These have been on the painting desk for a while and I have just put the last coat on them and finished.












A Daemon Prince and another 16 strong Bloodletter units to go.
These have been on the painting desk for a while and I have just put the last coat on them and finished.












A Daemon Prince and another 16 strong Bloodletter units to go.
The mammoth tome Gallipoli by Les Carlyon is one of the most useful single-volume accounts of the campaign I have ever read. It is well researched without becoming unreadable, and it manages to tie together the political decisions, the operational failures, and the experience of the men on the ground. What makes it particularly effective is the way it uses letters and diaries to keep the narrative anchored in lived experience rather than drifting into abstraction.

The book opens with the strategic thinking behind the campaign, especially the role of Winston Churchill and the push to force the Dardanelles. Carlyon makes it clear that the idea was not irrational in itself, but it was built on weak assumptions and poor intelligence. There is a consistent thread of overconfidence and a failure to properly account for Ottoman capability, which runs through the planning from the beginning.
When he turns to the landings in April 1915, particularly at ANZAC Cove and Cape Helles, the narrative shifts quickly from plan to reality. The landings were confused, badly coordinated, and immediately contested. What had been intended as a decisive entry into the peninsula became a fight just to hold on. That transition from intention to improvisation is one of the key themes running through the book.
The sections on trench life are where Carlyon is at his strongest. He does not overstate things, but the cumulative effect is clear: heat, flies, disease, lack of water, and constant pressure. Movement is limited, and the strain builds over time. The campaign becomes less about manoeuvre and more about endurance, which is an important corrective to more simplified accounts of Gallipoli.
His treatment of command is consistently critical. There is a clear sense that senior leadership struggled to adapt, that coordination was poor, and that opportunities were missed or mishandled. This is most evident in the August fighting, particularly at Lone Pine and The Nek, where tactical bravery is obvious but ultimately wasted.
The evacuation at the end of the campaign stands in sharp contrast to everything that came before. Carlyon presents it as the one phase that was properly planned and executed, and it shows. It is efficient, controlled, and largely successful, which only reinforces the failures of the earlier stages.
Overall, the book works because it keeps the scale balanced. It does not lose sight of the broader strategic picture, but it never lets that override the experience of the soldiers. It is not a theoretical study of warfare, but it does make clear how poor assumptions, weak planning, and command failure can shape the outcome of a campaign. For understanding Gallipoli in a practical and human sense, it is hard to go past. a must for any one interested in the campaign.
The story of Thao Thep Kasattri and Thao Sri Sunthon is the heartbeat of Phuket’s cultural identity and a defining moment in Thai history. To understand these two women, known originally as Chan and Mook, one must look back to the late eighteenth century. The year was 1785, and the newly established Chakri Dynasty in Bangkok was facing its greatest existential threat. The Burmese King Bodawpaya had launched what became known as the Nine Armies War, a massive multi-pronged invasion intended to crush the Siamese kingdom once and for all. While the main fighting raged in the north and center of the country, a specific fleet was dispatched to seize the wealth of the southern peninsula, specifically the tin-rich island of Phuket, which was then known as Thalang.
The situation in Thalang was dire. The governor of the island had recently passed away, leaving the local administration in a state of chaotic transition and the military defenses largely leaderless. Into this power vacuum stepped Chan, the widow of the late governor, and her sister Mook. These were not women of leisure; they were daughters of a prominent local family who understood the strategic importance of their home and the brutal reality of what a Burmese occupation would mean for their people.
han realized that they did not have enough trained soldiers to meet the professional Burmese army in a standard field battle. However, she also knew that warfare is as much about psychology as it is about steel. She and Mook organized a brilliant campaign of deception. They gathered the local women of the island and instructed them to dress in men’s clothing, donning the traditional uniforms of Siamese soldiers. They cut their hair short and carried wooden staves carved to look like muskets from a distance.

Image credit: @taarekrek via Instagram
For weeks, these disguised women marched around the perimeter of the Thalang fort in plain view of the Burmese scouts. They moved in constant rotations, appearing as a massive, unending reinforcement of fresh troops arriving from the mainland. To the Burmese commanders watching from the coast, it appeared that Thalang was an impenetrable fortress defended by a limitless garrison. This psychological pressure, combined with a month-long siege that exhausted the Burmese supplies and spread disease through their ranks, finally broke the invaders’ resolve. The Burmese fleet eventually retreated, and Phuket remained unconquered.
When news of this unlikely victory reached King Rama I in Bangkok, he was profoundly moved by the sisters’ bravery and ingenuity. He bestowed upon them the noble titles by which they are known today. Chan became Thao Thep Kasattri, and Mook became Thao Sri Sunthon. Their legacy transitioned from military history into the realm of spiritual guardianship, cementing them as the ancestral mothers of the island.

Every year in March, the island erupts in the Thalang Victory Memorial Fair to celebrate this anniversary. The highlight is a massive open-air historical drama featuring a cast of hundreds, including elephants and pyrotechnics, to reenact the siege on the very fields where it occurred. This two-week festival blends somber merit-making ceremonies by Buddhist monks with vibrant cultural displays such as Nora dances, shadow puppetry, and communal candy-making. It is a time when the mythic quality of the sisters is most visible, as the community comes together to play the roles of their ancestors, ensuring the tactical brilliance of the 1785 defense is never forgotten.

The physical manifestation of this reverence is most prominent at the Heroines Monument, which stands at the center of a major traffic circle in Thalang. This bronze statue depicts the two sisters standing side by side, dressed in traditional garb and carrying swords. It was inaugurated in 1967 and serves as the literal and figurative heart of the island. Travelers arriving from the airport often pass this landmark, and it is common practice for locals to honk their horns or offer a respectful wai as they drive past, acknowledging the protection the sisters continue to provide.
A more intimate site of worship is the Wat Pranang Sang temple, which is believed to be the site where the sisters organized their defense. However, for those seeking a deeper spiritual connection, the Thao Thep Kasattri and Thao Sri Sunthon Shrine offers a place for quiet reflection. Here, the atmosphere is heavy with the scent of jasmine and incense. Visitors offer yellow flowers, gold leaf, and small figurines of elephants or soldiers as tokens of gratitude. The statues inside the shrine are often draped in vibrant saffron and gold silks, reflecting the royal status bestowed upon them by the King.
The heroines represent a unique intersection of Thai values, combining the fierce independence of the southern people with a deep loyalty to the crown. They are a reminder that leadership does not always come from expected places and that wit can be just as sharp as any blade. Today, their presence is felt everywhere from the names of major roads to the quiet prayers whispered in front of their images. They remain the eternal sentinels of Phuket, ensuring that the spirit of Thalang is never forgotten.
The village of El-Haddara, having only recently recovered from its brief but energetic experience as a centre of imperial enthusiasm, found itself once again at the heart of events it had absolutely no desire to host.

Egyptian cavalry ordered to slow down the British advance get shot to pieces.
Following the unfortunate court martial of Sir Reginald Farquhar, whose command style was later described as “remarkably consistent, if not especially useful,” the British Army resolved to take a more hands-on approach to village management. Sir Reginald, last seen attempting to explain that remaining stationary was in fact a bold strategic doctrine, was quietly removed from proceedings and encouraged to pursue other interests, preferably elsewhere.

The British advance with an second Egyptian cavalry unit receiving the same fate as the first.
Into his place came a new officer—decisive, energetic, and deeply committed to the radical notion that units might occasionally move, and preferably in the direction of the enemy. Under this refreshed leadership, the British advanced on El-Haddara with great purpose, a clear plan, and only the faintest understanding of the ground they were advancing across.
The Egyptians, now in possession of the village and very much enjoying the novelty of being indoors, had taken up defensive positions in buildings, behind walls, and in any location that suggested a strong preference for not being shot at. They regarded the approaching British with a mixture of determination and mild irritation, having only just finished settling in.
The British assault unfolded with all the confidence of men who had recently replaced their commander. Lines were dressed, orders were issued, and several units advanced heroically in approximately the correct direction. Progress was steady, if occasionally interpretive, as officers attempted to align enthusiasm with geography.
Within the village, the Egyptians prepared to defend every alley, courtyard, and doorway, particularly those that offered shade. Shots rang out, dust rose into the air, and the buildings of El-Haddara once again found themselves participating in events far beyond their original design brief.

The Egyptians firmly ensconced in the village.
The villagers, for their part, adopted their now well-practised strategy of cautious observation mixed with quiet despair.

Unfortunately, news of Sir Reginald’s departure, and the British return, spread rather quickly across the desert. An Egyptian force, having previously been obliged to vacate the premises under somewhat hurried circumstances, has now returned with renewed determination, a clearer plan, and a distinct lack of interest in leaving again.

Egyptian cavalry dispersed

A second Egyptian cavalry take to the hills, or rather, sand dunes.

Depleted British infantry reach a building and have started to set fire to it.
Their objective is straightforward: retake the village, restore their honour, and ideally do so before the British can set fire to anything else of importance.

Egyptian infantry scampering from the village.
Thus, El-Haddara once again prepares itself for battle. The well remains in its usual place, the goats continue their administrative duties, and the buildings—those that survived—stand nervously awaiting their fate.

The British advance on El-Haddara

A long range shot halted the British which probably decided the game.

One building successfully on fire. One more should result in a British victory.

With two units trying to set fire to the second building will the British secure victory?

The sole surviving Egyptian unit.

Only three more fire points to achieve victory!

With all but one of the Egyptian units making a dramatic exit from the field, it looked like victory had already booked its one-way ticket back to the British camp, probably with a cocktail in hand, sand in its shoes, and an exaggerated story to tell. But hold your horses this plot twist wasn’t finished just yet!
In a hilarious twist of fate, the Egyptians turned accounting into an art form, racking up a whopping 2 victory points for each of the two buildings that stubbornly refused to take a dip in the flames, while the British forces, who were more like rare collectibles at this point, scored exactly zero for being blown to bits, largely because there just weren’t enough of them left to even lie down dramatically. Meanwhile, the British discovered that heroically chasing the enemy off the table was worth as much as a soggy biscuit in a rainstorm. Not a single point. Not even a friendly nod! Their only crumb of comfort was a paltry three points for lighting one building on fire, which, though it dazzled the eye, turned out to be about as useful as a chocolate teapot in terms of strategy.
Thus, in one of those classic wargaming escapades that only the dice gods can conjure, the Egyptians pulled off a spectacular tactical defeat, because let’s be honest, bolting in an orderly fashion is still just bolting, yet, somehow, against all odds, managed to snag a strategic victory by the skin of their teeth. One can just picture their commanders later giving elaborate speeches, insisting that everything went precisely according to plan, as long as you conveniently overlook the chaos that actually unfolded.
And somewhere in the distance, one suspects, Sir Reginald is still standing exactly where he was told to remain
MWWBK’s always gives a great game.

You’ve clearly spent some time wandering the aisles of a hardware store, staring at a bag of grey plastic and thinking, “I could conquer a galaxy with these.” You’re absolutely right: to the uninitiated, they are rebar chairs or slab bolsters, but to the budget-conscious wargamer, they are the backbone of a low-cost, high-impact tabletop invasion.

About a half a dozen lengths cut to size.
If you are playing Warhammer 40,000 or Necromunda, you know that “Gothic Architecture” is just code for pointy metal things that look uncomfortable to sit on and of course archers. You’ve just gott have those! Those circular wheel spacers, used to keep rebar off the ground, look exactly like sci-fi power generators or cooling vents. If you glue three of them together, spray them silver, and hit them with a brown wash for “rust,” you suddenly have a Promethium Relay Pipe that costs five cents instead of fifty dollars.

I cut some at the “forty-five” to be able to have a right angle corner’
There is a certain wicked humour in watching your opponent’s expensive, hyper-detailed resin tank get strategically blocked by a piece of plastic designed to hold up a driveway. Paint them concrete grey, or in my case desert stucco, add a little fake moss, and you have a defensive line that looks like it has been there since the dawn of the empire—or at least since the concrete pour last Tuesday.

Here is my Post Apocalyptic buildings with the arched walls.

There was even lots left over.



I picked these up from a construction site dumpster but they are readily available.

I will paint these up to match the buildings when the last three buildings are completed.
Just a quick post in between the dentist and clothes shopping with SWMBO. I am not sure which is worse!

An other resin post apocalyptic building to add to the collection.






All seven completed so far.

I hope to finish the final three over the next few days.
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.

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.
Just War theory has long provided a framework through which political leaders, theologians, and scholars assess the moral legitimacy of armed conflict. Developed within the Christian intellectual tradition through the writings of Augustine of Hippo and later systematised by Thomas Aquinas, the theory seeks to reconcile the moral prohibition against violence with the reality that war may sometimes be necessary to restrain injustice. In contemporary analysis the tradition is normally divided into two categories: jus ad bellum, which governs the justice of entering war, and jus in bello, which governs the conduct of war once fighting has begun. Applying these criteria to the recent United States attack on Iran, and comparing the case with the Iraq War and the Six-Day War, highlights the enduring tensions between security, legality, and moral justification in modern warfare.

Damage on Iran military site
The first requirement of jus ad bellum is just cause, most commonly understood as defence against aggression or imminent threat. The United States has justified military action against Iran primarily on the grounds of preventing future threats, particularly those associated with nuclear capability and regional destabilisation. However, Just War theory traditionally requires evidence of an immediate or clearly impending attack. Without such evidence, military action risks being classified as preventive war, which classical Just War theorists generally regard as morally suspect. In this respect, the American attack on Iran bears similarities to the rationale used in the Iraq War of 2003. The U.S. administration at that time argued that the regime of Saddam Hussein possessed weapons of mass destruction that posed a serious threat. Yet the absence of such weapons following the invasion undermined the claim of just cause and led many scholars to judge the war as inconsistent with traditional Just War criteria. By contrast, the Israeli decision to strike first in the Six-Day War was widely interpreted by many historians as a response to immediate and credible threats. Egyptian troop mobilisation in Sinai, the closure of the Straits of Tiran, and explicit statements by regional leaders created a perception of imminent conflict. Although debate continues among historians, many analysts view Israel’s pre-emptive strike as closer to a legitimate act of anticipatory self-defence than the American actions in either Iraq or Iran.

Reuters Press
The second key criterion is legitimate authority, meaning that war must be declared by a recognised political authority acting within legal bounds. In democratic systems this requirement often raises questions regarding constitutional processes. In the case of the American attack on Iran, critics argue that the absence of formal congressional authorisation raises doubts about the legitimacy of the decision under both domestic constitutional law and international norms. Similar debates occurred during the Iraq War, where the U.S. Congress authorised the use of force but the invasion lacked explicit approval from the United Nations Security Council, thereby weakening claims of international legitimacy. The Six-Day War, however, occurred within a different strategic and legal environment. Israel’s government acted as the recognised authority of the state in response to what it perceived as an immediate military threat from neighbouring states, a context that strengthened the perception of legitimate defensive action.
Another central requirement of Just War theory is last resort, which holds that all reasonable diplomatic options must be exhausted before military force is used. The American attack on Iran has been criticised on the grounds that diplomatic avenues, including negotiation and sanctions, had not completely failed. Critics therefore argue that the resort to military force may have been premature. A similar critique was levelled against the Iraq War, where inspections by the United Nations were still ongoing when the invasion began. By contrast, proponents of Israel’s actions in 1967 argue that the rapid deterioration of the strategic situation and the mobilisation of surrounding armies created conditions in which waiting could have resulted in catastrophic military disadvantage. Thus the Six-Day War is often presented as a case where leaders believed no viable diplomatic alternatives remained.

Fox News
Just War theory also requires proportionality and probability of success. The anticipated benefits of war must outweigh the foreseeable harm, and military action must have a reasonable chance of achieving its stated objectives. The Iraq War illustrates the dangers of misjudging these criteria. While the invasion rapidly toppled the Iraqi regime, the subsequent insurgency and regional instability produced costs far exceeding the initial expectations of policymakers. Critics fear that a similar dynamic could emerge in a prolonged conflict with Iran, given the country’s size, population, and capacity to mobilise regional proxy forces. By contrast, the Six-Day War achieved its immediate military objectives in a brief and decisive campaign. Although the long-term political consequences of the conflict remain deeply contested, the short-term military success arguably satisfied the criterion of probability of success more clearly than either Iraq or the current confrontation with Iran.
Finally, jus in bello governs the ethical conduct of military operations once war has begun. The principles of discrimination and proportionality require combatants to distinguish between military targets and civilians and to use force only to the extent necessary to achieve legitimate military objectives. All three conflicts have generated debate on this issue. Civilian casualties and infrastructural damage in Iraq drew sustained criticism from international observers, while contemporary reports of strikes in Iran have similarly raised concerns about the protection of civilian populations. Even in the Six-Day War, despite its rapid conclusion, allegations of excessive force and treatment of prisoners remain subjects of historical discussion. These debates demonstrate that even when the decision to enter war may appear justified, the manner in which the war is fought continues to raise profound ethical questions.
In conclusion the comparison of the United States attack on Iran with the Iraq War and the Six-Day War demonstrates both the continuing relevance and the growing difficulty of applying Just War theory in modern strategic environments. The classical framework developed by Augustine of Hippo and later refined by Thomas Aquinas assumed a world in which acts of aggression were relatively visible and where the boundaries between war and peace were more clearly defined. Contemporary conflicts, by contrast, frequently arise from ambiguous threats, intelligence assessments, and preventive strategic calculations. As a result, the criteria of just cause, last resort, and proportionality often become matters of interpretation rather than objective judgement.

“The house was shaking” – Iranians describe US attack. BBC
In the case of the U.S. action against Iran, the central ethical question concerns whether preventive or anticipatory force can satisfy the requirement of just cause. Classical Just War theory traditionally permitted war in response to aggression or an imminent threat but was deeply sceptical of wars initiated to eliminate possible future dangers. The debate surrounding Iraq in 2003 illustrates the consequences of stretching this principle. When the anticipated weapons of mass destruction failed to materialise, the moral and legal justification for the war was widely questioned, and the credibility of preventive war arguments was significantly weakened. If the American action against Iran rests on a similar preventive rationale, it risks reproducing the same moral controversy that characterised the Iraq conflict.
By contrast, the Six-Day War often appears in Just War discussions as a more plausible example of anticipatory self-defence. Israeli leaders believed that surrounding Arab forces were preparing for immediate hostilities, and that delaying action would place Israel at a severe strategic disadvantage. Whether that perception was entirely accurate remains debated among historians, yet the crisis atmosphere of May–June 1967 produced a situation in which the distinction between defensive and pre-emptive war became blurred but still recognisable. This contrast highlights an important lesson: Just War reasoning is heavily dependent upon the perceived immediacy and certainty of threat. Where the threat is clear and immediate, anticipatory action may be morally defensible. Where the threat is speculative or distant, the justification weakens considerably.

Iran attack on Israel AP News
Another important implication concerns legitimate authority and international order. Modern wars rarely occur in a legal vacuum; they take place within an international system shaped by institutions such as the United Nations and by evolving norms governing the use of force. The Iraq War demonstrated how the absence of broad international legitimacy can undermine even a militarily successful campaign. Similar questions arise in the case of Iran. Even if military action achieves limited tactical goals, the absence of widely recognised authority or consensus may erode the perceived legitimacy of the operation and complicate long-term strategic outcomes. Just War theory therefore remains relevant not only as a moral framework but also as a practical guide for sustaining international legitimacy.

NPR News
Finally, the comparison underscores the enduring importance of prudence, a virtue frequently emphasised within the Just War tradition. War may be morally permissible under certain conditions, but it remains an instrument of last resort whose consequences are inherently unpredictable. Iraq illustrates how initial military success can lead to prolonged instability and unintended geopolitical consequences. The Six-Day War demonstrates that even a rapid and decisive victory can generate complex and enduring political disputes. Any military confrontation with Iran therefore carries risks extending far beyond the immediate battlefield, including regional escalation, economic disruption, and long-term strategic rivalry.
For these reasons, the application of Just War theory to the American attack on Iran does not produce a simple or definitive verdict. Instead, it exposes the tensions between preventive security strategies and the moral restraints traditionally imposed on warfare. The framework continues to serve an essential purpose: it compels policymakers, military leaders, and scholars to examine not only whether war can be won, but whether it ought to be fought. In an era of increasingly complex geopolitical threats, this ethical discipline remains indispensable for evaluating the legitimacy and consequences of armed conflict.
Selected Bibliography
Michael Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars: A Moral Argument with Historical Illustrations (New York: Basic Books, 2015).
James Turner Johnson, Just War Tradition and the Restraint of War (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981).
Jeff McMahan, Killing in War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).
John Keegan, The Iraq War (London: Hutchinson, 2004).
Martin van Creveld, The Sword and the Olive: A Critical History of the Israeli Defense Force (New York: PublicAffairs, 1998).
Bob Wurth’s Australia’s Greatest Peril: 1942 takes readers back to the most anxious year in modern Australian history, when invasion seemed not just possible but imminent. Wurth writes with the pace of a thriller, yet the backbone of the book is careful research. The result is a narrative history that feels urgent without sacrificing substance.

The central argument is clear. In early 1942 Australia was exposed, underprepared, and strategically isolated after the fall of Singapore and the rapid Japanese advance through Southeast Asia. Wurth reconstructs the shock that ran through government, military leadership, and the public. He pays close attention to the collapse of British power in the region and the sudden realisation that Australia would have to look to the United States for survival. The political tension between John Curtin and Winston Churchill is one of the strongest threads in the book, handled in a way that shows both strategic calculation and personal strain.
What stands out is Wurth’s ability to convey atmosphere. He captures the fear generated by the bombing of Darwin, the submarine attacks in Sydney Harbour, and the steady drip of alarming intelligence reports. The sense of uncertainty is constant. Readers are reminded that hindsight makes outcomes look inevitable, but in 1942 nothing felt secure. Decisions were made with incomplete information and under enormous pressure.
Wurth also devotes significant space to the Kokoda campaign and the battles in Papua, placing them within the broader context of Japan’s expansion and Allied recovery. He avoids turning these into simple heroic set pieces. Instead he shows the logistical chaos, the exhaustion, and the improvisation that defined Australia’s response. Political leadership, military command, and frontline experience are woven together rather than treated as separate stories.
The prose is accessible without being simplistic. Wurth does not overload the reader with technical detail, but he includes enough operational and strategic context to make the stakes clear. At times the dramatic tone edges close to popular history territory, yet it rarely tips into exaggeration. The peril was real, and the book makes that convincingly clear.
A great read if you are interested in the period.
Not a book I would normally read. In fact the subject is something I have tended to steer away from. I picked this one up in an op-shop almost by accident, more out of curiosity than intention, and once I started it I found myself reading through to the end. It lingered afterwards as well, enough that it felt worth sharing a few thoughts about it with others.

Camp Z by Stephen McGinty tells the story of one of the more unusual and lesser-known prisoner-of-war camps of the Second World War, set not in Europe but in rural Canada. The camp held high-risk German prisoners, including committed Nazis and SS personnel considered too dangerous or ideologically hardened for ordinary facilities. Drawing on diaries, reports, and personal accounts, McGinty builds a picture of a place where captivity did little to soften beliefs and where tensions remained high long after the front lines had moved elsewhere.
What makes the book engaging is its focus on the people inside the wire and the atmosphere that developed among them. The camp comes across as a kind of contained battlefield, shaped by loyalty, fear, and rigid ideology. Some prisoners remained fiercely committed to the Nazi cause and imposed their will on others, while a smaller number tried quietly to distance themselves or simply endure. Guards, often not fully prepared for the depth of conviction they faced, had to manage internal rivalries, threats of violence, and the constant possibility of escape. The sense that the war continued in miniature within the camp gives the narrative its tension.
The writing is straightforward and readable without being superficial. McGinty lets the detail do the work rather than pushing drama too hard. He has a good sense of when to step back and allow small incidents and personal stories to illustrate larger themes, particularly the persistence of belief and identity even as Germany’s defeat became inevitable. There is also a strong sense of place: the remoteness of the Canadian setting, the practical challenges of running such a facility, and the uneasy awareness among nearby communities that committed Nazis were being held in their midst.
Camp Z ended up being a more compelling read than I expected when I picked it up off a second-hand shelf. It opens a window onto a lesser-known aspect of the war and shows how ideology and conflict did not simply end with capture. For something outside my usual reading, it proved thoughtful, well researched, and surprisingly absorbing, and well worth passing on to others who might also come across it by chance.
Worth the read.