EARDISLEY FALLS TO
OUR BRAVE BOYS!
MASSACRE OF THE LIGHT
LANCERS:
Colonel Trimingham
“would have faced a court martial” - if he wasn’t already very, very dead
TREACHEROUS USE OF
ITALIAN AIR POWER
ARROWSMITH’S FIGHTING
RETREAT
As it may have
been…..
The day of the battle dawned bright
and clear (because that’s what days of
battle always do, except when a
chance card is drawn, and hence it rained from Turn 1, but let us not get ahead
of the story) as a dust stained and exhausted messenger (because that’s what messengers always are)
handed the Bishop of Ludlow a note of the latest dispositions of the enemy
infesting Eardisley.
To the left, in the cornfield, what
appeared to be an entire Panzer Battalion imported by the Fascists from the
recent events in Spain (“Oh, don’t
worry”, said J., their commander, rather generously in the circumstances,
“They’re really quite useless. Always getting blown up. Even the specially modified
one with the autocannon. Don’t know why I bring them at all. Junk really, tin
cans....”) supported by hordes of infantry within Eardisley itself. To the
right, black clad BUF infantry cohorts lined the convenient hedgeline with
reserves and cavalry behind. In the centre, a mortar spotter next to a behemoth
of a tank (“2 heavy machine guns in
subsidiary turrets, a co-axial heavy machine gun, and the main gun, all able to
fire independently” snarled Captain Arrowsmith, the BUF commander, because
Fascists always snarl….)
The Bishop of Ludlow gulped and turned to the
Anglican Commander in Chief.
“I do hope you have a cunning plan.”
“Indeed I do. Most cunning. Worthy of
Schlieffen himself.” the Anglican Commander twirled his luxuriant moustaches
with vigour and determination (because
that’s what, etc. etc. - and it was Mort.)
“You will take the right. Move
forward. Simon here will take the left. He will move forward. My forces shall
advance simultaneously along the railway line in the centre, and then...”
The Bishop leaned forward. “And then?”
“CHARGE!!!”
****
Watching his French uniformed troops file past in the
advance, the Bishop sighed heavily. His only interest in these events was to
find and rescue his episcopal colleague (and old classmate from Cambridge) the
captured Bishop of Hereford. And yet here he was, committing the Ludlow
Expeditionary Force to an attack on an obscure railway station garrisoned by
the BUF, when all the intelligence reports suggested that poor Lulu (not a widely known nickname, from the old theological
college days) was held by an independent Royalist faction. But there was
nothing for it…..
The infantry trudged slowly across the open fields, leaving
the LEF’s heavy artillery (a 75mm and a
mortar) to unlimber and send their own observer teams scampering forward.
On the road to the extreme right, the Ludlow Light Lancers trotted towards
Eardisley junction. Their new Colonel, Albert Trimingham, advanced confidently
at their head, accompanied by a personal bugler. Trimingham’s predecessor had
been cashiered after the last engagement (The
Battle of Foy, reports passim) when the Lancers had managed only to charge
into a muddy and derelict railway embankment. Today would be very different…
The artillery began potting away. An early hit from the
75mm exploded a Fascist mortar team before it could even come into action, the
Anglican mortar caused a few infantry casualties amongst the black clad
legions, but it rapidly became apparent that the LEF’s artillery was bombarding
with worn barrels - for every round aimed at Captain Arrowsmith’s cohorts
unaccountably fell well to the left, and onto his Spanish Civil War allies (the perils of failing to hit on the die
roll, and then scatter dice).
Suddenly, out of the clear blue skies (here we’re ignoring the weather results for dramatic effect) swooped a Fiat biplane, determined to halt the
Anglican advance and proudly bearing the camouflage and markings of Il Duce’s
Regia Aeronautica. Air power - an innovation in the Hereford campaign! Fascist treachery!
The Fiat CR42 lined up to strafe the packed infantry
advancing along the railway line. The Anglican Commander in Chief blanched,
fearful that his sophisticated strategy might be still born even at this very
moment.
(“That’s eight heavy
machine guns”, snarled Arrowsmith, throwing handfuls more dice into an already
overflowing bucket. “Along the railway line.”
“Light machine guns, surely.”
protested Mort. “Four of them.”
“Heavy.” snarled Arrowsmith. “And
eight.”
J intervened. “I’m not sure that’s
quite correct, actually.”
“You’re right.” Arrowsmith regarded
his Fascist colleague cooly, glasses glinting with fanaticism even when he
wasn’t snarling. “Made a mistake, there. It’s four heavy machine guns - and
four 20mm heavy cannon.”
Mort made to protest again, and then
thought better of it.
“Fair enough” said Mort.)
“No worries, Rev”. The cheery boys of the LEF dropped
prone, raising rifles skyward. The light machine gunners attached to every
section found their (miraculously appearing) AA tripods and motley mounts and
took aim. “We’ll soon send that Captain Macaroni home” (look, they get away with this in Commando comics, ok ?)
A storm of small arms fire - not to mention casual
xenophobia - ascended towards the clouds, (because
small arms fire always storms, sometimes in a withering fashion), failing
to hit the Fascist warbird but spoiling the pilot’s aim. His much vaunted 20mm
cannon shells fell wide; his machine gun bullets caused few casualties. The
biplane reared upward, uncertain how to proceed (a “Jumpy” marker duly appeared next to the flight stand).
“Take that, spaghetti muncher !” Cheers and taunts from the
Anglican ranks as the Fiat circled uncertainly, then turned away from the
forest of upraised fists and un-Anglican “V” signs and dived for home (a “Suppressed” marker had replaced the
“Jumpy” marker). “Told you we’d do it, Bish !”
Now the LEF 75mm suddenly found its range, scoring a direct
hit on Captain Arrowsmith’s multi gunned metal behemoth in the centre. At the
LEF’s anxious HQ, hope soared that this thorn in the advance would finally be
silenced, or at least forced into retreat. But as the smoke from the explosion
cleared, it became clear that the behemoth was not only intact, but entirely
unmoved.
(The BUF tank had
passed its morale test with flying colours. “They’re veterans” snarled
Arrowsmith. “Highly trained fanatics. In heavy armour. And supported by our
Fascist standard. They laugh insanely at your paltry shells!”)
As if to demonstrate their new found confidence, a
Fascist infantry section advanced over their covering hedge and into the
adjacent meadow. Heading towards an old barn, the only cover in the otherwise
featureless meadow, they presented a sudden but tempting target for the serried
ranks of the otherwise unengaged Ludlow Light Lancers.
“Now Trimingham !” shouted the Bishop. “Now’s your time !”
The Lancers advanced : walk, trot, canter, the lance
pennons coming down in a row, a sword waving madly in the centre as bugle calls
rang out in urgent succession. The once over confident fascists looked about
uncertainly as the meadow thrummed beneath them, too far beyond the hedge to
retreat but too weak to face cavalry in the open and now in open charge towards
them…..
Or not.
Had they but known it, the gallant lancers had entered The
Meadow in which Cavalry Cannot Charge Home (a
sudden “Jumpy” marker had alighted next to the Anglican cavalry, preventing the
final “charge” move). As the pride of the LEF wheeled and retired amidst
much muttering - “I say, damned fine gallop, but I prefer sticking rabbits,
me’self….Is that tea brewing over there, by any chance?” - the Fascist infantry
levelled their rifles (“And the LMG !”
snarled Arrowsmith) at the backs of the retreating cavalry in preparation for an entirely
unexpected revenge….
But the Fascists were equally ignorant of their true
location. For this was in fact The Meadow in which Cavalry Cannot Charge Home
and in which Bullets Do Not Fly Straight. The storm of Fascist lead whistled
harmlessly over the Lancers’ heads as Arrowsmith cursed his luck, stamping, and
obviously snarling, with frustration (buckets
of dice failed to turn up many hits, and even those failed the subsequent D6
rolls).
Now the cavalry performed a delicate minuet, wheeling yet
again towards the Fascist line as the bugle sounded for the final charge. Again
the familiar tempo of acceleration, the brightly pennoned lances dipping and
khaki clad riders bending forward with eagerness….
Or not.
Post action reports suggest that Colonel Trimingham, always
a stickler for appearances, thought it right to pause and “dress his lines”
before completing his charge. This was, after all, the Meadow in which Cavalry
Cannot Charge Home Under Any Circumstances. A bugle call sounded, and the charge
shuddered to a halt but feet from the Fascist firing line, horses blowing and
stamping as the BUF levelled their rifles yet again (The Lancers had called a charge, but the movement dice had been
unkind, stranding them just an inch from the BUF cohort).
There were no mistakes this time. Arrowsmith himself called
down the storm of fire (“Well, this unit
here can fire. And the LMG of that one, over there. Oh, and perhaps this one
can do it, too…..”). A noisy fusillade, and the Bishop lowered his field glasses
sadly. Every single cavalryman had gone down in an instant, riddled with
fascist bullets, and of the Lancers there remained only a few riderless horses
and the sad flap of Trimingham’s tattered personal banner with its solitary
battle honour - “Foy Railway Embankment”.
Now it was the turn of the infantry, and with them the fate
of the battle.
(“We can stand here”
said Mort. “And die. Or we can charge forward. And die. But we could win that
way.”)
Three sections of LEF infantry swallowed hard in
unison, preparing themselves to dive over their hedge line and rush hard
towards the fascist lines. One was being directed towards the old barn, squat
and ancient in the middle of the meadow; the remainder were to head directly
towards Eardisley station itself. To their left, the cherry bereted infantry
that had stormed up the railway line prepared to join them; even further left,
their wily Anglican allies (Simon)
gripped their rifles hard and made ready….
At this crucial moment, The Bishop found himself next to
the Anglican Commander in Chief.
“Look here” the Bishop said. “This charge thing. I’m still a
bit worried about that multi turreted tank. With its damned heavy armour, and
all.”
Such unexpected profanity betrayed the Bishop’s tension.
“Ooh, I wouldn’t worry,” the Commander in Chief waved a
hand airily, his luxuriant moustaches now revolving in different directions.
“I’ve got a sticky bomb team for that”.
“St George! St George! St. George and the Right Reverend the
Archbishop of Canterbury, Gawd bless him!”
The deep throated Anglican battle cry (because battle cries are always deep throated, even awkward ones with a
ridiculous number of syllables) rang out as hundreds of men threw
themselves forward over the hedges, desperate to cross the obvious killing
ground.
“St George and the Right Reverend the Archbishop of
Canterbury!”
Deep within his BUF bunker, Arrowsmith snarled (this really is becoming rather tiresome -
ed.) and clapped his leather gloved hands in delight. The resultant slushing
sound was rather disappointing, even with the confines of the bunker. “Fools!”
sneered Arrowsmith. “Fools! Fire with everything! At once! Alert the multi
turreted behemoth! Make every bullet count! Infantry advance towards the barn! And
get the message to our Republican allies for the armoured counter-attack! Or
signal Skaro, at least!”
“Leader.” Arrowsmith’s adjutant clicked his heels in the
Germanic fashion, releasing a carrier pigeon. This proved a schoolboy error within
the confines of the bunker, as a cursing Arrowsmith (he really was becoming quite animated by now) had to shoo the
flapping creature out the door. “Fools!”
The Bishop had been praying for most of the day, and now
his prayers were answered. The dashing, roaring, Anglican attack had clearly
unsettled the BUF infantry opposite, and their rifle fire scattered high and
wide. A chattering LMG took out a portion of the LEF’s first infantry section,
but the charge never faltered; not even when the three MGs and the main gun of
the Fascist behemoth destroyed nearly all the remainder. The high speed
contortions of the small but superbly trained crew within, loading and firing
and loading again whilst rushing about amongst all those guns, clearly defied
the physical laws of the universe.
The LEF third section reached the barn safely, dashing
within.
The high point of the battle was now upon the contending
forces, and a sudden squeaking and squealing of tracks betrayed the start of
the Fascist counter attack. The Panzer Battalion lurched forward from the
cornfield (“They really are rubbish,
honestly”, said J.); the behemoth roared into sudden life and out of its
prepared position.
“Attack!” yelled Arrowsmith (in a snarling sort of way), wiping pigeon droppings from his
epaulettes. “Moseley and the King! And take that barn over there! Moseley!”
But even as the Fascist armour rolled forward, their
infantry in the crucial central sector shuffled uncertainly backward. The mass
of Anglican infantry swamped the tanks, running past them towards Eardisley
Station and safety. Covering BUF Cavalry retreated from the advancing Anglicans
in a spate of wild uncertainty (“Jumpy”
and then “Suppressed” Markers in succession, as a result of indirect 75mm and
mortar fire)
The Panzer Battalion’s Command Tank shuddered suddenly to a
halt, disabled. Another Panzer burst into flame, destroyed (“Told you” said J.) by the sticky bomb team (“Told you” said Mort). Even the behemoth faltered, suddenly alone;
looking down the barrel of the LEF’s 75mm to its front and conscious of the
sticky bombers to its rear. The flanking BUF infantry refused the prospect of a
charge into, and hand to hand combat within, the meadow barn (Arrowsmith groaned and gnashed his gold
topped ivory dentures in frustration - poor
dice rolling again !).
The sticky bombers raced toward the rear of the behemoth.
The sweating LEF gunners rammed a copper bound round home, hastily cycling the
long 75mm barrel downward and into direct fire mode. The gun commander raised
his hand….
(A sudden cry from
the Tidsley Junction table. Time! We’ve only got the hall for so long, you know!
Time!)
As the battlefield fell strangely silent, the Anglican
Commander in Chief and Captain Arrowsmith swapped notes by carrier pigeon. The
Anglican infantry had taken the centre and were soon to sweep towards their
objective of Eardisley Station; the flanking BUF infantry had failed to take
the barn, the covering BUF cavalry were totally disordered, and the impetus of
the armoured counter attack was close to exhaustion. While the forces of
Arrowsmith & his Republican Ally were still intact, the end result could be
calculated with some probability.
(“A winning draw for you” offered
Arrowsmith, ripping white spattered epaulettes from his shoulders in despair.
Mort contemplated the situation closely as the Bishop looked on. “All right,
then,” Mort said. “Fair enough.”).
As the black clad
lines of BUF infantry filed away behind Eardisley, the behemoth revving noisily
and reversing course to join the solitary surviving Panzer in orderly retreat,
even as Arrowsmith’s black command Mercedes raced away in a cloud of dust, the
Bishop thanked God for his stout allies, the direct intervention of the
Almighty at critical points of the battle (those
poor Fascist dice rolls), and the wise battle plan of the Commander in
Chief. He’d always thought so. Honestly. The tired and sadly depleted forces of
the victorious LEF gathered around him, raising their Adrian helmets in salute,
cheering madly :
“Hurrah! St George and the Right Reverend the Archbishop of
Canterbury! Death to Arrowsmith! We’ll get him next time! And present you with
his dentures! Ludlow and the Bishop! Hurrah!”
(Note
: the Ludlow Casualty Rolls reveal the high cost of victory. Aside from the
massacred Lancers, almost two full sections of infantry were lost in the final
assault on Eardisley. The remaining infantry section might now be promoted to
veterans, but the LEF clearly require reconstitution whilst in winter quarters.
The Bishop has received news of the completion of an Armoured Car Squadron in
intended replacement of the lost Lancers. But he may have to return the 75mm to
the workshops for re-boring of its barrel, and rely upon recently recruited
Scots mercenaries to make up his heavy infantry losses. Only time will tell….)
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