The village of El-Haddara fancied itself the UN of neutrality, shining, if a bit dusty. Nestled in a shallow valley, it was the kind of place where sand made its way into absolutely everything: food, laundry, and probably even the Wi-Fi. Goats strutted through the streets as if they were in a parade for minor government officials, utterly unfazed by the occasional tumbleweed rolling by. The locals had mastered the fine art of not attracting attention, which was crucial in a part of the world where visitors often came galloping in with swords, sharp looks, and questionable intentions. In short, El-Haddara was the place to blend in, like a chameleon at a rainbow convention!

For generations, this little arrangement was the best thing since sliced bread, although bread wasn’t exactly on the menu out here. Caravans would roll in, pause just long enough to water their overworked animals and bicker about the unbearable heat like it was a spectator sport. Tribal groups strolled through, gave their camels a drink at the well, and scampered off again faster than you could say “too hot to trot.” Sure, arguments flared up from time to time, because, let’s be real, that’s just human nature, but they were generally smoothed out with a round of tea, some shouting, and a wise uncle chiming in, reminding everyone that scuffles might scare the goats, and who would want to upset the delicate balance of village economics? And really, the goats had more pull in local politics than most villagers cared to admit!

Unfortunately, staying neutral is a real challenge when the British Empire stumbles upon your tiny village on a map and suddenly thinks it’s the next hot tourist destination!

One sunny morning, a British political officer swaggered in with a tiny entourage, a moustache that could compete with a walrus, and a notebook brimming with wildly optimistic plans. After marching around the village like it was a catwalk, measuring all sorts of things that were perfectly fine just as they were, he proudly proclaimed the place “strategically significant.” This grand declaration left the villagers scratching their heads, as they’d always thought their little hamlet was strategically dusty, strategically windy, and strategically overflowing with goats—and really, that was about it!

Nevertheless, the officer was a man on a mission, and perhaps just a tad overzealous. Within two days, he had flamboyantly erected a tall Union Jack flagpole in the village center, as if it were a contest to see who could summon the most British spirit. He then constructed a storehouse for supplies, paperwork, and tea (naturally prioritizing the tea, because what is Britain without a cuppa?), and ordered the building of a veranda so officers could sip their prized beverages while conjuring serious expressions as they gazed off into the distance, pretending to be deeply philosophical. By the end of the second evening, he had also penned three separate reports praising his own brilliance, explaining how all of this would benefit the Empire, while likely chuckling at the thought of tea-fueled world domination.

The villagers exchanged doubtful glances, sizing up the officer as if he were trying to peddle a slightly worn magic carpet at a garage sale. Still, he insisted that the Empire had everything under control, like a toddler unleashed with a box of crayons. Having seen more empires pop up and crash down than they could count, and never once observed one whip up a veranda faster than a chef juggling pancakes, the villagers decided to grab their popcorn and tune in to this reality show gone wild. Just then, the situation took a nosedive, like a cat attempting an Olympic leap from a high shelf.

For many years, the village well was like the hottest café in town, where everyone from traders and camel drivers to wandering travelers and the occasional tribesman popped in for a refreshing drink and a chat about the weather, because, let’s face it, when you’re tackling the desert heat, hydration is key! Among the crowd were the warriors of Sheikh Hamdan ibn Tarek, a Beja leader whose tribe had been in the well-using business for generations, making it their favorite pitstop on their epic journeys. After all, water was like the universal currency—people might squabble over land, livestock, or personal grudges, but nobody wanted to dispute the significance of a good splash!

The British, bless their hearts, had a peculiar love affair with regulations. Just a few days after our officer made his grand entrance, one of Sheikh Hamdan’s scouts sauntered back with some rather alarming news. The well had been “regulated.” And by regulated, I mean they slapped a freshly painted wooden sign next to it that read: “PROPERTY OF THE BRITISH ADMINISTRATION – UNAUTHORISED WATERING PROHIBITED.” The scout delivered this tidbit with the kind of caution usually reserved for handing over a venomous snake—because who would want to mess with British bureaucracy, right?

Then he added something even more hilarious. A mule tied beside the well had been indulging in a rather refreshing drink. This mule, a sassy creature named Victoria, belonged to the British garrison. She had developed an impressive obsession with the village vegetable patch and had munched her way through several prized plants, much to the dismay of their owners, who had strong opinions about their veggies staying intact. Victoria also flaunted the classic stubbornness of mules and colonial administrators, though, let’s be honest, the mule was usually a bit more negotiable when it came to matters of food.

When Sheikh Hamdan found out that his beloved well had been hijacked by foreigners and now had a wooden sign dictating who could sip from his precious water, he couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow—especially when the first VIP drinker turned out to be a mule! With the kind of elegance only a Sheikh could muster, he ordered himself a cup of tea. Yes, tea! Because what’s a good water theft without a proper cuppa to kick things off? After all, civilization teeters on the brink of chaos held together by delightful brews! Once he’d savored his tea—and let’s be honest, probably pondered why a mule was given the royal treatment with his tribe’s H2O, he realized he had a rather unavoidable decision to make. The British had firmly planted their flag, regulated the well, and let their four-legged guest indulge before anyone else. In the realm of desert politics, that’s considered quite the audacious move!

And war it was!

The Beja camels, who had begun the morning with the calm dignity of creatures fully convinced they were the most important participants in the desert, were quite unprepared for the sudden arrival of British cavalry from their left flank. One moment they were chewing thoughtfully and contemplating the philosophical advantages of shade; the next moment a line of sunburnt men in khaki appeared at a brisk gallop, sabres flashing and horses snorting like kettles about to boil. A camel, it must be said, is not built for rapid strategic reassessment. Several blinked in slow disbelief, as if hoping the entire spectacle might politely go away if ignored. One particularly large camel attempted a maneuver that could generously be described as “turning around,” though it resembled more a collapsing deck chair. Meanwhile the horses, delighted by the novelty of alarming animals taller than themselves, pushed enthusiastically into the flank of the bewildered caravan. The result was less a battle than a sprawling, indignant traffic jam of legs, saddles, offended camel noises, and Beja warriors shouting advice that the camels had absolutely no intention of following. In the annals of desert warfare it was a moment that proved two things beyond doubt: British cavalry could indeed achieve surprise, and camels, when startled, possessed a remarkable ability to make every military plan look faintly ridiculous.

Having triumphantly sorted out the camel situation, an accomplishment the cavalry privately suspected would look splendid in the official report, the British troopers had just begun congratulating themselves when the desert produced a rather inconvenient footnote. From the flank appeared a collection of extremely determined Beja warriors who had clearly not received the memo declaring the morning’s operations finished. They arrived at speed, with spears, swords, and an enthusiasm that suggested they had strong views about people interfering with their camels. The cavalry line, which moments earlier had been moving with the confident air of men starring in a painting, suddenly found itself performing a variety of highly experimental manoeuvres not found in any British drill manual. Horses reconsidered their life choices, sabres waved in several directions at once, and officers shouted commands that seemed increasingly philosophical rather than practical. Within minutes the scene resembled less a disciplined military formation and more a spectacularly energetic argument conducted at full gallop. The Beja warriors, meanwhile, demonstrated that desert warfare had a very simple rule: if you wait patiently while the enemy celebrates victory, you can usually arrange a much more interesting conclusion.

When word spread that the Beja warriors were advancing on the village, the news travelled with remarkable efficiency, mostly because everyone could see them coming from several miles away. The desert has very few trees, which makes surprise about as practical as hiding an elephant behind a teapot. A long line of warriors appeared over the ridge with great determination, spears glinting in the sun and camels grumbling about the sudden increase in walking. The villagers watched with the cautious curiosity normally reserved for travelling salesmen or distant relatives who arrive without warning. One man squinted thoughtfully and announced that this was either going to be a battle or a very large and enthusiastic meeting. Another suggested putting the kettle on first, because whatever happened next would almost certainly take a while. Meanwhile the goats, who had survived countless human arguments over the years, simply continued chewing with the serene confidence of creatures who knew that, sooner or later, everyone would calm down and someone would spill some grain.

Inside the village, the British stood their ground with the calm determination of men who believed that sweating in the heat was downright un-British. The soldiers of the 69th Foot, who were meant to be the reinforcements for the village, stood there, belting out Men of Harlech with a passion usually reserved for royal family tea parties, all while politely balancing several cups of tea. At the centre of this tea-fueled choir was Sir Reginald Farquar, a man so hopelessly lost in the world of administration that folks said he couldn’t even organise a drink in a brewery, let alone a battlefield strategy. Consequently, the regiment hadn’t budged an inch all morning, partly out of discipline, but mostly because no one had bothered to give them an order that didn’t sound like it came from a game of charades. Still, the tea was hot, the singing was exuberant, and if the enemy decided to crash the party, they’d at least do it with a bang in time with the chorus.

In a surprising twist, the British are still clinging to the village like a cat to a sunny windowsill, and the 69th Foot hasn’t budged an inch, probably waiting for a tea break! The men have now reached an enthusiastic third encore of Men of Harlech, several kettles have been emptied (good luck finding any left for the next round!), and someone unearthed biscuits that are so old they might just qualify for a museum exhibit but definitely not boost morale. In the middle of this delightful chaos stands Sir Reginald Farquar, scrutinizing the scene with all the seriousness of a man determined not to ruffle feathers before his afternoon tea. Meanwhile, the Beja warriors circle like confused tourists, the villagers watch wide-eyed, and the goats, those indifferent little spectators, continue munching away as the 69th proudly showcases their uniquely British battle strategy: when the going gets tough, stand your ground, belt out a good tune, and wait patiently for that exquisite cuppa to be ready!

The British hurriedly redeployed around the village, companies trotting off in all directions, officers pointing at maps, walls, and occasionally at completely the wrong things. Barricades went up, rifles appeared in windows, and the whole place began to look impressively military. Only the 69th Foot remained planted exactly where they had been all day. Under the steady guidance of Sir Reginald Farquar, a man who treated decisions the way a cat treats bathwater, the regiment had yet to receive any instruction that involved actual movement. By now the men had finished several kettles of tea and were quietly confident that if standing still long enough counted as a tactical plan, they were executing it with world-class precision.

Outside the village, the British companies lined up like eager schoolboys on sports day, all about to show off their shiny rifles and impeccable posture—because nothing says “battle-ready” like being well-groomed! Officers bellowed cheerful nonsense about discipline and Empire, while back in their bivouac, the 69th Foot were hard at work on their own wartime strategy: baking another batch of biscuits. Under the watchful eye of Sir Reginald Farquar, who found the intricacies of battlefield tactics utterly baffling before his afternoon scone, the regiment decided that nothing could rally the troops quite like freshly baked goodies, after all, who could resist a biscuit in the heat of battle?

The forces inside the village were starting to look like a game of musical chairs, with units hustling off to patch up walls, reinforce defenses, or sprint after Beja warriors who seemed to pop up like unexpected guests at a party. But in the midst of the chaos, the 69th Foot stood their ground as if they had glued their boots to the spot since breakfast. Sir Reginald Farquar was still deep in thought, pondering whether moving would cause a frenzy, while the men had collectively decided that if the battle were really urgent, someone would definitely swing by with a memo. So there they stood, steadfast as ever, guarding the kettles and biscuits like they were the crown jewels, showcasing the fine art of strategic doing-nothing.

The Beja warriors surged into the village with the frantic energy of a spilled bucket of knives, turning the streets into a chaotic theater of “unplanned structural reorganization.” Amidst the flying spears and reconsidered life choices of various camels, the 69th Foot remained anchored to the earth with a rigidity that bordered on the geological. Under the steady non-direction of Sir Reginald Farquar—whose horse was currently doing an excellent impression of a bronze statue—the regiment stood as motionless as garden gnomes, viewing the carnage with the detached curiosity of men watching a particularly loud construction site from a safe distance.

To the bewildered attackers, the 69th holding in the distance, appeared less like a military threat and more like a collection of very tall, very red archaeological curiosities. They guarded the kettles and biscuits with a devotion usually reserved for the Crown Jewels, having collectively decided that moving would involve an exhausting amount of paperwork and a complete recalibration of the stove’s wind resistance. They remained a masterclass in aggressive indifference, waiting for the water to hit a rolling boil with the quiet dignity of men who refused to let a local uprising interfere with the afternoon’s primary objective.

With the village now largely bereft of the dastardly British, the Beja warriors set about burning the buildings with great enthusiasm, flames licking up the mud-brick walls while smoke rolled lazily into the desert sky. The villagers watched with the resigned patience of people who had seen this sort of thing happen before and suspected it would all need rebuilding by Tuesday. And there, in the middle of the smoke and crackling roofs, the 69th Foot were still standing exactly where they had been all day. Through the haze their unmoving line looked almost ceremonial, as if they had mistaken the entire battle for a particularly dramatic parade. Sir Reginald Farquar, after carefully considering the situation, appeared satisfied that if they remained perfectly still the fire might simply burn around them out of politeness.

As the village transitioned into a festive, if involuntary, bonfire, the Beja warriors set about the “structural heating” of the mud-brick walls with the enthusiasm of people who had finally found the matches. While the locals mentally drafted their Tuesday morning reconstruction invoices, the 69th Foot remained anchored in the haze, looking less like a combat unit and more like a collection of slightly singed museum exhibits who had mistaken a tactical disaster for a particularly smoky military parade. Sir Reginald Farquar, surveying the distant inferno through his monocle, appeared to have reached the tactical conclusion that if the regiment remained sufficiently stiff-upper-lipped, the flames would eventually realize they hadn’t been properly introduced and simply burn out .

One building was putting on quite the show at the edge of the village, flames doing their best to audition for a reality TV series while smoke waltzed lazily into the desert sky. Meanwhile, the Beja warriors bounced around like they just won the lottery, thoroughly pleased with themselves. Villagers stood back, chitchatting about the goat count necessary to rebuild after the impromptu bonfire, as if planning a quirky fund-raiser. And over there, in the background, the 69th Foot were still standing as straight as a line of toy soldiers, basking in the heat haze. From a distance, they seemed more like garden ornaments than soldiers, while Sir Reginald Farquar appeared utterly convinced that if they just held their ground long enough, this whole mess might sort itself out, with no marching orders required!

A second building had a fiery tantrum, flames jumping up joyfully into the sky like they were auditioning for a circus act, while smoke wafted through the village like that one relative who crashes every party. The Beja warriors strutted around with the urgency of someone who just realized they forgot to turn off the oven, the villagers sighed with a wisdom that suggested they’d resigned themselves to the chaos, and in the midst of it all, a goat stood there, clearly miffed about the whole affair. Meanwhile, the 69th Foot remained as rigid and unbothered as a bad statue, refusing to budge an inch under the non-leadership of Sir Reginald Farquar, who seemed to subscribe to a revolutionary military strategy: if you just stand still long enough, the entire battle might eventually decide it’s better off somewhere else, like the nearest pub.

Gemini said

The subsequent court-martial of Sir Reginald Farquar was a masterclass in bureaucratic bewilderment, as the prosecutor struggled to explain how “standing perfectly still while the scenery melted” constituted a tactical masterstroke. Sir Reginald, however, remained magnificently defiant, pointing out that while the village was technically a charcoal sketch, the British had technically secured an 8VP to 6VP victory! A triumph he attributed entirely to the 69th Foot’s refusal to give ground, albeit ground miles from the fighting. When asked why he hadn’t advanced, Sir Reginald simply adjusted his monocle and noted that moving would have been “unbelievably gauche,” effectively arguing that the Beja had lost not to superior firepower, but to the sheer, exhausting inconvenience of being denied the ability to fight.

An excellent Men Who Would Be Kings game.