Upcoming skirmish

David Dugas has stepped up and volunteered to fight out the skirmish at Lehmangraz. He anticipates gaming the action within the next few weeks, and it's shaping up to be quite an action! Full report here when it comes in. My thanks also to Steve, and Jeffrey who also volunteered.

A proxy skirmish?

Gentlemen, would anyone be interested in fighting a proxy skirmish for me? A situation has arisen where light forces of Hetzenberg and Dunkeldorf-Pfühl have clashed during a raid far from the main battle front. In terms of numbers the forces concerned amount to no more than three companies, one of which is militia, and a representation of four gunboats. A bit of a clue, there!

It's a scenario that could have a sizable impact on the war - and certain characters featured in the Chronicles. The results will be written up and posted on my blog, and published later in the third volume of the Chronicles with a full acknowledgement for the player(s) concerned. First come, first served.

Ursula hatches a plan

*

Rain fell in torrents, but the siege of Randstadt continued. As Lieutenant Mary Amadeus trudged back to the artillery park through mud and puddles, the air shook with both thunder and the concussion of heavy guns. She heeded it not. Feeling wet-through and miserable, her only desire now was to reach her tent and rest – and mope over the ruin of her hopes. A particularly vivid sheet of lightning surged through the heavy cloud above, triggering Mary’s latent sense of scientific inquiry. She tipped her head to regard the cloud and was rewarded by a stream of water trickling out the folds of her tricorn and down her back. She huddled into her cloak, thinking but not voicing one of Ursula’s choice curses. The memory of happier if wilder days with her friend buoyed Mary for a while, until the general sense of gloom descended once more.

It lasted until she reached Officers’ Row in the artillery park, at which point she stopped dead in her tracks with surprise. A full-sized officer’s pavilion stood where her small but adequate tent had been. The board announcing her name and rank had been hammered into the ground to one side of the entrance. A thin stream of smoke emerged from a tin chimney pipe extending above the roof. The rain cascaded off the sloping canvas roof into a broad drainage channel, keeping the area under the pavilion dry. It looked like an abode fit for a colonel.

Wide-eyed and curious, Mary splashed her way over to the pavilion and cautiously drew back the fly, to see Ursula and Philip comfortably ensconced on padded camp stools by a pot-bellied stove.

“Ah! There you are!” Philip exclaimed, rising to his feet. Ursula grinned and raised a tankard in greeting. An enameled pot sat on top of the stove, and Mary realized the air inside the pavilion resonated with the delightful aroma of coffee.

She stepped inside, into delightful warmth, and allowed the fly to fall. Philip came up and took her in his arms. “Welcome to your new premises, my dear,” he said tenderly. Over his shoulder Mary saw Ursula smile and look away from their intimacy. She busied herself with pouring a third tankard of coffee.

“Philip, where did this all come from?” Mary asked, amazed. She looked at the stove, and a new camp cot, set within its own screened-off area. The ground underfoot was dry and covered with a mat of closely-woven rushes.

He drew back and held her gently by the shoulders. “It’s my gift to you. A small compensation for the bitter disappointment we suffered.”

“You’re too kind,” she murmured.

Ursula stood and handed her a tankard. “Here you are, get the right side of this.”

Mary smiled her thanks and cupped cold hands around the heavenly warmth seeping through the pewter. “You worked quickly. I was only at the gun lines for half an hour.”

“We had help,” Ursula said with a wink, taking her seat once more.

“How goes it up there?” Philip asked, guiding her to a stool.

“We’re making progress.” Mary sipped the scalding brew. “The Neuburg battery’s taking a pounding from our guns. We should silence it in another day’s work, two at most.”

“My father hopes to have Randstadt in our possession within the month.”

“It may be sooner,” Mary said tersely. Since the confrontation over Professor Knappenberger’s letter, she found it hard to think kindly of her liege lord, Grand Duke Karl.

Ursula must’ve sensed her thoughts, for she set aside her tankard and leaned forward. “What happened is not my uncle’s fault, Mary,” she said earnestly. “He has to be guided by protocol.”

“He didn’t help matters,” Mary replied, giving Philip a sidelong glance. “I’m sorry, Philip. I know he’s your father, but he dealt me – us – a cruel blow.”

“So he did,” Philip sighed, rubbing his furrowed brow.

“And you’re a fine one to talk about protocol, Ursula,” Mary went on, giving her friend a hot look.

“Touché,” Ursula murmured.

“I’m sorry you sent that letter to Professor Knappenberger.”

“Call it another brick in the road to hell.” Ursula gazed at her for a long moment. “I did so with the best of intentions.”

Mary shrugged, sipped coffee as her emotions threatened to rise up and cause a scene it would be hard to retract. “You’re my best friend. I really do believe you,” she managed to say.

“I’m glad of that, Mary A,” Ursula said, reached over to clasp her hand. “And, it so happens I may be able to fix things.”

“How so?”

Ursula took a sheet of parchment from a fold of her dress and held it up. Philip peered at it and blinked. “Isn’t that the reply from Professor Knappenberger?”

“Yes. I filched it from your father’s bureau the last time I went to headquarters.” Philip’s jaw dropped and Ursula clicked her tongue. “Oh, don’t look such an idiot! It needed to be done.” She waved the letter. “This damned thing has already caused my best friend and you a lot of damage. Now I think it’ll help undo it.”

“You stole it from my father’s bureau?”

Ursula gave her cousin a scathing look and addressed Mary. “I asked the Professor to reply to me, so this letter should’ve come to me anyway. Somehow it got addressed to my uncle. Why?”

Mary frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Because somebody wanted to cause mischief.”

“They certainly succeeded!” Philip said.

“Yes.”

“You think this mysterious somebody knew about your inquiry to the Professor?” Mary asked.

“I’m almost certain of it.”

Ursula’s eyes sparkled in a way Mary knew of old. Her spirits began to revive. “What are you planning to do?”

Ursula glanced around at the canvas walls of the tent. “I’m pretty sure no one’s outside snooping on our conversation in this weather,” she said, pitching her voice low. “Even so, I’m keeping my plan to myself for now. I’ll be heading back to Hetzenberg in the morning, then up to Bolschen.”

“Bolschen?” Mary cocked her head. “Why there?”

“I may take the waters,” Ursula replied with a wink.

Back from an excellent weekend

My wife and I are back in town after she took part in the regional Sweet Adelines contest up in Peoria, Illinois. Her chorus, The River Blenders of Chesterfield, MO won! They go through to the international finals to be held in Houston, Texas next year. It couldn't happen to a nicer band of ladies!

We're kinda excited!

On the wargaming front I'm busy with a new commission to paint some more Plains Wars figures for a fellow gamer. I find myself casting longing glances at the Rumtopft Dragoons and Hetzenberg artillery languishing in storage, waiting for me to clear the painting decks and get cracking on them. Hopefully, I'll be able to do something with them next month. In the meantime, I'm working on the next post in the Chronicles. As always, watch this space...

Proper Old School wargaming footage

*

Some interesting footage here of the late, great actor Peter Cushing, indulging in his hobby of wargaming. Using H G Well's Little Wars rules and fought out on his study floor, you can't get more old school than this!

An idle question

My current project is painting up some Plains Wars US cavalry for a fellow gamer. Pics of the completed mounted troops can be found here, at A J's Wargames Table.

In between times, I was talking over TV and media with my wife, and got to wondering. With all the TV coverage of sports, hobbies and so on out there, why is there no dedicated TV wargaming channel? Surely with many thousands of gamers all over the country and beyond, there's room for such a channel. Thoughts? Opinions?

Into the night

The company of Sobelsburg Jager swam across the Eisenwasser in the dead of night. Two miles upstream stood the small town of Wentwitz. Almost of one mind the company decided to avoid going anywhere near the scene of their rough handling by the Hetzenberg army and riverine flotilla. Enemy troops still patrolled the area, but the agent had said the riverbank here seemed unwatched.

Lieutenant Weismuller led the way across with a powerful over arm crawl, towing a sealed keg behind him by means of a length of yarn. It contained a dark lantern and a tinderbox, along with a dry white kerchief and spare cartridges for his firelock Experience had taught him long ago to be prepared for every eventuality.

Not far behind Private Träger swam like a trout. Kleiner’s massive frame bulled through the water in the manner of a ship of the line, raising a white wake and earning a hissed rebuke from the Old Man. “Yes sergeant, sorry sergeant,” Kleiner burbled, water slapping in his face. The Old Man raised his eyes to heaven and wondered quite what he’d done to deserve to be stuck with such a lumbering brute.

Before long the first swimmers entered the reed beds and set their feet down on the muddy bank. Drawing bayonets blackened with soot and lamp-black, they crept forward, eyes searching the darkness intently for signs of the enemy. The small sounds of night creatures filled the air. An owl hooted somewhere in a copse of trees close to the bank. Waving their fellows on the lead jagers climbed the low rise into the water meadow.

Lieutenant Weismuller shook water out of his ears and gestured to the senior NCOs to gather around. He pitched his voice low. “Our contact should be here. Ensure the men have unloaded firelocks; I don’t want anything giving the alarm, do you understand?” A chorus of assent showed they did. “Good, return to your men.”

“Sir!” a jager cried softly, and pointed toward the copse. A light flickered there, once, twice, once, twice more. The owl had fallen silent.

“That’s the signal. Stand easy, men.” Weismuller unsealed the keg and took out the kerchief. He waved it in the direction of the light, knowing the white cloth would be easily visible in the starlight. The light flickered once then twice in response and went out. Moments later a man could be seen emerging from the darkness under the trees. Stuffing the kerchief into a pocket Weismuller went forward to greet him.

“You’re late,” the man said gruffly.

“And you’re impatient, but this is getting us nowhere.” Weismuller couldn’t make out the man’s features then realized the lower half of his face was swathed in a black scarf. “Is the way clear?”

“Yes. There’s a farm track leading out of this meadow fifty paces in that direction.” The man gestured. “The high road’s half a mile further along. Cross that and head roughly northwest, you’ll come to the wooded hills on the other side of the valley. Skirt around those, keeping northwest for ten miles. You’ll come to a burnt-out windmill. When you reach that, head north. Your target lies nine miles further on.” He drew a folded sheet of paper out of his cloak and passed it to Weismuller. “Here’s the best plan I could obtain of your objective. It’s not well guarded. Good luck.”

Without another word the man walked away, swinging his lantern, heading north along the edge of the meadow. Weismuller watched him go and sighed inwardly. I hate skulking around like this. Give me an honest ambush any day of the week.

He clapped his hands softly. “All right, let’s get going. First platoon, out front, form skirmish order. You others, form on me. Keep your eyes peeled! Move out.”

“What’re we doin’ here anyway?” Kleiner rumbled.

“We’re on a secret mission, is what,” Träger whispered with a sniff. "Or 'ave you forgotten?"

“And you two will find my not-so-secret boot up your butts if you don’t shut it!” the Old Man snarled right behind them. “Now face front and march!”

Both men stiffened and did as they were told.

The owl watched the line of humans until they passed out of sight. If it could sigh, it would have done so. Gradually the noise of human movement faded, and the small scurrying creatures began to emerge from hiding. The owl forgot the intruders and turned its mind back to the matter of hunting.