Gaslight flickered. Archibald, Ernest, and Isabelle faced Silas Scrivener, whose voice, like dry parchment, droned on with a Somniferous Soliloquy.
Scrivener reveals his extensive work on the Codex Maleficarum, criticizing academics for their lack of understanding. He has carefully documented various symbols and authored seven monographs, facing numerous bureaucratic challenges, particularly with the Ministry of Antiquities, regarding the preservation of seemingly insignificant documents. He stresses that the true obstacles to knowledge are not dark forces but the mundane hurdles created by officials, highlighting how even mundane shopping lists can reflect deeper socio-economic truths. Ultimately, he expresses frustration over the overshadowing of his scholarly pursuits by their current predicament.
As Scrivener paused, a snore filled the air. Ernest, slumped against a bookcase, was fast asleep, drooling. The tireless comic relief had succumbed to the most potent weapon: sheer boredom.
Detective Inspector Grainger, Archibald, Isabelle, and Ernest arrive at a crumbling, medieval abbey—the suspected home of the Codex Maleficarum. While Grainger dismisses it as a pigeon’s nest, Archibald recognizes its ancient significance.
Ernest soon spots faint, recent scuffs on the path, suggesting something heavy was dragged. Isabelle identifies a distinct, circular pattern. Archibald, using his magnifying glass, identifies the marks as being from Count Hrodbert’s custom-built, pneumatic, antique-artifact-recovery sled, noting the faint metallic sheen from its brass runners.
Archibald declares Hrodbert has already been there and is likely inside the abbey searching for the Codex, having anticipated its return to its rightful, forgotten home. The hunt for Hrodbert and the Codex now leads them into the dark heart of the Abbey of The silent Watchers.
Inspector Grainger’s jaw tightened. Emerging from the abbey ruins were Constable Finchley, a known crooked cop, and Mayor Thompson, a vocal supporter of Count Hrodbert. Archibald mused that Hrodbert’s network clearly extended beyond ancient texts into more earthly power.
Suddenly, two shots rang out from Grainger’s pistol, echoing through the crumbling stones. Finchley cried out, stumbling. Two hits, and the crooked constable went down, collapsing amidst the shadows. The air crackled with a new, deadly tension; the Count’s hunt for the Codex was now entwined with brazen corruption and brutal violence.
Two constables, their routine patrol interrupted by an errant tabby and a shared thermos of lukewarm tea, stumbled upon what appeared to be another promising candidate for the Codex’s missing sanctuary. This time, it was an abandoned, ivy-choked chapel, its stained-glass windows long shattered, perched precariously on a lonely rise overlooking the industrial district. “Well, what have we here, O’Malley?” Constable Davies remarked, peering through a gaping hole where a door once stood. “Looks like someone’s forgotten their holy water.” Before they could even contemplate the merits of a thorough search, a sleek, black motorcar purred to a silent halt on the gravel track behind them. From its depths emerged a figure of immaculate tailoring and chilling composure: Silas “The Ledger” Thorne. His eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the constables and the chapel with an almost imperceptible flick, like a financier assessing a doubtful asset. “I believe, gentlemen,” Thorne’s voice cut through the damp air, smooth as polished granite, “you are quite off your designated beat. And this particular… historical site… is currently under private management.” The unspoken threat in his tone, a velvet glove around an iron fist, was far more potent than any shouted command. The constables, recognizing the chilling authority in the mob boss’s gaze, exchanged nervous glances. Their search for the Codex, or indeed any further inquiry into the chapel’s secrets, abruptly ceased, replaced by a swift, albeit reluctant, retreat.
The gaslight, already struggling against the encroaching gloom, seemed to dim further as two new figures emerged from the swirling mists of the London night and into Archibald’s cluttered study. First, a vision of dangerous elegance: Else, a woman whose very presence exuded a perfume of danger and illicit allure. She moved with a feline grace, her eyes, like emeralds, fixing on Archibald with an intensity that promised both delight and ruin. Beside her, a man of stark, unyielding presence: Silas “The Ledger” Thorne, his immaculate tailoring a stark contrast to the dust and disarray of the professor’s domain, his gaze as cold and calculating as a winter ledger.
Else, with a practiced slowness, blinked her long lashes, a silken smile playing on her lips as she leaned against the doorframe, her posture a symphony of seductive curves. “Professor Fitch, I presume?” her voice purred, an instrument tuned to ensnare. Archibald, however, merely adjusted his spectacles, entirely absorbed in a particularly stubborn stain on his waistcoat. Her seductive overture, a weapon honed on countless lesser men, fell utterly flat. A flicker of annoyance, swift and sharp, crossed her features. Without a word, or even a change in her languid pose, a small, pearl-handled derringer appeared in her hand. Two sharp reports cracked the quiet of the study, smelling faintly of burnt powder. Archibald, mid-ponder, winced, a surprised gasp escaping him as a warm wetness bloomed on his arm. A minor wound, indeed, but one delivered with chilling precision. “My dear woman,” he exclaimed, more perturbed by the sudden interruption to his thoughts than the actual injury, “must you be so dreadfully… direct? And your aim, while commendable, is quite unnecessary.” Thorne merely watched, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips, a silent testament to the ruthless efficiency of his dangerous accomplice. The game, it seemed, had just taken a decidedly more perilous turn.
Sergeant Bilko, in his usual boisterous style, investigated the Abbey of the Silent Watchers, another potential hiding place for the Codex Maleficarum. Isabelle, with her sharp eye, noted the abbey’s unique architecture. Ernest, ever observant, discovered faint, distinct footprints near a crumbling fountain, alongside the faint scent of cigar smoke and metal. Archibald quickly identified these as the unmistakable marks of Count Hrodbert’s meticulously turned-out valet and, by extension, Hrodbert himself. This definitively confirmed that the elusive Count had recently visited the abbey, keeping the chase for the Codex very much alive.
In the Abbey of the Silent Watchers, the tense confrontation escalated as Silas “The Ledger” Thorne made his move on Archibald. Without hesitation, Isabelle drew a small pistol. Two precise shots rang out: the first struck Thorne in the leg, the second in the shoulder, bringing the mob boss crashing to the ground. Archibald, ever unruffled, merely noted her commendable aim, while Isabelle calmly explained that protecting their access to the Codex Maleficarum from Thorne’s “unscrupulous management” was paramount, leaving the meticulous criminal defeated on the abbey floor.
The sharp crack of Isabelle’s pistol had barely faded when Else, her emerald eyes now blazing with cold fury, retaliated with terrifying speed. Before Archibald or Ernest could react, her pearl-handled derringer spat fire again, two more shots echoing through the Abbey. Isabelle, caught in the sudden, brutal exchange, gasped, her hand flying to her chest. She stumbled backward, her quiet strength giving way as a crimson stain bloomed rapidly across her sensible tweed, and she collapsed, still and tragically silent, onto the cold, unforgiving flagstones of the Abbey of the Silent Watchers. The air, thick with gunsmoke and the stench of blood, now held the devastating weight of a life extinguished, a valiant protector fallen in the pursuit of the Codex Maleficarum.
The sudden, brutal fall of Isabelle ignited a rarely seen spark within Professor Archibald Fitch. The mild-mannered linguist, whose usual combat involved obscure footnotes, now moved with an almost primal instinct. As Else, her face a mask of cold triumph, raised her derringer for another fatal shot, Archibald, with a surprising fluidity, produced a concealed, albeit slightly antiquated, revolver. Shots erupted across the mausoleum in rapid succession, a cacophony of echoes against the ancient stone. Archibald, his spectacles glinting, fired with an unnerving, almost scholarly precision. Else, her dangerous beauty twisting into a grimace of pain and disbelief, staggered, her own weapon clattering to the floor. The woman of perilous allure, who had dealt such a cruel blow, now succumbed to the professor’s unforeseen accuracy, collapsing to join “The Ledger” on the cold, unforgiving floor, silenced by the very violence she had unleashed in the hallowed confines of the Abbey of the Silent Watchers. The air, thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder, now carried the heavy stillness of a deadly exchange concluded.
Just as the final echoes of the gunfire faded into the ancient stone, a new, chilling sound reverberated through the mausoleum: a high-pitched, triumphant cackle. Count Hrodbert, a figure of theatrical villainy, emerged from the deeper shadows, his eyes gleaming with mad ambition. “Mwahahahahaha!” he boomed, his voice resonating with what he clearly believed was the gravitas of his finest, most villainous hour. He strode towards the fallen figures and the exposed Codex Maleficarum, clearly anticipating a triumphant claim of victory and, no doubt, a lengthy, self-congratulatory monologue.
But destiny, as it often does, had a most peculiar twist in store. Before the Count could utter another syllable of his grand proclamation, a low, guttural rumble began to emanate from a nearby sarcophagus. It was Mr. Bigglesworth, Hrobert’s perpetually grumpy, extraordinarily fluffy Persian cat, who had, until this moment, been observing the chaos with aristocratic disdain. With a sound that could only be described as a “vookit-thwack!”, Mr. Bigglesworth tensed, his eyes watering, and then, with astonishing velocity, ejected a projectile. It was a hairball, of truly prodigious size and disturbing aerodynamic properties, launched with the force of a small cannon.
The furry missile struck Archibald squarely in the chest, just as he was attempting to push himself up. The unexpected impact, coupled with the sheer disgust of the projectile, sent the professor tumbling backward with an undignified yelp. The Codex Maleficarum, which he had just managed to secure in his grasp, flew from his hands, sliding across the polished floor directly to the astonished feet of Count Hrodbert.
Hrodbert stood frozen, his “Mwahahaha” dying in his throat, utterly dumbfounded by this bizarre intervention. His moment of triumph, painstakingly orchestrated, had been spectacularly upstaged by a feline digestive incident. Archibald, sprawled amidst the dust and scattered ancient texts, merely groaned, “Oh, for the love of linguistic purity, Bigglesworth! Must you be quite so… biological at such a pivotal juncture?” The true villain of the piece, it seemed, was neither the murderous femme fatale nor the cunning mob boss, but a supremely ill-timed hairball.
With a smug grin that stretched across his face like a victory banner, Count Hrodbert swept from the mausoleum, Mr. Bigglesworth – still somewhat stunned – clutched incongruously in one arm, and the weighty Codex Maleficarum clutched in the other. He exited stage right, as it were, to the raucous applause of what appeared to be a rather disturbingly well-organized contingent of his adoring, if somewhat dishevelled, fans, who had evidently been lurking in the shadows, awaiting his glorious emergence. “Mwahahahahaha!” he crowed once more, his voice echoing off the abbey walls, convinced this was his crowning moment, the ultimate intellectual conquest.
Little did the triumphant Count know, however, that the very “tome” he now cradled was nothing more than an elaborate deception. The Codex Maleficarum, so zealously pursued, so fiercely defended, was merely a ruse, a bait crafted with meticulous care by Archibald’s cunning mind to draw Hrodbert into the open. The “book,” now sadly covered in a generous coating of Mr. Bigglesworth’s voluminous and remarkably sticky hairball, was utterly worthless. Its pages, upon closer inspection by any discerning eye, would reveal nothing but blank vellum, cleverly aged and bound to perfection. The true Codex Maleficarum was, of course, safely secured in a far more inconspicuous location, its genuine secrets untouched by either villainous hands or feline digestive incidents. The Count’s moment of triumph was, in fact, merely the elegant completion of Archibald’s most exquisite trap.
My long anticipated Victrix “Pillage – Ransack the Middle Ages” arrived yesterday. It is an amazing production, but let’s take a more in-depth look at it.
Overview:
Pillage: Ransack the Middle Ages is a narrative-driven skirmish wargame developed by Guillaume Rousselot (Noodle Wargames) and published by Victrix Miniatures. The game is set primarily in the tumultuous Viking Age, spanning from the 793 CE raid on Lindisfarne Abbey to the Battle of Hastings in 1066 CE, though its rules are designed to be adaptable for conflicts across broader medieval periods. It clams to distinguish itself through an emphasis on cinematic, objective-based gameplay, underpinned by a robust “What You See Is What You Get” (WYSIWYG) approach to miniature representation.
The game’s core appeal lies in its ability to foster emergent narratives. This is achieved through highly interactive terrain, a dedicated “Fire Phase” for setting structures ablaze, and comprehensive “Pillaging” mechanics that allow players to seize various forms of loot.
Pillage also benefits significantly from its synergy with Victrix’s acclaimed line of 28mm historical miniatures, which are widely lauded for their detail and versatility within the wargaming community, but the game is totally figure agnostic.
Community reception, however, presents a mixed picture. Recurring concerns include a perceived “silly number of tables” within the rules, which some players suggest could lead to undue complexity and a slower pace of play. The inclusion of specific rules for “kidnapping children” as a form of loot has also been noted as “very weird” and has drawn criticism from parts of the player base. I agree kidnapping is an excellent game narrative, but signalling out gender or age is a indeed “very weird” in this day and age.
Furthermore, a significant point of controversy revolves around the use of AI-generated art in the rulebook, particularly the alleged removal of AI credit in the English version by Victrix, which has left “a real sour taste” for some players, however not all AI tools have a watermark or other credit mechanism.
Pillage is best suited for historical wargamers who prioritize narrative over strict competitive play, appreciate visually intuitive rules (WYSIWYG), and are comfortable with a ruleset that offers a “medium level of crunch”. It offers a distinct experience when compared to contemporaries such as Saga and Lion Rampant, focusing on individual model actions and direct objective play rather than abstract battleboards or larger unit activations. My own experience with Brethren as an alternative will be discussed below.
What is ‘Pillage: Ransack the Middle Ages’?
The game itself was penned by Guillaume Rousselot of Noodle Wargames, with its English edition brought to market by Victrix Miniatures. Victrix is a well-established and respected entity within the historical miniatures hobby, known for its high-quality plastic kits.
Pillage is positioned as a game accessible to both newcomers to wargaming and seasoned veterans, aiming to provide an engaging experience for a broad audience, and to a large extent I agree with this.
The Game’s Vision: Narrative-Driven Raids and Cinematic Moments
The fundamental vision behind Pillage is to deliver a narrative-rich experience where “every battle tells a story”. Gameplay is meticulously designed to emphasize storytelling, dynamic terrain interaction, and objective-based play. This approach aims to elevate individual miniatures beyond mere game pieces, transforming them into “heroes, cowards, and legends” within a player’s unfolding saga.
The game claims to explicitly focus on recreating the “iconic battles of the period: raids and pillaging.” It is does not cover “iconic battles” as it is primarily a skirmish game not a large battle game. Players are given the agency to burn down villages, capture valuable loot, or staunchly defend their homes from encroaching raiders which adds to the period flavour and gamer’s fun. What better bragging rights than that of sacking your opponent’s church and burning their village! The design promises that “no two games are ever the same,” a claim supported by the game’s dynamic objectives and highly interactive terrain elements, but this is no different than most recent narrative games.
This design philosophy highlights a deliberate effort to blend historical simulation with narrative play which is a bit OTT. It is a game not a simulation. The game, however, is set within a precise historical period and seeks to replicate period-appropriate actions such as burning, looting, naval engagements, and the formation of shieldwalls, and it does so within a system that prioritizes dynamic and memorable stories over strict, granular historical accuracy. This approach means that the game’s mechanics are geared towards generating dramatic moments and player-driven narratives.
For instance, the inclusion of a dedicated “Fire Phase” and detailed “Pillaging” rules serves as a prime example of mechanics that are both historically thematic and inherently narrative-generating. This design choice caters to a segment of the wargaming community that seeks a more lived-in, storytelling experience from their historical games, rather than a dry, purely simulationist exercise. This focus on emergent narrative also illustrates a broader movement within historical wargaming, where the story that unfolds on the tabletop is gaining prominence, sometimes even surpassing the importance of absolute historical fidelity for players.
Deep Dive into Core Mechanics: The Engine of Pillage
Pillage prominently features a “What You See Is What You Get” (WYSIWYG) has been basically enshrined in gaming practice for several decades now and is the norm in rules not the exception.
Alternating Activation and the Five Phases of Play
The game employs an alternating activation system, a mechanic where players take turns activating models (e.g., Player A moves, then Player B moves, then Player A shoots, etc.). This system is comparable to popular games such as Lord of the Rings and is effective in keeping both players actively engaged throughout the turn, demanding careful tactical planning and reaction.
Gameplay in Pillage is structured around five distinct phases, which dictate the sequence of actions within a turn:
Initiative Phase: Players roll off to determine who gains initiative. The winner then decides which player acts first in the subsequent phases. If there is a tie in a later turn, the initiative automatically passes to the other player, ensuring a dynamic flow.
Movement Phase: Players alternate moving their chosen models. Movement across terrain is straightforward, with roads providing a bonus to movement speed. Charges, a critical maneuver, are also resolved in this phase, requiring a D3 roll added to the charging model’s movement distance. Reactions, such as “Closing Shot” (a ranged attack before melee contact) and “Fleeing” (an attempt to escape an incoming charge), occur before models make contact.
Shooting Phase: This phase is dedicated to ranged combat. Players declare their targets, verify line of sight (LOS) and range, and then make a Target Roll. Intervening obstacles, such as other models, hedges, or walls, may require additional rolls to determine hit success. A successful hit roll is followed by the target’s Defence roll, with failure resulting in a wound and loss of a hit point.
Melee Phase: All melee attacks are resolved simultaneously. Models that successfully charged in the Movement Phase receive a +1 bonus to their hit rolls. A tactical option available to models is to “raise a shield” for a +1 bonus to their defense, though this prevents them from making an attack in that turn.
Fire Phase: Uniquely, Pillage dedicates an entire phase to setting objects ablaze. The player with initiative lights fires first, followed by their opponent. Rules for how fire spreads are also detailed, adding a destructive and unpredictable element to the battlefield.
Interactive Terrain and Environmental Rules:
Pillage places a significant emphasis on interactive terrain, moving beyond mere decorative elements. Models can actively engage with their environment by climbing towers, diving into rivers, jumping across obstacles, and utilizing ladders to navigate the battlefield. This level of interaction adds a layer of verticality and tactical depth to games. However, movement through certain terrain types comes with risks; for instance, armored models are penalized when swimming and face the possibility of drowning. Beyond static terrain, the game also incorporates rules for dynamic environmental factors, including varying weather conditions and different times of day, which can further influence gameplay and strategic decisions. All of this is great, but again not new.
The inclusion of a distinct “Fire Phase” is a particularly noteworthy aspect of Pillage’s design and is a unique introduction. Elevating arson to its own dedicated phase, separate from general actions, underscores its central importance to the game’s theme of “ransacking.” This is not a peripheral rule but a core mechanic that directly facilitates objective-based play, such as burning down a village, and introduces a dynamic, destructive element to the battlefield that can dramatically alter the course of a game. This design choice means the “Fire Phase” functions as a powerful narrative engine, directly enabling the “Pillage” aspect of the game’s title. It transforms static terrain into active elements of conflict and strategy, compelling players to consider not just direct combat but also environmental destruction as a viable path to victory or a means of defense. This mechanic significantly differentiates Pillage from other skirmish games in the historical genre. The emphasis on burning and looting reflects a design philosophy that prioritizes the thematic actions of the period, even if they are destructive, to create a more immersive and “cinematic” experience.
The “Pillaging” System: Objectives, Loot, and the Controversial Inclusion of Kidnapping
Pillaging is a core mechanic within Pillage, with extensive rules governing the acquisition of various items. Players can steal anything from livestock, such as pigs and chickens, to barrels, and even precious gold and silver from churches. The rules detail the process of picking up and carrying loot, how it can be lost during melee engagements, and even how it can be handed off to thralls for transport.
A particularly notable, and controversial, aspect of the pillaging system is the inclusion of rules for “kidnapping children as noted above.” The game assigns specific stats to kidnapped children, including a 5-inch movement rate and a value of three loot points each. This mechanic has been explicitly highlighted by community members as “very weird” and “a bit too much,” despite its potential historical accuracy. As I said above this borders on distasteful.
The deliberate inclusion of the “kidnapping children” mechanic, complete with specific game statistics, reveals a tension inherent in historical game design: the extent to which designers should represent the brutal realities of a historical period, especially when those realities are morally repugnant to a modern audience. While kidnapping was a grim aspect of medieval raids, its direct simulation in a game, particularly one that aims for “fun” and “cinematic” moments, creates a direct conflict with contemporary ethical sensibilities and player expectations for tabletop gaming. The controversy surrounding this element suggests that for many players, the boundary of “historical accuracy” is crossed when it involves the direct, even if abstracted, depiction of such sensitive acts. This incident serves as a compelling case study in the ethical dimensions of game design, demonstrating that even within historical contexts, designers must carefully navigate player comfort and broader societal values. Failure to do so can significantly impact a game’s reception and market viability, irrespective of its mechanical strengths. I think they have really erred with this one.
Unit Archetypes and Special Rules: Pillage features distinct unit archetypes, each with varying capabilities and roles on the battlefield. Chieftains, for example, are designed to be more resilient, possessing three hit points, while Berserkers are formidable, boasting two wounds and two attacks, with an optional rule that allows for them to take “magic mushrooms” for enhanced abilities. Most other standard warriors typically have one hit point.
The game also incorporates special equipment that offers tactical benefits. This includes items like banners, which can inspire nearby troops, horns, used for rallying or signaling, and even warhounds, which can assist in combat or tracking. Furthermore, Pillage provides detailed rules for historical formations, such as shieldwalls. These formations not only affect movement but also enhance combat effectiveness, reflecting their historical significance in early medieval warfare. The rules extend beyond land battles to include naval combat, specifically focusing on boarding actions, allowing for dynamic engagements on water. All elements which are in most good Dark Ages rule sets.
Balancing “Crunch” and “Simplicity” – The “Tables” Debate: A notable point of contention within the Pillage community revolves around the perceived complexity introduced by its numerous rules tables. One “read-through impression” described the rules as “lukewarm,” primarily due to a “silly number of tables” that, in that reviewer’s opinion, “really should just be a standardized system of passing and failing special checks”. This individual felt that the sheer volume of tables created a “working memory burden” and that the game felt “sloppy” in this particular aspect, suggesting it was “trying hard for the wrong way” in its approach to rules complexity. I totally disagree with this. The table reduce complexity not add to it!
Conversely, other players and reviewers have expressed a different perspective. Some, like “mugginns,” felt that the “TABLES OMG thing is a bit overblown” and that the rules were not “sloppy at all”. The Goonhammer review, for instance, praised the core rules as “simple, clear, and effective,” and commended the rulebook’s layout for its step-by-step presentation of mechanics. I agree. The layout and graphics is exceptional, well laid and extremely clear and assists understanding to those new to gaming.
This divergence in opinion highlights a fundamental tension in the game’s design. The author’s ambition to include rules for nearly “everything you can think of”—from climbing and swimming to naval battles and the spread of fire—likely led to a proliferation of specific rules and associated tables. While each individual table might be logically sound and contribute to thematic depth, their collective volume can create a perception of “crunch” or “slowness” for some players, particularly those accustomed to more abstract or streamlined wargaming systems. The concern is that the numerous small decisions and table lookups might deter players from engaging in larger battles with dozens of figures per side. The substantial PDF file size (240MB) further hints at the extensive content and detail within the rulebook, which could contribute to this perception of complexity.
Overall I liked the game. It adds to the Dark Age rule sets pantheon. I like the fire mechanism but the concept of kidnapping should just be part of the “loot” category. After all running off with unruly livestock is much the same IMHO. This is one aspect that should be changed in any reprint.
I have been playing Brethren Tabletop Games which is simpler without any reduction in enjoyment, and although I have purchased “Pillage” I am unlikely to use it much, if at all. This is not a criticism of the rules just a personal preference.
The Crypts of the The abbey of the Silent Watchers
“Good heavens, Fitch, what’s this unholy mess?” Ernest’s voice cut through the familiar scent of old paper and lukewarm tea that perpetually clung to Professor Archibald Fitch’s study. He gestured with a meticulously gloved hand at the parchment splayed across the oak desk, a chaotic jumble of symbols and what appeared to be dried, questionable glitter.
Archibald, head buried in a particularly dusty tome on Proto-Indo-European irregular verbs, merely grunted. “Pygmy glitter, Ernest. And a rather charming testament to their ingenuity. Though I daresay the chief’s ‘special effects’ budget could use a thorough review.”
Isabelle, ever the more composed of the trio, gently placed a steaming mug of tea beside Archibald. “It seems our brief respite from jungle adventures has been, shall we say, interrupted.” She indicated a plain brown package, now torn open, and a single, stark note lying beside it.
Archibald finally surfaced, spectacles perched precariously on his nose. He snatched the note, his eyes scanning the crude, almost childlike scrawl. “‘The Codex Maleficarum has resurfaced. Its secrets must not fall into the wrong hands. Hrodbert is close. It must be returned to the “The abbey of the Silent Watcher‘” He snorted, a sound somewhere between amusement and disdain. “Close, indeed. And his penmanship, it appears, is as lamentable as his moral compass. One would think a man of such ambition might at least master the rudiments of calligraphy.”
Ernest, meanwhile, had begun to circle the central object of their unwelcome delivery: a leather-bound book, ancient and undeniably unsettling. Its cover was etched with symbols that seemed to writhe and intertwine, defying any known script. “A rather curious artifact, wouldn’t you say, Professor? The binding, for instance, appears to be of remarkably intricate design for what purports to be mere ‘secrets’.”
Archibald, now fully engaged, ran a skeletal finger over the embossed leather. “Indeed, Ernest. And the choice of script… entirely alien. Not even a passing resemblance to any known ancient dialect. This, my dear friends, is no ordinary archaeological find. This is a gauntlet thrown. Hrodbert, the very bane of proper grammatical construction and intellectual honesty, is clearly making a play for this ‘Codex Maleficarum,’ and it seems its rightful home is the venerable is The abbey of the Silent Watchers. One shudders to think what nefarious plans he intends to decipher within its pages, or what dark purpose he has for preventing its return.”
He leaned back, a glint in his perpetually disheveled eye. “The question, my dear companions, is not if Hrodbert intends mischief – that much is as plain as the nose on your face, Ernest – but what secrets this infernal book holds that are so vital to his machinations, and how he plans to exploit it, rather than returning it to its sacred origins. And, more importantly, can we unravel its linguistic labyrinth before his nefarious plans come to fruition, or will I simply be correcting his atrocious syntax as he attempts to unleash untold horrors?”
A silence settled in the study, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock and the distant rumble of a tram. The hunt for meaning, and the thwarting of a grammatical menace, had well and truly begun. Archibald broke the silence, “Isabelle, Ernest, the game is truly afoot”!
At first, I was flailing around in my garage like a newly crowned king in a medieval jousting tournament—frustrated and facing a chaotic fortress of tools that looked like it had survived a hurricane. Every time I needed something, even if it was just a simple screw, I found myself engaged in a dramatic quest through a jungle of tangled cords and rogue items that had seemingly conspired against me, breeding in every corner of my toolboxes.
The more I searched, the more it felt like I was battling a clutter-loving monster, poised to gobble up my time and sanity with a hearty chuckle. In a fit of sheer desperation to reclaim my sanity—and possibly my marbles—I launched into an organizational project that promised to salvage my garage from the chaos. Armed with labels and a plan, I sorted every item like a caffeinated librarian on a mission, grouping similar tools together for maximum accessibility.
Not only did this brilliant strategy turn my garage into a clean and functional workspace that even a minimalist would envy, but it also gave me that sweet, sweet satisfaction of finding everything where it ought to be, igniting a burning desire to keep this order as if I were protecting the crown jewels of organization.
I still need to mount some more cubes above the auto vac in the corner, but it sure makes work a lot easier.
With the gaming area right next door, I had this brilliant idea to transform part of the laundry cupboard into a cocktail kingdom and snack haven—because why not have booze and nachos in the same place where I wash my socks? After all, perfect logistics can make or break a victory, especially when you need to quench your thirst or demolish a bag of chips during those epic boss battles.
I picture a well-organized wonderland where I can swing open the cupboard like a superhero and grab my refreshments faster than I can say “game on!” To bring this vision to life, I’ll need to summon yet another shelf and squeeze in a cupboard next to the bar fridge, so drinks and snacks are not only accessible but practically begging to be devoured.
This tiny refurbishment will serve more than just a functional role; it’ll sprinkle a dash of flair into my gaming hideout, making it the ultimate hangout for friends and family—because nothing says ‘fun’ like strategically placed snacks and drinks during a gaming marathon! Yes baby!
I’ve managed to squeeze in a few extra minutes to dabble in a couple more Zeos for Zeo Genesis, because who needs sleep when you can play with forms, right?
Also, I’m just about done with some WWII 20MM Aussie porters—because who doesn’t love tiny soldiers? Tomorrow, I plan to conquer the laundry mountain and sneak in some sneaky painting, hoping my brushes don’t get jealous of my undivided attention!
I have been reading a lot recently, so sorry to bore you all with yet another review, and I still have about half a dozen more to catch up on! This epic story follows a young digger during WWII, kicking off from when he signs up as a clueless country kid, to facing the brutal realities of war, and his bold getaway through enemy territory.
After joining up alongside his mates from country Victoria, at 22 Ern Brough fought and was wounded at Tobruk and at El Alamein, where he witnessed both acts of courage and the pangs of loss, moments that would haunt him for years. But neither he nor his humanity died despite the overwhelming odds. At Tobruk, in North Africa, Ernest was wounded in the buttock during a raid on a German outpost position. He described his injury and the death of a young soldier killed during the action. In 1942, Ernest participated in the Battle of El Alamein. He had been promoted to sergeant but refused a lieutenancy, citing his fear of having to lead and become a target for the enemy as a reason.
Three hours later, with the sound of tanks rumbling in the distance, Brough found himself captured during fierce fighting around the position known as the ‘saucer’, but not before he had carried a wounded German to safety while under heavy fire – he piggybacked a badly wounded enemy soldier to German lines under heavy fire, a choice made from a deep sense of compassion that set him apart from many around him. As a prisoner of war (POW), Ernest was transported to Italy. He described the harsh conditions endured there.
In March, 1944, Brough and some friends, driven by hope and survival, escaped from an Austrian POW camp and embarked on an adventure through Slovenia and Croatia to Bosnia. They moved at night with a stolen map and a homemade compass, facing numerous challenges and close calls. At one point, they even disguised themselves as Germans to evade capture. On 20 April 1944, they met partisan soldiers and they were eventually evacuated to Italy on an American aircraft.
This is the tale of that epic journey, the many hurdles they jumped over, the amazing feats that got Brough the Military Medal for bravery. A story that I was not familiar with at all until picking this book up in a local thrift shop. well worth the read. So much so that I am surprised it hasn’t been made into a movie.
Colleen McCullough’s writing usually isn’t my favorite; I often find it lengthy and wordy. However, in her first nonfiction work, she has done well. She tells the life story of a great Australian and explores what defines a man.
Colleen McCullough’s “Roden Cutler, V.C.” is a super interesting and detailed biography that dives into the life of Sir Roden Cutler, an awesome Australian war hero and former Governor of New South Wales. This book was McCullough’s first shot at non-fiction, giving us an “energetic, entertaining, and enlightening” look at a guy whose honesty and down-to-earth attitude were as impressive as all the cool stuff he achieved.
Cutler, seriously wounded, is carried from the battlefield by French prisoners of war
McCullough’s biography dives into the idea of heroism with Cutler and other Victoria Cross winners, shining a light on their selfless acts. It walks us through Cutler’s life from his childhood in Manly, to his military days in World War II, then into his diplomatic gig, and finally his time as Governor. The book really highlights his strong sense of duty, the smart choices he made, and how he could effortlessly connect with all sorts of people.
Cutler’s seen as a bit of a legend in a pretty selfish time, embodying what it means to be dedicated and principled. “Roden Cutler, V.C.” dives into Australia’s history and takes a good look at modern heroes, really making us think about whether selfless service still matters these days.
More Than Just a Biography. “Roden Cutler, V.C.” isn’t your average bio. It dives into the life of an incredible person while also chatting about what it means to be Australian, heroism, and what makes a true leader. This book is not just about history; it’s also a cool take on what really matters. I liked it.
First published in April 1976, this an engaging take on the biography of Bernard Montgomery, the British WW II commander. This book skips over Monty’s private papers but does a great job offering cool insights into who he was and how he operated. The battle scenes aren’t the main highlight, but Chalfont does mention how the British had the upper hand in North Africa and how Montgomery struggled to take down Rommel as the Germans were pulling back, which really shows the tricky nature of war.
Plus, the whole Overlord invasion business gets discussed mainly through the squabbles among the Allies, which just goes to show how tough it can be to work together in a multinational team. The connection Montgomery had with his troops is pretty clear; they respected him even though he could come off as a bit rough around the edges. After experiencing WW I, he was all about saving lives and making sure even the lower ranks knew what was going on in each operation, which built a supportive vibe among his men. He understood logistics and tech really well—although he doesn’t dive deep into those topics—which were crucial in his game plan.
Chalfont makes a solid case that Monty wasn’t just some overly cautious or stiff general; he never actually lost a battle after North Africa, which is impressive. His psychological background gets some serious attention too, causing quite a stir in Britain, where people found it both critical and fair. He had a tough upbringing and was known for being a bit brutal at Sandhurst, but then he experienced a heartfelt yet tragic marriage that ended with his wife’s heartbreaking death, leaving a mark on him. Montgomery had “a certain epicene quality” and a fondness for young men, which added more depth to his character. All in all, this self-righteous but highly skilled leader’s ability to tackle the challenges of wartime leadership is captured skillfully by Chalfont, who pulls it all together in a way that’s both fascinating and believable.
Baron Arthur Gwynne Jones Chalfont became a second lieutenant on 2 November 1940, served in Burma from 1941 to 1944, and received an emergency commission in the Royal Armoured Corps as a lieutenant on 1 January 1943. He continued his military career post-war, receiving a substantive lieutenant’s commission in 1946, was promoted to captain in December 1950, and to major in December 1953. He participated in anti-terrorist campaigns and won the Military Cross in August 1957 for leading a successful ambush against communist insurgents in Malaysia during the Malayan Emergency. The citation read:
“For gallantry and relentless determination during a period of eighteen months in command of his company in jungle operations. By his personal share in difficult, hazardous and successful operations, he set a fine example to those around him.”
Gwynne Jones was promoted to lieutenant-colonel in 1960, received the OBE in 1961, and retired in 1961 with the honorary rank of lieutenant-colonel.
This book is more of a personal rather than a military biography. First published in I enjoyed the personal side of things that examines “Monty’s” controversial lone wolf personality. It reflects the challenges of navigating relationships with coworkers while highlighting consistent insensitivity.
Right, now this was a proper pickle. Not some open field where a man might, with a bit of pluck and a good turn of speed, ‘tactically withdraw’ to a safer vantage point. No, this was an old, crumbling fort, worse luck. More a heap of cracked stone and collapsing archways than any proper defensive position, mind you. Some fool officer had declared it ‘strategically vital’ – which usually means it’s about to become a graveyard for anyone with the misfortune to be caught inside.
Frankly, defending an old fort like this is simply ghastly. It’s just a matter of waiting for them to smash their way in, or for a fortunate shot to bring down a section of wall on your head. Still, one does one’s duty. And I daresay, when the smoke clears, they’ll be talking about Sir Reginald Craven’s indomitable stand. Though between you and me, the only thing indomitable was my desire to be anywhere else. Perhaps enjoying a brandy in a nice, quiet drawing-room, far from the infernal racket of dying men and crumbling stone.
The heat, was trapped within those ancient walls, turning the air into a suffocating, dusty oven. Every breath was like inhaling ground-up brick. My splendid scarlet tunic, already a misery, felt like a woollen shroud. And the dust! It coated everything, a fine, gritty film on my teeth, in my eyes, clinging to every sweat-drenched inch of me.
We’d had a glimpse of their village earlier, a collection of miserable huts down in the valley, simmering under the brutal sun. Thought nothing of it, just another collection of mud and thatch. But then, it began. First, a few specks, then a trickle, then a veritable deluge of them pouring out, like so many furious ants from an overturned nest. The whole blasted valley suddenly alive with them – these… tribesmen. Naked as the day they were born, most of them, smeared with what I can only assume was mud, though it looked suspiciously like something else.
“Hold the breaches, lads!” bellowed some earnest young idiot, as if we hadn’t noticed the gaping holes where the wall ought to be. The enemy, those infernal tribesmen, were coming at us in waves, not just from the front, but trying to scurry over the tumbled-down sections like so many infuriating beetles. Their drums, of course, were still thumping away, echoing eerily off the stone, and their screams – even more unnerving in the confined space. Sounded like they were right on top of you, even when they were still twenty paces away.
We were packed in like sardines, shoulder to shoulder, peering through ancient arrow slits and over crumbling parapets. The cracks of the Martini-Henrys were deafening in the enclosed space, and the smoke, thick and acrid, hung like a pall, stinging the eyes and choking the lungs. I daresay I fired a few rounds myself, aimed vaguely in the direction of the loudest howls. Purely to keep up morale, you understand. A leader must lead by example, even if that example involves a gentleman bravely reloading behind a rather sturdy bit of masonry while others were, ah, demonstrating their enthusiasm at the front.
“Fix bayonets!” came the order, and the glint of cold steel in the gloom was chilling. This was the part I always loathed – the up-close-and-personal. No room for a dignified retreat, no chance to ‘reconnoitre the rear’. It was simply kill or be killed, and I’m quite partial to the former when the latter is the only other option. I saw one of those painted devils clambering over a pile of rubble, eyes wide with fanaticism, and before I could quite compose myself, my bayonet, almost of its own accord, found its mark. A rather decisive thrust, if I do say so. Pity about the mess, though.
The Senussi move forward
Right, then, after all that delightful dashing about like headless chickens, and those infernal Senussi making themselves rather too comfortable in our fort (briefly, of course, thanks to my own timely intervention), it was time for the next bit of brilliant tactical planning from our esteemed commanders. Which, naturally, involved us charging back into the teeth of the enemy. Again.
The British preparing for the assault.
The Joys of Preparing for an Assault (Not)
The camp was a hive of what they call “purposeful activity,” which mostly meant chaps looking grim-faced, tightening their belts, and trying to avoid catching anyone’s eye. The sun was doing its usual best to bake us alive, coating everything in a fine, gritty dust that tasted of despair and bad tea. You could hear the clink of bayonets being fixed, the low murmur of orders, and the entirely too-enthusiastic whistles of the sergeants trying to drum up some false courage.
“Spirits are high, Captain!” some young pup of a lieutenant chirped at me, his face scrubbed clean and far too eager. “The men are keen to avenge our comrades!”
“Indeed, Lieutenant,” I replied, forcing a grimace that I hoped looked like determination rather than sheer, unadulterated dread. “A fine sentiment. Just try not to get yourself avenged in the process.” Honestly, the naivete of these youngsters. They think it’s all glory and bugles. I merely thought about the sweat that would soon be pouring down my back, the dust that would cling to my already grimy uniform, and the absolute certainty that someone, somewhere, was about to get a bayonet through their midriff – hopefully not mine.
The officers were gathered, peering at maps that bore little resemblance to the actual, inconveniently uneven ground we’d be slogging over. Lots of pointing and solemn nods. “We’ll hit ’em hard, gentlemen! A concerted push! Superior numbers and unshakeable British resolve!” Blah, blah, bloody blah. What they meant was: “We’re sending you lot over that open ground into their guns, and pray the other chaps make it further than you do.”
I made sure my own kit was in perfect order, checking my revolver (just in case it came to a proper close-quarters scramble where a gentleman might need a discreet advantage), and ensuring my flask was topped up. One needs a little fortification before witnessing such an exhibition of collective lunacy. The air was thick with tension, buzzing like a hornets’ nest. And then came the bugle call, sharp and clear, cutting through the morning air, signaling the start of another glorious chapter in the British Empire’s history. Or, more accurately, another opportunity for Sir Reginald Craven to prove his unparalleled genius for survival. Wish me luck. I shall undoubtedly need it.
The Senussi camels charge is repulsed
A Rather Undignified Display (for Them)
Right, then, so after all that grim business of preparing for the assault – a process which invariably puts a man in mind of his last will and testament – we found ourselves facing something truly… unusual. Not the usual screaming hordes on foot, mind you, but a proper, honest-to-goodness Senussi camel charge.
Now, I’ve seen a thing or two in my time, but a mass of lumbering, spitting, ill-tempered beasts thundering towards you, ridden by chaps who look like they’ve just escaped from a rug market, is quite a sight. They came at us, a great, lurching wave of sand and fury, their riders brandishing whatever sharp bits of metal they possessed. The very ground seemed to tremble under their enormous, padded feet. Honestly, the noise alone was enough to curdle a man’s tea.
But, I must say, for all their beastly momentum, the British line held. We’d been told to expect it, of course, some fool having read about it in some ancient tome on desert warfare. And our chaps, particularly those steady fellows in the ranks, met the charge with a volley that shook the very air. The old Martini-Henrys barked, and the Gardiner gun – that wonderful invention – truly sang their song of lead and fury.
The effect was, shall we say, instantaneous. Camels, for all their bulk, are remarkably fragile when confronted with a thousand rounds of concentrated rifle fire. They began to bray in terror, stumbling, tripping, and falling in a most undignified fashion, sending their riders flying like sacks of grain. It was utter chaos, a great, hairy tsunami of panic. Those that didn’t go down simply wheeled about, scattering in every direction, carrying their screaming, flailing riders back from whence they came.
The whole thing collapsed in short order. It wasn’t a charge; it was a blithering mess. A proper rout, really, only with more spitting. You could practically see the “courage” drain out of them as their mounts decided that discretion was, indeed, the better part of valour. They simply repulsed themselves, really, with a little encouragement from our lead.
I daresay I contributed my share, putting a few well-aimed rounds into the thick of it – purely to discourage any stragglers, you understand. Couldn’t have them reforming, could we? A most satisfying outcome, proving once again that a proper British volley is more than a match for any amount of ill-tempered livestock.
Holding fast
Holding Fast (More or Less)
Right, then, after all that unpleasantness with the thundering beasts – which, frankly, made far too much noise for a proper fight – we found ourselves in the thick of it again. The order came down, sharp and clear: “Hold fast!”
“Hold fast,” indeed. Easy enough to bellow from the rear, where the General’s safely tucked behind a nice, sturdy lump of earth. For us poor devils on the line, “holding fast” meant digging in your heels, clutching your rifle, and trying desperately not to become a permanent part of the local scenery.
The enemy, despite their recent camel-related setback (which, I daresay, my own steady aim contributed to significantly), were still coming on. Not with the same wild enthusiasm, perhaps, but they were certainly determined to make us regret our existence. The air was thick with the whistle of bullets, the snap of splinters from the few bits of cover we had, and the dreadful thud of bodies. It was hot, dusty, and thoroughly unpleasant.
Every man around me was doing his bit, some with more theatrical heroism than sense, mind you. I, of course, was holding my position with grim resolve, ensuring my field of fire was clear and that no particularly eager savage managed to slip through the chaos near my vital section of the line. One simply must maintain one’s composure in such trying circumstances, even if one’s heart is performing a rather energetic jig in one’s chest.
It’s a strange thing, “holding fast.” It means you’re not going forward, which is a blessing, but it also means you’re not going backward, which is a dashed nuisance. You just stand there, taking it, returning fire, and hoping beyond hope that the chaps on either side of you don’t decide to get themselves killed and leave a gap. Because when a gap appears, that’s when a fellow’s “holding fast” turns into a rather more urgent “running like hell.”
But we held. We endured. By Jove, the line bent, it swayed, but it didn’t break. And I was there, of course, a steady pillar of British grit amidst the chaos, ensuring that the Empire’s reputation remained unsullied. Though, frankly, the only thing I was truly holding fast to was the desperate hope that a bugle call for retreat, or perhaps tea, would soon sound.
Senussi tribesmen halted by the British line
The Senussi’s Most Unwise Halting
Right, then, after all that dreadful “holding fast” business – which, as I’ve explained, is mostly a matter of not bolting like a terrified rabbit – those Senussi tribesmen had the sheer audacity to keep pressing their luck. They came on, wave after wave, shrieking and waving their assorted weaponry, clearly under the misguided impression that sheer numbers and a general lack of personal hygiene could overcome proper British resolve.
But you see, there comes a point where even the most enthusiastic savage runs headlong into a brick wall. And that brick wall, by Jove, was the British line. We stood firm, a proper, unyielding bulwark of disciplined fire and cold steel. Not that I’m taking all the credit, mind you – though my own steady aim and inspiring presence certainly contributed to the general air of invincibility – but the lads truly gave a magnificent account of themselves.
The crackle of rifle fire was continuous, a ripping sound that tore through their flimsy ranks. The Maxim gun chattered away like an angry hornet, stitching lines of lead through their advancing hordes. You could practically see their enthusiasm drain away, replaced by a sudden, very healthy respect for our firepower. Their forward momentum simply… died. One moment, they were a surging tide; the next, they were a confused, bewildered mess, tripping over their own dead and stumbling over each other.
They tried to push, certainly. A few of the more fanatical ones even made it within bayonet range, only to discover that cold steel is far less forgiving than a soft target. But there was no breaking through. No gaps. No weak points (especially not near where I was, naturally). They simply halted. Not a glorious, tactical withdrawal, you understand, but a complete, messy cessation of hostilities on their part, brought about by a sheer inability to advance another inch without being rather thoroughly perforated.
It was a beautiful thing to witness, from a tactical standpoint, of course. Watching them milling about, clearly perplexed that the British simply wouldn’t break. Eventually, their war cries faded, replaced by grunts of frustration and the groans of their wounded. They had tried, and they had failed. Another day saved for the Empire, largely thanks to a few good men who knew how to load a rifle, and one exceptional officer who knew precisely where not to be standing.
A second group of tribesmen move up to assist, suffering heavy casualties but continue on
Another Batch of Fools Joins the Fray
Right, then, just when you thought the show was over and a fellow might get a moment’s peace to light a proper cigar, what happens? Another blooming spectacle. These Senussi, or whatever they called themselves, clearly hadn’t had enough of our hospitality. Just as the first wave was wisely deciding that a strategic retreat was in order (thanks, mostly, to my own precise marksmanship, I daresay), another damned host of them started to move up.
“Reinforcements!” some optimistic fool would shout. “More targets!” I muttered, though only to myself, naturally. These new chaps, looking just as eager and just as ill-equipped as the first lot, came swarming out of the dust, presumably from some hidden ravine or another wretched village. They were clearly aiming to bolster their faltering comrades, a noble sentiment, if entirely suicidal when faced with British steel.
And suicidal it proved to be. Our lads, having just got warmed up, met them with the same unwavering, relentless fire. The air fairly hummed with lead. I saw them go down in scores. Bodies piled up, tripping the ones behind them. The ground became a ghastly tapestry of writhing figures and still forms. They were taking heavy casualties, truly an astonishing rate of attrition. Any sane man, or indeed any sane tribal leader, would have whistled them back. But no, these particular savages seemed to have a rather robust (and inconvenient) disdain for self-preservation.
Despite the carnage, despite the sheer, undeniable fact that they were being annihilated, they continued on. A few, the more fanatical types, even managed to cover the distance, their eyes wild, only to meet a rather sharp surprise at the end of a bayonet. It was a most determined effort on their part, I’ll grant you, but utterly foolish. A clear case of misplaced enthusiasm. Still, it made for quite a show, and ensured my own position remained suitably secure from any forward advances. Another day, another wave of fools.
The Gardiner gun mows down half of one unit of tribesmen, but box cars keep them in the game.
A second unit of camels outflanks the ruined fort.
More Humps Than a Brothel on a Saturday Night
Right, then, just when you thought the day couldn’t get any more peculiar after that last lot of fanatics had finally decided to drop dead with admirable persistence, what should appear? Another damned camel charge. Only this time, they weren’t being so obliging as to come straight at us. Oh no, these brutes, or rather, their riders, had clearly learned a new trick.
I was, of course, diligently observing our flank, ensuring no sneaky sorts were attempting any regrettable surprises – a vital task, I might add, often overlooked by less discerning officers. And what did my keen eye behold? Not a frontal assault, but a whole second unit of camels, lumbering into view, not towards our sturdy line, but aiming to outflank that wretched ruined fort we’d so recently and heroically defended.
“Fruit,” I muttered to myself, adjusting my position ever so slightly to afford a better view (and a quicker escape, should the need arise). “They’re attempting a pincer movement! The cunning devils!” One has to credit them, even if it is a credit born of intense irritation. These camels, looking even more ill-tempered and less hygienic than the last lot, seemed to possess a surprising degree of tactical acumen, or at least their riders did.
They came on, a wide, sweeping arc of grunting beasts and yelling tribesmen, intending to swing around our position and undoubtedly cut off any sensible retreat. The dust they kicked up was appalling, a proper choking cloud that obscured half the battlefield, allowing them to creep closer than one would like. The mere thought of having those unwashed hordes coming at us from an unexpected angle was enough to make a man reconsider his career choices.
It was a bold move, certainly, designed to cause maximum panic and confusion. And it very nearly did. But fear not, for even in the face of such dastardly cunning, the British spirit (and my own innate ability to spot trouble before it becomes my trouble) would surely prevail. Or at the very least, ensure that I was well-placed to witness the inevitable glorious counter-maneuver from a safe distance.
The Senussi’s “ancient cannon” finally gets into the action and their counter-battery fire causes the Gardiner gun to retire.
The Infernal Racket of Their “Ancient” Cannon
Right, then, as if a second wave of those blasted camels attempting to outflank us wasn’t enough to curdle a man’s tea, those Senussi fiends decided to trot out their own particular brand of mechanical mayhem. I was, naturally, positioned to oversee the strategic withdrawal of any non-essential personnel (myself included, should the situation truly deteriorate), when I heard it. A proper, deep THUMP-ROAR!
I muttered to myself, peering through my field glasses, which, conveniently, offered a splendid view of the enemy’s rather antiquated artillery park. They’d been sitting there, looking like so much rusty junk, since the entire bloody skirmish began. I’d assumed they were just for show, or perhaps some sort of bizarre local religious monument. But no, these cunning devils had managed to get their “ancient cannon” – more likely some decrepit Turkish cast-off from a hundred years ago – into the action!
And then came the whine. That dreadful, whining shriek of a shell arcing through the air, followed by a most ungentlemanly WHUMP! close enough to rattle my fillings. Their counter-battery fire had finally begun, and it wasn’t aimed at our sturdy rifle line, but at something far more precious: our Gardiner gun.
Now, the Gardiner gun is a marvelous bit of kit, a proper lead-spitting wonder. It had been doing a sterling job, chattering away like a furious old woman, cutting down the camel charge and giving those irregulars a taste of proper British engineering. But even a splendid machine like that needs a bit of luck, and luck, for once, was on the side of the unwashed. Another shell landed, then another, showering the gun crew with dust and shrapnel. I saw the sparks fly, heard the shouted curses.
The gun’s rapid rat-tat-tat-tat faltered, then stopped. A few moments later, I saw it. The crew, bless their brave, terrified souls, were struggling. The ground around them was a mess, and the Gardiner, that beautiful instrument of imperial dominance, was clearly no longer in fighting trim. It had to retire. Yes, that’s the word they used: “retire.” As in, pull it out, quick before those blasted natives get any ideas.
A rather ignominious sight, I must say, watching our own formidable weapon being dragged away like a wounded dog, all thanks to some rusty, antique piece of their own. It just goes to show you can’t trust these chaps to fight fair. They bring cannons to a rifle fight, and they bring old cannons that actually work. Utterly unsporting. Still, it made for quite the spectacle. And thankfully, quite far from my own position.
Meanwhile on the British left flank, the tribesmen and British line are continuing to fight each other to a standstill.
The Utter Tedium of the Left Flank’s Stalemate
While all that thrilling business with the camels and the geriatric cannons was unfolding elsewhere – keeping a man properly on his toes, I might add, by ensuring I was always in a position to observe the ‘tactical flow’ – there was, regrettably, a rather less stimulating affair continuing on the British left flank.
“Holding fast,” they called it. I called it a damnably boring waste of perfectly good daylight. From my vantage point – chosen for its clear view of the overall battlefield, and certainly not for its proximity to a conveniently deep ditch – one could see the grim reality of it. The tribesmen and our own sturdy British line were locked in a sort of ghastly embrace, simply pushing and shoving each other without much discernible progress.
The dust was thicker there than a London fog. You could barely make out individual figures, just a swirling mass of red coats and painted skin, punctuated by the incessant crackle of rifle fire and the occasional, rather despairing shout. It wasn’t a charge, not a rout, just a relentless, slogging match, like two particularly stubborn drunks trying to shove each other out of a pub door.
They’d fire, the Senussi would surge forward a few paces, then our chaps would let loose another volley, and they’d waver, perhaps even fall back a yard or two. But then, confound it, they’d simply dig in their heels and come on again. No sense of when they were beaten, these savages. And our lads, bless their mule-headed obstinacy, refused to give an inch either. It was a perfect, miserable example of a standstill.
The noise was enough to drive a man mad – the unending bang-bang-bang, the whizz of bullets, the shrieks and groans. No grand tactical sweeps, no dashing charges, just a tedious, grinding butchery. One officer would try a small advance, it would be met by a hail of fire, and they’d pull back. Then the tribesmen would push, meet our steady volley, and be halted again. Like two opposing pistons, going nowhere fast, just burning fuel and making a dreadful racket.
It was precisely the kind of warfare a gentleman of refinement, such as myself, finds utterly insipid. No opportunity for clever manoeuvres, no dramatic escapes, just the slow, painful process of attrition. A testament to stubbornness, I suppose, but hardly the stuff of heroic memoirs. Unless, of course, one happens to be documenting the sheer, unblinking courage of a man forced to observe such an uninspired display. Which, naturally, I was.
Senussi Irregulars Rout
A Proper Routing, Courtesy of Yours Truly
Ah, now that’s more like it! After that ghastly business of being penned up and then charging into the teeth of their infernal guns – a tactical genius move, mind you, that only I truly appreciated the sheer, daring brilliance of – things took a rather decisive turn. And by “decisive,” I mean in our favour, naturally.
Those Senussi irregulars, who had the audacious impertinence to think they could push Her Majesty’s finest off a fort, found themselves rather mistaken. Oh, they had their moment, I grant you, what with their blasted artillery and their surprisingly competent maneuvering. Gave a man a proper fright, if I’m honest. But then, the British fire really began to tell.
It started as a ripple, a slight hesitation in their advance. Then, our lads, truly magnificent despite the earlier muddle, laid into them with a volley that would’ve made Wellington himself proud. And I, being ever at the forefront of the decisive action (though perhaps slightly to the flank, where one has a clearer view of the tactical situation), contributed my own considerable share. My Martini-Henry, a truly reliable piece of equipment, barked its defiance, sending shot after shot precisely where it needed to go. I distinctly recall seeing one of their more enthusiastic standard-bearers suddenly perform an impromptu jig before collapsing in a most undignified heap.
And that’s when it truly began. Those Senussi, for all their preening and their painted faces, turned out to be as brittle as dried mud under a summer sun. Their discipline, so lauded by the bleeding hearts back home, simply crumbled under the weight of our relentless fire. One moment, they were a howling horde; the next, they were a scattered mess, their “best troops” suddenly showing a remarkable turn of speed – in the wrong direction!
The shouts that had filled the air turned into panicked cries as they routed off the field. They didn’t just retreat, mind you; they bolted. Like a flock of frightened sheep, they streamed back towards their wretched village, leaving their dead and wounded scattered across the ground they’d so foolishly tried to hold. It was a most satisfying sight, I can tell you, watching them scurry away like the rats they truly are. The thunder of their drums faded into a pathetic squeak, replaced by the hearty cheers of our own triumphant lads.
Another victory for the Empire, then, thanks in no small part to the unflinching bravery (and frankly, inspired marksmanship) of certain individuals who shall remain nameless, but who happen to possess rather splendid moustaches. It just goes to show, you can’t teach true grit, and these so-called irregulars simply don’t have it when faced with proper British resolve. Now, where’s that brandy? A man deserves a reward for such valorous exertions
A Dash Through the Devil’s Own Wilderness
By Jove, you’d think after all my years in Her Majesty’s service, I’d be given a quiet posting, perhaps somewhere with decent brandy and agreeable company. But no, not me. Instead, I find myself knee-deep in this blasted desert, running like a scalded dog, all thanks to some ‘high-stakes operation’ that went precisely as well as consulting a fortune-teller about winning at cards.
“Intelligence gathering,” they called it. What intelligence? That our maps were useless, and the enemy knows their own backyard better than we do? The whole thing was a blooming disaster from the word go, and frankly, only a man of my particular genius for self-preservation (which some lesser chaps might call ‘cowardice,’ but I assure you, it’s merely superior judgment) allowed us to evade capture. While others were bravely holding their ground and making a nuisance of themselves, I was, shall we say, executing a highly specialized, forward-thinking ‘flanking maneuver’ – straight out of the hot zone.
Now we’re like a pack of startled deer, knee deep in sand. Every shadow looks like a painted savage, every snapped twig sounds like a war party. We’re “vigilant,” they say. I’m bloody terrified! And quite right too, when those rascals are probably lurking in the shadows, just waiting to pounce. It’s enough to give a man the vapors.
Limited supplies, of course. Starving, thirsty, and frankly, stinking to high heaven. And as for “communication disruptions,” that’s just a polite way of saying the blasted signals officer got himself captured, or worse, ran off with the only working telegraph. So, we’re relying on “training and each other,” which is all well and good when you’re polishing boots, but less comforting when you’re trying to outrun a pack of bloodthirsty natives who know this infernal wilderness like the back of their hand.
Every step is “critical,” they keep saying. Critical for getting my valuable self back to civilization, that’s what it is. “Leaving no trace,” they insist, while I’m mostly concerned with not leaving a trace of my own entrails behind. The mission took an “unexpected turn,” indeed. It turned into a desperate sprint for survival, and I daresay, it’s a race against time that I intend to win. My return home is not just a strategic imperative, you understand, but a personal one. One simply must get back for that next glass of brandy. And perhaps a bath. A very long bath.
The Unbearable Sight of Victory
And so, having been so rudely unseated, I had the distinct displeasure of observing the whole wretched spectacle from a rather inconvenient ditch – a ‘strategic observation point’, naturally, where a man could gauge the enemy’s movements without, you know, being part of them. And what did I observe? The very picture of colonial ignominy, that’s what.
Those infernal tribesmen, or whatever one calls them, marched straight into the blasted fort. Not with the haphazard rush you might expect from such barbarians, mind you, but with a maddening, almost disciplined stride, straight through those towering wooden gates we’d spent days trying to hold. The cheek of it! As if those planks were somehow a “testament to their strength.” Nonsense! They were a testament to our folly in not blowing them sky-high sooner.
Their faces, daubed with what looked like glorified mud in intricate patterns, were apparently meant to reflect “pride and determination.” To me, it looked like they’d merely run out of soap. And that infernal drumming! It hadn’t stopped since the fight began, a monotonous, thumping echo that now filled the fort, announcing their… arrival. Like they owned the place. Which, given our recent departure, they now, confound it, did.
“A palpable energy,” indeed. It was a palpable sense of my own imminent court-martial, more like, for having been associated with such a damnable failure. They squawked and gestured, presumably about their “ancestors” and their “history” – as if my ancestors cared a jot for theirs! And that imposing structure of stone and timber, which had been our sweaty, dusty prison just moments before, now stood there, offering them “shelter and the promise of a new beginning.” A new beginning for whom, I ask you? Certainly not for the poor chaps we’d left bleeding on the rubble.
As I lay there, discreetly attempting to blend with the local flora, I could practically see them “establishing a sense of community.” Building bonds, no doubt, over the very rations we’d been forced to abandon. Fortifying their collective spirit! Pah! The only spirit worth fortifying was the one in my flask, which, regrettably, was now rather low. It was utterly nauseating. And to think, I’d just risked my life (heroically, I might add) only for these ungrateful wretches to waltz in and make themselves at home. There’s simply no justice in the world.
A Rather Unfortunate Counterattack
Right, then, so after that perfectly ghastly business of being penned up like sheep, some bright spark in command – probably one of those chaps who’d read too many textbooks and not dodged enough actual bullets – decided we ought to counterattack. “Reclaim our ground!” he bellowed, as if the ground itself gave a damn who stood on it. It was, of course, a strategic blunder of the first water, but who was I, Sir Reginald Craven, to argue with an officer determined to get his men killed? Though I did mutter a quiet warning to my immediate neighbour about the folly of charging fortified positions, a warning he, of course, entirely ignored. Pity.
So, off we went, a right jolly charge into the teeth of it. And by Jove, if those bandits/tribesmen/whatever they were calling themselves this week hadn’t decided to pull out every trick in the book! I’d expected the usual screeching and waving of sharp bits of metal, perhaps a few lucky shots. But no, these fellows had evidently paid attention in their barbarous tactical classes. They were positioned beautifully, tucked into every crack and crevice of that blasted ruin, and, worse, they had the infernal cheek to possess artillery! Proper, booming cannons, mind you, not just some rusty blunderbusses.
The sound of gunfire was absolutely deafening, like being inside a blacksmith’s shop during an earthquake. Our own advance, which I daresay I led with customary, if entirely unappreciated, élan – dodging grapeshot like a seasoned veteran (though my heart was doing a Highland fling in my throat) – was met with a perfectly unexpected resistance. Volleys of rifle fire ripped through our ranks, cutting down good chaps (and a few bad ones) left and right. And their cannon fire! It wasn’t just random thumps; they were dropping shot with uncanny precision, kicking up fountains of dust and stone, and sending poor devils flying in pieces.
It was fierce, all right. And opportunistic! They’d let us get so far, then open up from a flank you swore was clear. Frankly, it was unsporting. Here we were, the British Empire, trying to do our duty, and they were putting up a damned competent defence. It simply wasn’t cricket. Our hopes for a quick victory drowned quicker than a rat in a privy, swallowed whole by the constant roar of their fusillade.
Despite my own heroic efforts – truly, I was practically a one-man vanguard, inspiring the men with my sheer presence, though perhaps from a slightly less exposed position than some of the more foolhardy types – we were simply outmaneuvered. Every tactical advance was met with a bloody retort. It became clear, even to the densest of our officers, that this was a lost cause.
And so, we were compelled to retreat. A proper ignominious scramble back over the rubble and corpses, leaving that wretched fort to the barbarians. I daresay I managed a rather quick and effective withdrawal myself, ensuring I didn’t get bogged down with any stragglers. Someone had to make it back to tell the tale, after all, and who better than a man of my experience? It was a grim business, watching the wounded crawl and the dead lie still. A potent reminder, as they say, of the cost of war. A cost, I might add, that always seems disproportionately borne by chaps like myself who, frankly, would much rather be anywhere else. Damned inconvenient.
The Rather Convenient Aftermath
Right, then, so after all that utterly ghastly business – the camel charges, the infuriating cannons, and that interminable shoving match on the left flank – the whole bloody affair finally sputtered to a close. And what a close it was! A proper, chaotic mess, as battles tend to be when you’re caught in the thick of it, trying desperately not to become a permanent historical footnote.
The smoke eventually began to clear, slowly drifting over the battlefield like a particularly grim fog. The silence that followed the constant roar of gunfire was almost worse than the noise itself, punctuated only by the groans of the wounded and the distant, irritating bray of a surviving camel. Around me, it was a scene of utter devastation. Bodies, both ours and theirs, lay scattered amidst the dust and shattered stone of the fort, testament to what happens when two stubborn forces simply refuse to budge.
As for our side, well, let’s just say we weren’t exactly spoiling for a parade. We’d given them a bloody nose, certainly, driven them back from the fort, but it had come at a frightful cost. Few British chaps were left standing, and those that were looked like they’d been dragged backwards through a thorn bush. Uniforms torn, faces grimed beyond recognition, eyes wide with the sort of exhaustion that only comes from staring death in the face for hours on end. We were battered, bruised, and utterly depleted. A victory, they’d call it, but a victory that felt remarkably like a particularly bruising loss.
Now, about the true heroics of the day. While others were bravely bleeding and dying, I, Sir Reginald Craven, was performing acts of extraordinary valor that, alas, went largely unwitnessed due to the sheer confusion of the melee. One might say I was everywhere at once, a veritable whirlwind of courage and tactical genius! I single-handedly inspired wavering lines, rallied demoralized troops (mostly by shouting threats about what the sergeants would do to them), and perhaps, by sheer happenstance, discharged my rifle in such a way that it resulted in the miraculous demise of several key enemy figures. And let’s not forget my cunning ‘reconnaissance in force’ during the retreat, which perfectly positioned me to report on the enemy’s disposition.
The full details are, naturally, quite extensive and rather too modest for me to recount in full. Suffice it to say, when the dust settled and the senior officers began their inevitable inquiry into who, precisely, had saved the day, the finger of destiny pointed squarely at yours truly. There was much congratulation, much hand-shaking, and a truly embarrassing amount of bowing and scraping. And then, the ultimate accolade: the Victoria Cross. Yes, the V.C. for sheer, unadulterated, yet entirely plausible, heroism. Never mind that I was primarily focused on personal survival and had accidentally tripped over a particularly sturdy enemy corpse that may or may not have saved me from a spear. It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
So there you have it. Another day, another battle, another medal pinned to my undeserving chest. It truly is remarkable, the scrapes I get into, and the utterly undeserved glory that seems to follow me like a loyal but entirely mistaken hound. One simply must learn to live with being a legend.
A great game where not a lot was left on either side to call anyone victorious. Although of course in the huts of the village and the halls of London, tales of victory and courage were told for generations.
Steve C and I had another great game of MWWBK.
A game of Congo for our next outing. Can Sir Reginald Craven avoid being carried off in chains by dastardly “slavers”? No doubt any such chains will be golden! Time and the London Times will no doubt tell!
The debate over Pius XII and the Vatican’s lack of decisive action during Hitler’s Final Solution continues, just as it did after World War II. Inside the Vatican of Pius XII shares the insights of American diplomat Harold H. Tittmann, Jr., who spent four years in the Vatican. His memoir recounts encounters with Pius XII and daily life in the Vatican, detailing his efforts to assist and hide escaped prisoners of war while dealing with enemy representatives. By capturing the beauty and seriousness of events in St. Peter’s, the Sistine Chapel, and the Pope’s private chapel, Tittmann’s gives us an intriguing insight.
Before becoming Pope Pius XII in 1939, as Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli, he was a vocal critic of Nazism. As Vatican Secretary of State, he helped draft the 1937 anti-Nazi encyclical Mit brennender Sorge (With Burning Concern), which condemned Nazi ideology. He also made numerous protests against Nazi policies, including their “ideology of race.” Some sources indicate he denounced aspects of emerging Nazi ideology in over 40 speeches during his time as papal nuncio in Germany. The Nazis themselves viewed him as an opponent, with their newspaper “Der Stürmer” mocking him as a “Jew-lover.”
The relationship between Pope Pius XII and Hitler was one of opposition to Nazism, though the methods employed by the Pope, particularly his public “silence” on specific atrocities, remain a subject of intense historical debate. While he clearly despised Nazi ideology and worked behind the scenes to aid victims, often providing refuge to those fleeing persecution, he also supported various efforts to remove Hitler from power. His diplomatic strategies included discreet communications with other political leaders and influencers, aiming to undermine the Nazi regime’s hold on Europe. Nevertheless, his public actions have been widely scrutinized; critics argue that his lack of vocal condemnation of the regime’s heinous crimes allowed for a continued atmosphere of terror and oppression. This complex dynamic is further complicated by the emergence of newly opened Vatican archives, which have provided historians with a deeper understanding of the Pope’s motivations, actions, and the context within which he operated, leading to ongoing analysis and debate about his legacy in the face of one of history’s darkest chapters.
This book suffers from this recent availability of primary sources and the myopic view of one diplomat, which understandably is about his story and relationships in the Vatican. While the insights provided are valuable, they are limited by the diplomat’s personal perspective, often overlooking the broader historical context and the multitude of factors influencing events in the Holy See. Additionally, the reliance on a singular narrative diminishes the complexity of diplomatic interactions and the diverse motivations of various stakeholders involved. As more primary sources become accessible, a more nuanced understanding can emerge, shedding light on the intricacies of international relations at play during this pivotal period.
⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 2.5 out of 5.
Whilst broadly speaking I was aware of the controversy surrounding the Vatican during WW2, this book enlightened me a lot more, revealing layers of complexity and moral dilemmas that I had not previously considered. The intricate relationship between the Vatican and the events of the Holocaust became increasingly clear as I delved deeper into the subject. So much so that I have researched and found that in 2020 the Vatican had released millions of previously hidden documents on Pope Pius XII, allowing scholars and the public greater insight into his actions and decisions during a pivotal period in history. These include not only transcripts of negotiations between the pope and Nazis but also correspondences that highlight the church’s strategic considerations amidst the turmoil. Following the release of these documents, historian David Kertzer has published a book in 2022 titled “The Pope at War: The Secret History of Pius XII, Mussolini, and Hitler,” which investigates the critical role that the Vatican played in European politics during the war and raises important questions about faith, power, and accountability that continue to resonate in contemporary discussions about moral leadership and historical memory. This book is on the way from Amazon.
I haven’t had an exercise in frustration in a little while, so it was off to Ikea, that magnificent maze of modern furniture design where the only thing flatter than the packed boxes is my patience.
Books I found from the first shop
On the way, I spotted a few Thrift shops that I hadn’t visited before, their windows practically shouting, “Come in and find the bizarre!” I made a mental note that if I ever managed to escape the Ikea maze in a reasonable time—preferably before I turned into a coffee table—I would definitely swing by on my way home.
The thought of uncovering hidden treasures—a lamp that looked like it belonged in a 70s sitcom, a vinyl record whose only hit was “Never Gonna Give You Up,” or a piece of clothing so unique it could be a conversation starter at a family reunion—had me chuckling and made the torturous trek through the labyrinth of flat-pack furniture just a tad less excruciating.
Armed with browsed Pinterest ideas and an unrealistic vision of home décor glory, I stepped into a world bursting with countless assembly permutations, each more bewildering than the last, where only one is correct—somehow like a relationship dynamic!
As I meandered through the beautifully arranged showrooms, I found myself caught in a thrilling emotional rollercoaster, oscillating between excitement at the thought of transforming a flat-packed box into a functional piece of art and the dread of becoming a part-time detective, sifting through instructions that might as well be hieroglyphics.
Two more from the second shop
The calming scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air only heightened my anxiety about how these intricate pieces would eventually come together—or if I’d end up with something resembling modern art gone wrong!
I picked up some more books, a few decor items, and some “Maxwell” tea, coffee, and sugar canisters that caught my eye while browsing through these quaint little shops, which I swear have a secret mission to empty my wallet! The selection of books included a cornucopia of military history books, because nothing says “I’m ready to conquer my day” like reading about battles, right? Meanwhile, the “Maxwell” tea, coffee, and sugar canisters not only offered practicality but also added a stylish flair to my kitchen counter, making it look like I actually know how to host a tea party, even though my idea of a gathering is just me and my pajamas enjoying a solitary cup of brew!
I also stumbled upon a truly awesome book find, which I’ll keep tucked away like a magician’s secret until the grand reveal. This little gem has hypnotized my attention, and I plan to dive into its pages over the next few days, all while pretending I’m not procrastinating on my actual responsibilities. Once I’ve devoured all its juicy insights and hidden treasures, I’ll whip up an amazing review that’ll make you wonder if I’ve actually read it or just binge-watched the movie adaptation instead!
