Today the Howling banshees that Ben Leong painted for me.

The Howling Banshees represent the Aeldari Aspect of Khaine that embodies swift, cold, and inescapable death. Drawing inspiration from the harbingers of myth, these warriors are masters of rapid-strike melee combat. They are renowned for their incredible agility, moving across the battlefield with a grace that defies the senses, closing the distance with an enemy before a single shot can be fired in response

The core of their combat effectiveness lies in the Banshee Mask. This specialized helm houses a psychosonic amplifier that transforms a warrior’s battle cry into a devastating psychic shriek. This “howl” is designed to paralyze the target by shattering their nervous system and inducing pure terror. In the brief moment that an enemy is incapacitated by this sonic assault, the Banshees are already among them, using the confusion to negate defensive fire and secure the kill.

In terms of equipment, they are primarily armed with Power Swords and Shuriken Pistols, focusing on armor-piercing strikes rather than brute strength. Visually, they are striking figures, typically appearing in bone-white armor topped with flowing, vivid red or orange plumes. This aesthetic serves as a grim psychological tool, signaling their role as heralds of the grave to any who stand against the Craftworlds.

The shrine is historically unique within Aeldari culture for being almost exclusively female, honoring the daughters of the Crone Goddess Morai-Heg. Their founding Phoenix Lord, Jain Zar, was the first to master the banshee’s cry and continues to lead her followers as a “Storm of Silence.” Together, they represent the perfection of the strike—a whirlwind of blades that arrives without warning and leaves only silence in its wake.

The Howling Banshees represent the Aeldari Aspect of Khaine that embodies swift, inescapable death. These warriors are masters of rapid-strike melee combat, utilizing incredible agility to close the distance before an enemy can react. Their most terrifying asset is the Banshee Mask, which amplifies a battle cry into a psychosonic shriek. This “howl” paralyzes the target’s nervous system with pure terror, effectively neutralizing defensive fire and leaving the foe helpless against the coming strike.

Equipped with elegant Power Swords and suppressed Shuriken Pistols, Banshees favor precision and speed over brute force. They are iconic for their bone-white armor and vibrant, flowing plumes, a visual tribute to the harbingers of myth. Traditionally an almost exclusively female shrine, they follow the teachings of the Phoenix Lord Jain Zar, honoring the Crone Goddess Morai-Heg by acting as a whirlwind of blades that arrives with a scream and leaves only the silence of the grave.

Jain Zar, known as the “Storm of Silence,” is the Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees and one of the most legendary figures in Aeldari history. As the first student of Asurmen, the Hand of Asuryan, she was the first to seek out and master the Path of the Warrior. Her combat style is a blur of hyper-kinetic movement, characterized by a fluid grace that allows her to weave through enemy fire and strike with the speed of a Gale. Unlike some of her more reclusive kin, Jain Zar is a wanderer who travels the webway between Craftworlds to ensure her Aspect shrines remain sharp and ready for the coming extinction.

In battle, she is a terrifying spectacle of speed and sound. She wears a more elaborate version of the Banshee Mask, capable of projecting a psychosonic scream so potent it can liquify the organs of those standing too close. Her primary weapons are the Blade of Destruction, a polearm of incredible craftsmanship, and Zhain-thar, a tri-bladed throwing weapon that returns to her hand after carving through ranks of infantry. This combination of reach and ranged lethality makes her a master of crowd control, capable of dismantling entire squads before they can even register her presence.

The lore of Jain Zar is deeply tied to the fate of her race, as she is a champion who refuses to let the Aeldari fade quietly into the night. She embodies the Crone Goddess Morai-Heg’s role as the harbinger of fate, and her presence on the battlefield is often seen as a sign of a pivotal moment in history. Because a Phoenix Lord’s essence is contained within their ritual armor, Jain Zar is effectively immortal; should she fall, another Exarch will don her panoply and become her once again, ensuring the Storm of Silence never truly ends.

Information gained from 40k Fandom.

I think this might have inspired me to complete my Eldar Aspect Warriors……………..maybe!

I had bought a 40k Eldar army off long time wargaming colleague Ben Leong and had asked him to paint a few extra things for me. well we both forgot about these for a few years and Ben found them and brought them along to ArcFest to return them home,

Today I have had time to take some pics of the Revenant Scout Titan

The Eldar Revenant-class Scout Titan represents the pinnacle of Aeldari hit-and-run warfare, serving as the smaller, more agile cousin to the massive Phantom Battle Titan. Unlike the lumbering war engines of the Imperium, the Revenant is a graceful construct of psychoreactive Wraithbone, grown and shaped by Bonesingers. This living material allows the Titan to move with a fluid, terrifying speed that mimics the movements of its pilot. The machine is psychically attuned to its crew, often a single steersman who is linked to the spirits of dead Aeldari housed within the Titan’s spirit stone core.

Tactically, the Revenant is designed to hunt in “packs” or support Eldar skimmer forces like Jetbikes and Vypers. Its most defining physical characteristic is its set of powerful jump jets, which allow it to make massive, bounding leaps over battlefield obstacles and impassable terrain. This mobility, combined with a sophisticated holo-field that scatters its visual image into a storm of kaleidoscopic shards, makes it an exceptionally difficult target to track or pin down

In terms of firepower, the Revenant punches well above its weight class. It typically carries a pair of Pulsars, immensely powerful multi-burst laser weapons capable of slicing through heavy armor, or Sonic Lances for devastating infantry and light vehicle formations. For secondary defense, it features a shoulder-mounted missile launcher often loaded with plasma warheads. While it lacks the thick ceramite plating of an Imperial Warhound, its agility and ability to disappear into cover after delivering a lethal strike make it one of the most feared “scout” engines in the galaxy.

Information gained from 40k Fandom.

Tomorrow some more Eldar (I just cannot get used to Aeldari)!

Michael Enright’s book Flyers Far Away stands as a monumental piece of historical reclamation focusing on the fifteen thousand Australian airmen who served within the RAF during World War II. For decades many of these men were lost to history because they were integrated into British squadrons rather than serving in distinct Australian units. Enright spent years conducting over two hundred interviews and scouring private diaries to piece together a narrative that is not just about strategy and statistics but about the individual Aussie spirit in the flak filled skies of Europe and the Mediterranean.

The book is particularly effective at highlighting the diversity of the Australian contribution. While many are familiar with the heavy bombers of Bomber Command Enright sheds light on the specialized roles in Coastal Command and photographic reconnaissance as well as the hazardous work of the pathfinders who marked targets for the main force. The writing manages to capture the technical complexity of these machines while never losing sight of the human being in the cockpit including the fear and the dark humor and the profound sense of isolation felt by men thousands of miles from home.

A centerpiece of the narrative is the account of the Flying Porcupines which were the Short Sunderland flying boats of Coastal Command. Enright recounts a legendary engagement where a lone Sunderland crewed by Australians was ambushed by eight German Ju 88 fighters over the Bay of Biscay. The crew used the massive aircraft’s heavy defensive armament and its ability to fly at wave top height to survive. By hugging the water they prevented the German fighters from diving on their underbelly and eventually drove off the attackers in a grueling battle that lasted nearly an hour. It is a visceral example of the instinctive flying that Enright documents so well.

Another harrowing story featured in the book involves the Rhubarbs which were low level nuisance raids over occupied France. Enright describes a mission where an Australian Spitfire pilot was hit by ground fire while strafing a railway yard. With his engine failing and coolant spraying over the canopy the pilot had to navigate back across the English Channel blind. Enright details the terrifying silence as the engine finally cut out miles from the coast and the pilot’s desperate calculated glide toward a crash landing on a Kentish beach. These anecdotes provide a stark unvarnished look at the thin margin between life and death for these flyers.

Ultimately Flyers Far Away is more than just a military history because it acts as a cultural bridge. It ensures that the specific Australian experience within the broader Allied effort is preserved. For any reader interested in the intersection of personal courage and technical history Enright provides a deeply rewarding and often moving tribute to a generation of airmen who were nearly forgotten by the very records they helped to write.

Well worth picking up if you get it at the right price.

I am well read in this area, but have only just picked up a copy of the revised edition of The Original Australians by Josephine Flood. It is immediately clear that this is an extremely well researched work. What stands out first is not simply the breadth of material, but the way Flood brings it together into a form that remains accessible without sacrificing substance.

The strength of the book lies in its grounding in archaeology and its careful use of evidence. Sites such as Lake Mungo are not treated as isolated discoveries but as part of a wider pattern that demonstrates both the depth of time and the adaptability of Aboriginal societies. Flood presents a long history that is active rather than static. This is not a prelude to European arrival. It is a complete and complex past in its own right, shaped by environmental knowledge, movement, and continuity across generations.

What I found particularly effective is the way the book challenges older assumptions without overstating the case. There is a steady dismantling of ideas about simplicity or passivity, replaced with a picture of societies that were regionally distinct, technologically capable, and closely attuned to Country. At the same time, the narrative remains cautious. Flood avoids speculation where the evidence is thin, and that restraint gives the work a degree of authority that is often missing in more popular accounts.

There are, however, points where the scale of the work becomes its limitation. Writing at the level of the entire continent inevitably compresses difference. Cultural and linguistic diversity can only be carried so far in a synthesis of this kind, and at times the argument moves toward generalisation. For a reader already familiar with more localised studies, those moments stand out.

The sections dealing with contact and its consequences are handled with similar care. Flood draws together archaeological evidence and early accounts to show the disruption that followed European arrival. The impact is not overstated, but it is clear. The pattern of disease, displacement, and violence is laid out in a way that is measured but difficult to ignore. It is not a detailed frontier study, but it provides a solid framework that others have since built upon.

In terms of style, the book is direct and controlled. There is no attempt to push a heavy interpretive line. Instead, the argument emerges through the accumulation of evidence. That approach works, even if it occasionally leaves the analysis feeling understated.

Taken as a whole, this revised edition confirms why The Original Australians has held its place for so long. It sits in that important space between earlier descriptive work and the more recent, more sharply defined scholarship that followed. It is not trying to do everything, but what it does, it does well. For anyone coming to the subject, it remains a strong entry point. For those already familiar with the field, it is still worth the read, if only to see how clearly the foundations were laid.

A must form anyone interested in Indigenous history!

Michael Caulfield’s Voices of War: Australians Tell Their Stories from World War I to the Present belongs to the tradition of oral history, though it avoids many of the conventions that usually shape that form. Rather than building a sustained analytical narrative, Caulfield draws on the Australians at War Film Archive and selects a series of individual testimonies, shaping them into a sequence of personal accounts that stretch from the First World War through to late twentieth and early twenty first century conflicts. The structure is deliberate. It privileges the individual voice over synthesis, allowing each account to stand with minimal intrusion. In doing so, the book positions itself less as a history in the conventional sense and more as a curated collection of remembered experience, where the act of selection becomes the primary interpretive tool.

The strength of the work lies in this restraint. Caulfield does not attempt to impose a unifying thesis or force the material into a single explanatory framework. Instead, the accounts retain their distinct tone and character. The contributors come from a wide cross section of roles: front line infantry, aircrew, prisoners of war, nurses, peacekeepers, and civilians working in support or humanitarian capacities. Their voices differ in cadence, clarity, and emotional register. Some are sharply recalled and tightly structured, others are hesitant, fragmented, or shaped by the passage of time. This variation is not a weakness. It reflects the uneven nature of memory itself and gives the collection a degree of authenticity that more polished narratives often lack. The reader moves between humour, shock, detachment, and reflection without warning, which mirrors the instability of lived experience rather than the coherence of retrospective storytelling.

At the same time, this approach imposes clear limits. Readers seeking operational clarity or detailed reconstruction of events will find little to anchor them. Battles and campaigns appear only in outline, often reduced to the immediate circumstances of the individual narrator. There is minimal discussion of unit structure, command decisions, or tactical development. Context is provided, but sparingly, and rarely extended beyond what is necessary to situate the account. The result is a work that operates almost entirely at the level of experience rather than explanation. It offers insight into what war felt like, but not into how it was conducted in a formal or analytical sense. For military historians, this places the book firmly in a supplementary role, useful for texture and perspective but insufficient as a standalone study.

Where the book becomes particularly effective is in the way it spans conflicts across time without overtly drawing conclusions. By placing accounts from the Western Front alongside those from Vietnam, peacekeeping operations, and more recent deployments, it allows patterns to emerge indirectly. Recurring themes become visible through repetition rather than argument. Uncertainty, improvisation, endurance, and the persistence of ordinary human concerns under extreme conditions appear again and again. The effect is cumulative. Without stating it explicitly, the book challenges simplified or heroic interpretations of war by showing how inconsistent and contingent these experiences were, and how often they resisted neat categorisation.

Ultimately, Voices of War is most valuable when approached on its own terms. It is not a work that seeks to resolve or explain war in a comprehensive way. Instead, it preserves fragments of experience, many of which remain incomplete or unresolved. That incompleteness is part of its contribution. It reflects the limits of memory and the difficulty of translating lived experience into narrative form. For readers interested in the human dimension of conflict, particularly within an Australian context, the book offers a rich and varied set of perspectives. For those seeking structured analysis or a clear interpretive argument, it functions more effectively as a complement to other works than as a primary source of explanation.

I really liked this one. well worth picking up.

I attended ArcFest this weekend. Being at the Sandown motor and horse racing track the venue is huge with hundred of participants across two floors of the main grandstand. ArcFest is the premier gaming event on the Australian calendar.

ArcFest is a celebration of tabletop wargaming and the miniature hobby.

For all hobbyists and creators, ArcFest is a playground of inspiration: explore painting competitions, hobby demonstrations, basing workshops, paint-and-take sessions, and conversations with experts and creators. Fans can meet YouTubers, streamers, and industry legends, and discover the latest in miniature design, terrain, and accessories.

​ArcFest’s 4 pillars are for all hobbyists no matter the level of involvement.

• Play for fun
• Challenge Your Hobby
• Create Collect
• Play it forward.

Information above for the ArcFest website.

For many years I attended as an organiser or player, but this year was my first time as a vendor. I had fun catching up with old mates looking at superb minis and terrain and even selling some “stuff”

I had a participation game designed to teach people the Dinosaur game and hopefully entice them to nuy.

I generally just take my game rules along but decided this time to take some of the historical books I have written and to my surprise I sold quite a few of them.

Other than my stand, the highlight of the convention was a chance to catch up with Thoumas Pirinen and have a chat about games design.

Tuomas Pirinen is a Finnish game designer best known for his influential work with Games Workshop during the 1990s. He played a central role in shaping the tone and mechanics of Warhammer Fantasy Battle, particularly through his authorship of the sixth edition rules, which emphasised narrative cohesion, army character, and a more grounded battlefield dynamic. His design approach moved away from abstraction toward systems that reflected friction, command limitation, and the feel of pre modern warfare.

Pirinen is also closely associated with the creation of Mordheim, a cult classic built around campaign progression, injury, and long term consequence. More recently, he has returned to the foreground of design through his involvement in Trench Crusade, a dark, war torn setting that fuses First World War imagery with apocalyptic religious themes. Across these works, his design consistently centres uncertainty, asymmetry, and the human dimension of conflict, leaving a lasting imprint on narrative driven tabletop wargaming. (Photo from the ArcFest website.)

I am looking forward to listening to Thomas’ lecture when it is uploaded to the ArcFest site, as I was busy at my stand when he was speaking.

Thanks to Dan and his team for running another great event.

Alex Miller’s Max is far more than a standard biography; it is a profound and deeply personal excavation of a friendship that spanned decades and continents. For years, Miller sat across the table from Max Blatt, a man who seemed to carry the entire weight of the twentieth century in his silence. This book is Miller’s attempt to bridge those gaps and finally look into the white spaces of a life that Max himself was often too pained, or perhaps too humble, to talk about. It is a story about what it means to truly know someone and the realisation that sometimes the people closest to us are the ones carrying the most incredible and hidden burdens. Miller reveals that the bond between a writer and their mentor is often built on what is left unsaid, creating a narrative that feels like a sacred trust being finally fulfilled.

The core of the book is a beautiful and slow burning investigation into Max’s past as a Polish Jew and a radical socialist who managed to survive the twin nightmares of the Holocaust and Stalinism. Miller does not just list historical facts like a dry textbook. Instead, he takes us with him to Europe as he retraces Max’s footsteps through the streets of Paris and the ruins of the old world. You can feel Miller’s desperation to get it right and to honor his friend without exploiting his trauma. It is fascinating to watch a writer of Miller’s caliber struggle with the ethics of storytelling while wondering if he has the right to dig up ghosts that Max chose to leave buried in order to survive his new life in Melbourne. This journey becomes a detective story of the soul, where every archival discovery or chance meeting with a survivor feels like a hard won victory against the fading of memory.

What really sticks with you is the sharp contrast between the mundane and the monumental. One moment you are reading about the two men sharing a quiet meal in a leafy Australian suburb, and the next you are plunged into the intellectual fire of the European underground. Miller writes with such a restrained and elegant hand that the horror of Max’s history hits even harder because it is not shouted from the rooftops. It is a profound look at displacement and the way people try to build normal lives on top of foundations made of ash. He captures that sense of being a stranger in a strange land, where the ghosts of a lost Europe are always hovering just behind the lace curtains of an Australian bungalow. The narrative elegantly moves between the peaceful, sun-drenched gardens of Miller’s home and the cold, terrifying realities of the Polish resistance and the shifting borders of a continent at war.

Miller also delves deeply into the philosophical nature of Max Blatt himself, portraying him as a man of immense intellectual hunger who never lost his passion for literature and the socialist ideal despite the betrayals of history. The book examines how a person maintains their humanity when the ideologies they believed in are corrupted by totalitarianism. We see Max as a mentor who shaped Miller’s own understanding of the world, teaching him that the true value of a story lies in its honesty rather than its drama. The prose reflects this lesson, remaining grounded and sincere even when discussing the most harrowing events of the Warsaw ghetto or the complexities of Soviet political maneuvers. It is a masterclass in biographical writing that refuses to simplify its subject.

Ultimately, Max is a tribute to the kind of friendship that shapes your soul and alters your worldview. It is a deeply moving and sometimes haunting read that makes you want to sit down with your own elders and ask the questions you have been too afraid to ask before time runs out. Miller proves that while we can never fully own another person’s history, the act of trying to understand it is one of the highest forms of love and respect. This work serves as a reminder that every quiet life we encounter might be hiding an epic of survival and courage. If you are looking for a work that balances a grand historical scope with the quiet intimacy of a shared cup of coffee, this is absolutely the book to pick up. It leaves the reader with a lingering sense of gratitude for the storytellers who refuse to let the past be forgotten.

Not something I would normally review on this blog, but it is well worth picking up even at full price.

A KNIL infantry squad is not a tidy, doctrinal construct. It is a small working group, usually eight to twelve men under a corporal, sometimes less depending on losses and circumstance. It is not broken into formal sub sections. It exists as a single body, held together by proximity and familiarity rather than structure on paper.

Most of the men are riflemen. They carry bolt action rifles, commonly Mannlicher or Mauser types, with ammunition distributed across bandoliers and pouches as available. There is no real uniformity in how this is carried. What matters is that each man has enough to remain effective for a short fight. Pistols are limited and tend to sit with NCOs or particular individuals rather than being widely issued.

Within that group there is usually a Lewis gun. It does not define the squad, but it is there, and it adds weight when it is brought into use. The gun is handled by a gunner and an assistant, sometimes with another man carrying additional magazines. The pans are spread across the squad rather than concentrated in one place, which reflects the simple reality of supply. The weapon is part of the group, not something that stands apart from it.

Other equipment is limited and uneven. A few grenades may be present, but not in large numbers. Extra ammunition, tools, or specialist items are carried when available, but there is nothing like a fixed allocation across every squad. What you see is what the unit has managed to retain and distribute.

Movement is not always on foot. Where vehicles are available, squads may be lifted forward or repositioned using light armoured transports. The Overvalwagen is a good example of this in KNIL service. It is an improvised armoured vehicle, used to move men under some protection rather than to fight as a system in its own right. A squad carried this way remains the same body once it gets out. The vehicle is a means of getting there, nothing more.

Uniform and equipment reflect the nature of the force. European, Indo European, and indigenous soldiers serve together, and the mix shows in dress and kit. There is variation in webbing, packs, and personal items. Standardisation is secondary to function.

So what you have is a rifle squad with a light machine gun included, held together by what is available rather than what is prescribed. It is simple, practical, and shaped by constraint. The Lewis gun is part of it, the Overvalwagen may move it, but the squad itself remains a small group of men carrying what they have and working as a single unit.

More KNIL in the pipeline.

If you’re looking for a typical “trench warfare” memoir filled with bayonet charges and mud-caked heroics, Robert Crack’s Until a Dead Horse Kicks You might surprise you. It is a deeply personal, often wry, and technically fascinating look at a side of the Great War rarely explored in mainstream history: the life of a wireless operator. While the infantry dealt with the physical geography of No Man’s Land, Crack dealt with the invisible geography of the airwaves, offering a unique vantage point on the chaos of the Western Front.

The memoir follows Crack’s journey as he navigates the high-stakes world of early military communication. He does a brilliant job of explaining the primitive nature of radio without getting bogged down in jargon, allowing the reader to feel the frustration of hauling heavy, temperamental equipment across broken terrain. There is a profound sense of isolation in his narrative; despite being “connected” via signals, being a specialist often meant being an outsider among the regular units, a social friction that Crack captures with sharp, honest observation.

One of the most compelling aspects of the book is Crack’s exploration of the physical burden placed on signallers. Unlike the infantry who carried a standard pack and rifle, wireless operators were often burdened with cumbersome “portable” sets that were anything but light. Crack details the gruelling logistics of moving lead-acid batteries, hand-cranked generators, and delicate vacuum tubes through knee-deep mud and artillery barrages. This logistical nightmare created a constant tension between the need for mobility and the requirement for a stable signal, making the reader realise that the war of communication was as much a feat of physical labour as it was of technical skill.

Crack also spends significant time reflecting on the psychological toll of being a “listener.” In the silent world of the headset, operators were often the first to hear the frantic calls for reinforcements or the chilling silence when a forward position was overrun. He describes the heavy responsibility of being the sole link between a doomed platoon and the artillery support that might save them. This perspective adds a layer of emotional weight to the narrative; while he may have been physically removed from some of the frontline bayonet charges, he was mentally plugged directly into the terror and desperation of the entire sector.

The narrative further delves into the surreal contrast between the silence of the radio room and the cacophony of the battlefield. Crack describes the strange, ghost-like experience of sitting in a cramped, dark dugout with headphones pressed tightly to his ears, tuning into the “voices” of the ether while the earth literally shook from heavy bombardment. This sensory dichotomy created a form of mental displacement; he was physically in a hole in the ground in France, but his mind was stretched across miles of invisible wire and frequency. It highlights the unique mental fatigue of the operator, who had to maintain surgical focus on the rhythmic “dits” and “dahs” of Morse code while the world was being torn apart just feet above his head.

Moreover, Crack provides a candid look at the bureaucracy and skepticism that the Signal Service faced from old-school commanders. In the early stages of the war, many high-ranking officers were suspicious of wireless technology, preferring the traditional—and often suicidal—method of sending human runners with handwritten notes. Crack recounts instances where vital intelligence was ignored because it came through a “newfangled” box rather than a mud-stained dispatch rider. His frustration with this rigid military hierarchy is palpable, offering a scathing critique of how the refusal to adapt to modern technology directly resulted in unnecessary loss of life.

The memoir also captures the haunting atmosphere of the “listening sets” used for intercepting enemy communications. Crack describes the tension of scanning the dials, hunting through the static for a German signal that might reveal an impending attack or a shift in the enemy’s line. These sections read almost like a psychological thriller, as he details the intimate, voyeuristic experience of listening to an enemy he would never see. He notes the chilling realisation that on the other side of No Man’s Land, a German operator was likely doing the exact same thing—two technicians caught in a private, silent war of wits that existed entirely apart from the mud and the blood of the infantry.

Ultimately, Until a Dead Horse Kicks You is a must-read for military history buffs and those interested in the evolution of technology. It strips away the romanticism of war and replaces it with the cold reality of technical failure and human endurance. Crack reflects on the “invisible scars” of his service, noting the difficulty of adjusting to the quiet of post-war England where the absence of static felt like a physical weight. It is a gritty, authentic, and surprisingly witty account that ensures the “sparks” of the Great War—the men who held the lines together with copper and code—are not forgotten.

A forward artillery observer in the World War II sits right at the point where information turns into effect. He is forward with the infantry or recce elements, not back with the guns. His job is simple in concept but demanding in practice. He sees what the guns cannot and turns that into fire on the ground. Without him, artillery is largely working off maps and plans. With him, it becomes responsive.

He works forward because that is where the information is. From there he identifies targets. That might be a machine gun position holding up a section, movement forming up behind cover, or vehicles coming onto a track. Once he has that, he calls it in. Grid, description, type of fire. It is done in a set format because it has to be clear and fast. There is no room for ambiguity once rounds are in the air.

When the first rounds land, the real work begins. He watches the fall of shot and corrects it. Over, short, left, right. Small, controlled adjustments. The aim is to bracket and then close. When it is on, he calls for fire for effect and brings the weight of the battery onto the target. Just as important, he controls when it stops or shifts, especially when his own infantry are moving. That timing matters. Get it wrong and you either lose the effect or hit your own.

Everything sits on method. Map reading, grid work, judging distance, and clear communication. He is usually not alone. There is a signaller at least, sometimes more, but it is still a small team carrying what they need. Radio, binoculars, maps, compass. If the radio goes down, the whole system starts to break. At that point the guns are back to being blind.

Tactically, the value is in responsiveness. The observer makes artillery immediate. He can suppress, break up an attack, or support movement as it happens. At platoon and company level that can be decisive. It is not about weight of fire in the abstract. It is about putting it in the right place at the right time.

The position itself is exposed. To see, he has to be where he can observe, and that usually means forward and often high or open ground. That draws attention. Small arms, mortars, anything that can reach him will. Opponents understood very quickly that if you remove the observer, you blunt the artillery.

Across different theatres the details change. In open country you can see further but you are easier to find. In jungle you are close in, visibility is poor, and adjustment is harder. The fundamentals do not change. He is still the link between what is happening and what can be brought to bear.

In practical terms, the forward observer is what makes artillery useful at the level most fighting actually takes place. He takes something that is otherwise indirect and makes it immediate. That is where the role sits.

More KNIL tomorrow.