before I can even move. I command what was probably officially called an "all arms force" but is perhaps more accurately defined as a random collection of detritus shoved together to form a combat unit. I have twenty two squads, six of bersaglieri and sixteen of increasingly reluctant first liners. These reluctant warriors are led by three officers of moderate competence and are equipped with precisely three machine guns, two light and one medium. The strongest man in the unit stumbles under the weight of a solothurn 20mm antitank rifle. Providing, well not so much support as vague encouragement, is my armour. Two of the little semoventes mentioned above and two AB41 armoured cars which whatever their other deficiencies have a rotating turret and machine guns.

Opposing me my opponent Dave commands sixteen first line American squads each with double the firepower of its Italian counterpart. These troops are led by three somewhat better officers and are equipped with a pair of medium machine guns and two bazookas. Rolling on in turn two is his tank support, a pair of M5A1 Stuart tanks which were apparently provided to demonstrate to the Italians what light armour was supposed to look like. 

Below is the at start set up. Dave moves first, his troops poised to plunge deep into the town. My troops are gathered together in an incoherent mass. My sole consideration was to get my troops into such of the town as remained unoccupied without taking too many casualties enroute. I wasn't entirely successful on that score. I had my 7-0 and a couple of squads in the sole stone building within my set up area largely because it would simply be embarrassing to lose that one. 

As start, Dave's forces are well spread out ready to move tactically. Mine are clumped together ready to move impractically

Dave's Americans pushed forward pegging out claims although he didn't push quite as far forward as I expected. I felt a little surge of hope. That surge petered out when his pair of medium machines managed to stun one of my little semoventes and break both the squads lurking beneath its dubious protection. 

 

End of American turn one. The Italians are eager to get into the town if only to protect themselves from the mmgs up on the hill

 

With turn one upon me I hustled my remaining troops into the town. My plan, and I did have one, was to try and control the last two streets of the village. This would protect the ownership of more than sufficient stone buildings. An armoured car was sent to the bottom of the board to help the troops there ward off a flanking attack while the remaining three vehicles were supposed to lurk behind buildings and add their firepower to the defence. A fair bit of this plan actually worked which just goes to show it must have been a pretty rubbish plan.

End Italian turn 1

 My troops surged through the buildings but nervously and with a definite "keep out of the Americans way" vibe about the whole process. Having recovered from being stunned one of my semovente snuggled in behind some convenient buildings. I had no illusions about taking out the Stuarts with these things (although theoretically it's possible) but I planned to use them to bolster my somewhat fragile infantry defenders. This they succeeded in doing, briefly.

The first couple of turns were a feeling out phase as both sides grabbed buildings and made plans for the future. Readying for the oncoming storm in the case of the Italians and digging out their best uniforms for the victory parade in the case of the Americans. 

 Dave's Stuarts arrived making every other armoured vehicle feel shabby and inadequate. The Stuarts plunged deep into the town, one of them promptly stunning my other semovente. A powerful force swung around my left while his troops pressed my front line (it was more of a front blob). A close combat raged in one of the buildings I had hoped to hold for some time.

Turn 2 and already under pressure

In my view close combat is an unnecessary risk for the Americans. An Italian squad can face down an American halfsquad in CC and if the odds are greater there is always the chance that the grey heroes will get lucky. My grey heroes did indeed get lucky. They killed a US halfsquad and accompanying leader and reestablished my front line. This was useful as my back line was rapidly filling up with broken Italian squads who had fled the front line. On my right a Stuart took a second shot at a semovente and made no mistake this time, the little vehicle going up in flames. My surviving semovente was stunned (again) I think collectively both vehicles managed to break one American squad. My armoured car in the street played a greater role, using its machine guns to help defend my front line buildings which was useful as my squads were folding like wet carboard. 

In the east (bottom of the board) I decided I could waste a squad and an armoured car on an act of reckless foolishness. I sent both squad and car racing to the south end of the board where the squad leapt into a building taken but abandoned by the Americans as they swept for my flank. I had no hope that they would hold this position but intended to divert a little of the seething mass of American firepower and preserve my main position for a little longer.

One semovente is gone but my front line is reestablished (sort of)

 Distract they did although the armoured car didn't distract for too long. I had completely forgotten that the Americans had a couple of bazookas. In the next turn David reminded me of the fact and my flanking armoured car was duly destroyed. However he did have to send some guys back to chase my troops out of their newly acquired building. In the centre Dave pushed his luck with a Stuart too far and my atr team managed a deliberate immobilisation hit. Dave's tank crew declined to stay in the vehicle and were cheerfully shot to death by Italian infantry. I was delighted at this especially as my other semovente had managed to malf its main armament and fled the scene. The other however positioned itself where it could command the street I had hitherto been using to funnel reinforcements to the front line.

 

A Stuart is gone but so is most of my armour

That was pretty much the end. I clung on for another couple of turns but stone buildings were not enough to protect my Italians from the staggering firepower the Americans could generate. Having learnt his close combat lesson Dave took no further chances and remorselessly squeezed me literally shooting the Italians out of the buildings. With my number of stone buildings shrinking and Dave's Americans pouring mineable quantities of metal into my hapless defenders I gave the surrender while I still had a stone building or two to my name.

I don't know why I wanted to play this scenario (hint: Italians) but now I've done it and I never had to do it again. Many thanks to Dave for the game and a MVAM to the squad with the atr who provided the Italians with their one brief moment of glory. 

Travelling Hopefully - Copenhagen Briefly

Despite fog and a seething mass of humanity at Sorvagur airport my flight took off on time and even more fortunately I was on it. This wasn’t guaranteed and I stood in the queue for the Faroes only metal detector in a frenzy of impatience as I watched the time until departure tick steadily away.

It had been raining in the Faroes but the weather in Copenhagen was more accommodating. I had a ridiculously long layover in Copenhagen and had decided to get out and see a little of the city while I waited.

I had a walking tour for 8pm but I got out of the airport so quickly that I found myself in Copenhagen with a couple of hours to spare. I was due to meet my guide next to a statue of Bishop Absalon, a10th century cleric who was almost certainly not the founder of Copenhagen. The statue depicts Absalon in a typically devout pose; on horseback, dressed in mail wielding an axe. The church did things a little differently in those days.

On the metro into town I was approached by what looked like a street thug (metro thug?) and I prepared myself for fight or flight. Well flight or whimpering for mercy if you must know. Just as I tensed my knee muscles for the grovelling to come he indicated he was there to check my ticket. Weeping with relief I waved the little cardboard slip and sank back to recover my composure.

I stumbled across the Danish royal palace or rather I encountered four of them clustered around a square decorated with a statue of what I presume was a prominent  previous member of the Danish royal house. He was on horseback too so It’s entirely possible it was another psychopathic bishop. I went and saw the little mermaid because one does this when one is in Copenhagen doesn’t one.

With that out of the way I made my way to the bishop’s statue. I sat on the axe free side just in case. My guide met me and ushered me through the gathering darkness and occasional flecks of rain. He appeared knowledgeable easily identifying various structures as they loomed out of the gloom. Of course he could have said anything, I didn’t have the knowledge to challenge him.

I also learned that while Danes are a pleasant, peaceful people for some reason the blood of their Viking ancestors comes to the surface the moment they get on a bicycle and they charge across Copenhagen like the raiders of old. I cringed on the far fringes of the footpaths, on a couple of occasions I attempted to climb the walls to get away.

With Copenhagen thoroughly explored and death by bicycle narrowly avoided I returned to the airport which would be my home for the next thirteen hours to discover that the airport lounge I had hoped to bunk down in closed at 10.30. I roamed the corridors of the airport like a sleep deprived ghost waiting for sunlight or at least an indication that the lounge would be opening soon.

I have now been awake for over twenty eight hours and I’m not entirely certain whether I’m typing a blog entry or scratching markings into the airport wall with one of my own finger bones.

Travelling Hopefully - Puffins!

All week our tour guides had been lowering our expectations for puffin sightings. It is late in the season, most of the puffins will be gone back out onto the ocean where they improbably lead their lives. It was definitely with a sense of foreboding that I dragged myself from bed in preparation for the journey to Mykines. 

Mykines is one of the most westerly of the Faroes Islands giving puffins easy access to the open sea. We had to drive to Vagur and then hop on a quite small boat for a slightly bouncy trip out to sea.

The island of Mykines is quite small. One doesn’t realise at first glance how small. There is a tiny harbour and steps that lead up to the obligatory picturesque village. Behind the village the land rises to a ridge. And that’s it. On the other side of the ridge is the ocean which can be conveniently accessed by losing your balance and plummeting to your death.

Along the aforementioned ridge seabirds nest. Gannets, fulmars, skuas and if the whim takes them, puffins. The whim takes the puffins each breeding season as they seek a home where their egg won’t immediately sink to the bottom of the sea. Once the product of said egg is more or less functional they have no reason to stick around.

Birds there were aplenty as we made the climb. Even the occasional puffin teased us by flying past too distant for a decent photo. Puffins don’t hang elegantly in the air like other seabirds incidentally. They barrel through the sky like miniature torpedoes, wings threshing like mad. By the time you see them they’re gone. I reluctantly accepted that this would be the closest I would come to a puffin. I traipsed along the cliff top glumly when suddenly there was a puffin directly in front of me. My girlish squeal frightened it away but fortunately others were made of sterner stuff. I photographed and gurgled in delight in about equal quantities as puffins posed for photos, landed in the grass in front of me and generally behaved like extras in a David Attenborough documentary. And just when I thought I was satiated with puffins suddenly there were more and I went into avian induced ecstasies once more. We walked the length of the ridge, snobbishly ignoring the other birds that desperately tried to attract our attention. Finally when we could take no more we repaired to the tiny village for seafood soup. Carrot soup was provided for those of us with a fish issue.

On the journey home the sea was a little rougher (ie still pretty calm for the Atlantic Ocean). We clutched desperately to  convenient pieces of boat. Meanwhile our guide, a former sailor, stood unaided on the deck despite knee braces and a walking stick and wondered what all of the fuss was about.

This was a near perfect end to my trip. My puffin cup runneth over and with the Faroes well and truly visited I could leave happy. The only thing that could have made it better is if I had seen a whale but if I had I would probably also have had to watch as my guide ran it ashore and killed it.

Travelling Hopefully - Suduroy

 Suduroy is the southernmost of the Faroes and some distance from the rest. While most of the northern isles are connected by tunnels and in some cases bridges the only way to get to Suduroy is by boat. Or at least it’s the only way for a budget conscious tour guide with two minibuses and a dozen random humans to transport.

We piled onto what was either a large ferry or a small liner and set out across the ocean wave. Fortunately the ocean wasn’t waving too vigorously and the passage was mercifully vomit free. Along the way we saw other smaller islands most of which were inhabited although not necessarily by too many people. There were sheep of course even on the most inaccessible.

People are a bit different in Suduroy. At least our guide assures us this is the case. The people are blunter, more earthy with a rather distinct way of speaking. Our guide (not from Suduroy I must point out) mentioned the case of a man from Suduroy who was arrested for calling a police officer “a hellish dick licker”. The case was thrown out of court because “that’s the way they speak down there”.

People from Suduroy refer to anyone from any of the other islands of the Faroes as “Northerners” no further distinction being necessary. Strangely we hadn’t come to interact with the locals. We had come to visit garbage dumps.

In days long (our guide assures us) past the Faroese disposed of their garbage by taking it to the most picturesque piece of coastline they could find and dumping it in the sea. Fast forward what I hope is a reasonable period of time and minibus loads of foreigners are driven to the locations to take photos.

There wasn’t actually any rubbish there of course. It had no doubt washed up on a random beach half a world away many years ago. All that was left was a couple of atmospherically rusting car wrecks drowned by the tide and some spectacular scenery. Nowadays of course the Faroese don’t dump their rubbish at sea, they either burn it or send it to Denmark.

Not bad as rubbish dumps go

Once we had exhausted the photo opportunities afforded by rubbish dumps it was time to dine like a local. You know what this means. For some reason tour guides have an absolute fetish for digging out the most dubious aspects of their culinary history and encouraging foreigners to eat them. Possibly they’re taking bets on who will throw up first. The Faroes version was better than many insofar as it was presented as snacks with the promise of a proper meal later.

So the Faroese delicacies? Dried fish, fermented lamb and potato slices accompanied by whale meat and blubber. I begged off from the fish for dietary reasons but nobly took part in the rest. The fermented lamb was quite enjoyable but the only thing I can say about the whale is I can’t believe anyone who’s ever tasted it would want to do so again. We had it with Faroese beer which is excellent although I would probably have drunk urine to get the whale taste out of my mouth. Strangely urine wasn’t on the list of Faroese delicacies.

On the ferry returning to relative civilisation in Torshavn a pod of pilot whales was spotted not too far from the ship and apparently half the population of the Faroes took to their boats and gave chase. Sadly for the islanders but happily for the whales they didn’t catch them.

Disclaimer: At least one fish, one sheep and one whale were killed in the making of this blog entry but from the taste not recently.

Travelling Hopefully - The Great Sheep Mortality

One cold day in the Faroes (ie any of them) in the early 1600s the locals woke up to a shocking sight. Sheep corpses stretched as far as the eye could see. Panic struck the people. Was this the wrath of God? A mass suicide attempt? A grim foreshadowing of the apocalypse?

In fear and trembling the population gathered often having to move a sheep corpse out of the way in order to do so. Agonised discussions followed. Had the community sinned? Was this the precursor to an invasion? Had someone decided to hit the Faroese where they were most vulnerable? As the extent of the ovine cataclysm became more apparent the discussions became more frantic. Local witches were burnt, desperate attempts were made to propitiate apparently irate deities, the oldest and wisest among the villagers took counsel desperately seeking the reason for the horror inflicted on their innocent communities.

Eventually they just put it down to one of those things, imported more sheep and got on with their lives. Oh yes and everyone ate mutton for a month. 

As near as we can tell it was the weather. After living on the Faroes for generations the sheep finally decided it was a bit too cold for them and turned up their woolly toes.

To be fair to the sheep there was a decided cold snap at this time and on the Faroes a cold snap is more of a snarl. Once things calmed down a little the replacement sheep flourished and their descendants remain to this day, living outside in Winter, clinging to the sides of mountains and steadfastly refusing to die despite all the opportunities to do so. This say much about the resilience of sheep and the inability of humans to learn from experience.

Travelling Hopefully - Cliffs and a Surprising Number of Trees

Once again I and a minibus full of randomly selected strangers headed out over the misty Faroese roads. We had  been promised sea cliffs and birds. At least one of these was guaranteed to be present. After a brief stop to enable the newcomers to enjoy the local prison we headed for the village of Vestmanna which had a harbour. At Veatmanna a modestly sized boat was tethered waiting for us. It turned out it was waiting for a fair few other people too. We were given a choice; did we want views and hypothermia or neither? If we selected option A then we might want to make sure we were first in the queue so we could get a spot on the top deck. Those who liked their extremities could stay below. Our guides had helped with the decision making process by making sure we arrived early but we almost blew it by lingering in the gift shop relishing the last shreds of warmth we would feel for some time.

Still we made it and I like most of my fellows clambered up taking a stranglehold on the best viewing positions. With little fanfare our boat headed along the harbour towards the open sea. Along the way steep sided hills sloped sharply down to the water. The inevitable sheep grazed there maintaining their balance presumably by having two legs shorter than the others. An unworthy desire to see one of the woolly steeplejacks tumble into the bay rose within me but fortunately for the sheep I had no means of initiating the process.

Once out of the bay (or fjord I should call it) the sea became wild and rough. Or to put it another way the Atlantic was perfectly calm but for people raised on dry land our inevitable capsizing seemed only a matter of time. We took a sharp right turn and skirted the cliffs. The cliffs were very cliffy indeed. They towered sheer above us and the promised seabirds swooped and circled in the sky around.

It was spectacular and not the mist or the drizzle or the biting wind or the bitter cold could; sorry I seem to have lost my train of thought. Anyway it was spectacular in a wild and lonely way. Apparently feeling we weren’t impressed enough our captain steered us directly towards the cliffs. We were impressed then a little concerned and then outright terrified as he weaved his ship through narrow, sea carved inlets with birds shrieking above us waiting to feast on any survivors. I said before that the boat wasn’t that large. Right now it felt like a battleship as it snaked its way through rock fissures only slightly wider than it was.

With towering cliffs on three and a half sides of us we gasped in awe and no little relief as our noble steed weaved gracefully through wave lashed rock stacks and finally back not so much to the open sea as to the less immediately enclosed sea.

I SAW A PUFFIN! It came barrelling out of some cliff and hurtled past us but I saw it plainly, stripy beak and all. I’m very pleased I saw it as our guides have been delicately lowering expectations for our trip to puffin island over the last few days. It’s the end of the season apparently and the puffins are disinclined to hang around. At least I have seen one close enough for a positive identification. With my cup running over and my eyelids freezing shut the boat turned its head for home. After which the tour owner took us home to meet his mother.

Back in Torshavn with a few hours to spend I decided to use them walking to the national museum (the Faroes are not technically a nation but don’t mention that). I set off following the coastline from my hotel. Shortly before I fell into the sea the road turned inland and I turned with it. The area started to look familiar and I realised I had actually walked back to the vicinity of our guide’s mother’s house. She had given us cake the first time we turned up but I couldn’t expect repeat performance so I carried on walking.

A stream ran through some rough ground covered in grass and wildflowers so I left the road and walked through that instead. There were also trees dotted about the place. I mentioned in an earlier blog entry that the Faroes were distinctly short on trees. I may also have made some smartarse comment about trees being especially grown so that children know what they are before they visit the mainland. Well it turns out the Faroese government is way ahead of me. All of the trees I saw had been planted by children as part of a specific government initiative. Even so most of what I walked through was heathland rather than forest.

I made it to the museum half an hour before closing time. Shall we say I wasn’t so much steeped in Faroese culture as lightly dipped. The one fact that I remember is that apparently in the sixteenth century there was a great sheep mortality and most of the sheep on the Faroes died. But I couldn’t find out why. The sheep one now sees covering every exposed surface are the descendants of the sheep imported to replace the dead.  There was also stuff on fishing, Vikings and a display of a couple of skeletons to prove that even converting to Christianity is no guarantee that some curious bugger isn’t going to dig up your corpse at some time in the future and put it on display.