A Tale of Two Cooks

The noise from the crowd rose and fell, following the action on the field. The season was coming to an end, and teams were vying for a spot in the quarter finals. Maeb was working the counter, wearing a large felt red and yellow snail on her head.

"Got to show the home team some love" she said when she caught his look that morning as they opened and began prep. "Punters love it. I'd have worn my team scarf too, but it gets in the fryer."

"That'll be 7 and 6 love." She took money and made change from her apron. "Here you go. Roll Snails!" She laughed as she handed a family, all similarly bedecked in team shirts, scarves and/or hats, their order of teas and snacks. "Roll Snails!" they all shouted happily and moved on.

She was good with the punters, and Clwngher was glad he had talked her into joining him after they had finished their enlistments. The side of her face still bore the scars from a shell that had burst near their field kitchen, but that didn't stop him from staring at her whenever he thought she wasn't looking. He walked with a distinct limp, a souvenir from the same battle, as he moved around the small cook area preparing fried worm sarnies, fried grubs on a stick, urns of tea, and sugared moths.

Using his demob bonus and back pay to set up this Concession Stand at the Sports Field was a good investment. When the Mhudd-Ball season ended there was Cr'kyt and Beetle Jousting. Cr'kyt matches and the Beetle Jousts went on all day, so lots of hungry folks.

Maeb's nephew, Nodlyn, was working with him. He was busy stirring more batter for the grubs. "Hiya Noddy!" came a sing-song voice from the service counter. "Oh hi, Bronny" Nodlyn replied with a note of embarrassment, focusing on his batter. There was a pretty young dyna wearing a yellow and red scarf with her parents buying some sandwiches and tea. "Working today?" she said for the sake of having something to say. "Uh... yeah..." came Nodlyn's reply.

Maeb was smiling to herself watching the interaction. Clwngher watched as the young dyna lingered, trailing behind her parents. Nodlyn watched her go, his snout blushing a deep red.

Clwngher pulled a packet of sugared moths off the rack and handed them to Nodlyn. "I think they bought some of these too, didn't they Maeb?" Maeb nodded. "Oh yes, silly me! Forgot to give it to them!" He looked at the young buck. "Here, you'd better run after and give these to her." Nod stood there stunned. "We've got enough prep done. You can knock off for the day. Go on lad! Go after her!"

Nod quickly got out of his apron and dashed out the door, clutching the sugared moths in his hand. Maeb watched him go. "A' tha'  was nice. Didn't know you was such a soft daftie."

Clwngher stood beside her watching the youth catch up to Bronwyn's family. He looked her in the eyes, his throat full of emotion. "I know what it's like to be a buck in love."

Maeb blushed.

***********************************************

Culinary Yawdryl P'tryc was ensconced in his sanctum sanctorum. That is, his immense girth was behind the prep counter in the company kitchens where he reigned with an iron ladle and well aimed wooden spoon. All of the Company Cooks in the Princess P'trysha of Collysh's Lifeguards were under his direction and training. He had made dinners for the King, and his Cream Teas were legendary. The Princess always asked that he do her teas with the officers.

But today he had a problem. 

The kind of problem that he liked.

A culinary problem. 

"Never trust a skinny cook!"

His friend, the Quarter-Master Yawdryl, had bounced in yesterday, holding a box and obviously pleased with himself. 

Notice crossed spoon and fork in his bicorne

"Guess what's in the box!"

P'tryc rubbed his snout. "Well, it's not wine or you'd have drunk it all, you old crook!"

The QMY laughed and slid the box across the counter. "Go on! What do you think, eh?"

P'tryc opened the box suspiciously. "Look, mate, I don't need any of your old dyna magazines."

But he opened the box anyway. Inside were about two dozen purple snails trying to climb out.

Spiny purple snails were a delicacy, hard to get, and expensive. He promptly got out his best brandy and poured a generous glass for his friend. 

So today, he sipped at his own glass and pondered the fat, juicy mollusk in front of him, eating salad leaves. The Duke was having the King to dine next week. These snails would be perfect. 

As long as he had the right sauce. He started melting butter in a pan and searched the wine rack for a strong, sweet red. The Dwyfnt 1765 should be just the thing. He needed to get it perfect. 

*************************

A couple of characters for the Quar. It's an odd assortment in the line up so production is slow. But the PPCLI have a Cook in the HQ Squad now. The spiny snails mounted on 15mm mdf bases will be the three rations tokens that can be expended.

The moth cake chef is a Tribe membership bonus figure based on a cartoon from one of the rule books featuring a Crusader Kryndl armoured car stopping to buy moth cakes from a bakery. The Snack Shack was given to me by Rob Hanks at Hotlead. 

Trenches and Trench Mortars

Blod sat in the dug out, tending the stove, waiting for the tin can that he used as a kettle to boil for the Is-Caerten's tea. Nearby the heavy guns that 8th Company were protecting thumped away rhythmically, their sure steady beat of doom counting towards some uncertain Armageddon. With each bellowing discharge dirt shook loose  and fell in a fine rain on everything in the Command Post. It was a constant struggle to keep his young officer clean and respectable looking here in the trenches,  but he managed. He had a chipped plate and an old ration tin lid covering the Is-Caerten's mug and the tea pot. A cloth that was adjacent to clean covered the plate of fried termites and biscuits he had ready.

Dawn. Ready for a shoot. 

One of the new gun pits

The curtain twitched aside revealing rain outside and Is-Caerten Gwyffyth ap Foldgyhth'wlech, Officer Commanding 8th Company, 22nd Fusiliers stepped inside. "What ho, Blod! Alright me bucko?" he said with his unshakeable cheerfulness as he shook rain from his cape and carefully hung it on a nail.

"A'rright, sir. Tea's nearly up."

Foldgyhth'wlech sat down and removed the cloth. "Biscuits! However do you manage?"

"It's ma Nan's recipe. She taught me as a kit." Blod said, pouring boiled water from the tin into the teapot. 

The Is-Caerten piled some fried termites onto a biscuit and bit in with obvious delight. "Goodness me! Which Ancestor has blessed me that I've got you as my Bootbuck?"

"That'd be the Master-Yawdryl, sir" Blod said, picking up Foldgyhth'wlech's spare tunic, which needed mending.

"How is your Nan, then?" Foldgyhth'wlech said, pressing on with his cheerful assault. 

"With the Ancestors, sir" Blod said quietly, fingers busy with needle and thread.

German trench mortar 

"Oh..." Foldgyhth'wlech suddenly felt like he had farted at dinner, or tracked beetle dung all over mother's Anaryan rug. "Ah..." he continued, flailing for words.

"'s'arright, sir" Blod said quietly. He pointed with his snout to the corner where his pallet was. Above it a small photograph sat on a board nailed to the timbers. A small candle flickered nervously in front of it. "She'd be glad to know you like her biscuits an' all."

A good sized battery 

Foldgyhth'wlech got up with a biscuit from his plate. He placed it in front of the small photograph and bowed, with hands folded in reverence, while he quietly hummed the first bars of the Song of the Ancestors. The words changed with each family and clan, but the opening was the same for everyquar. 

Blod watched all this quietly and choked back a slight sniffle.

"Ta, sir. Means a lot, that."

Close up

"A Nan who taught kits to bake excellent biscuits is a Venerable Ancestor, indeed!"

He continued eating while Blod continued mending.

"When we are in Reserve again, we shall gather flowers for her too," Foldgyhth'wlech pronounced. 

Trench mortar in a trench! Trying the new weapons bay for size.  

Just then, Berk from 3rd Squad hustled in panting. "Yawdryl Hypfrth says your needed a' Trench Mortar right away, sir!" Without waiting, Berk disappeared again.

Is-Caerten Gwyffyth ap Foldgyhth'wlech stood up and put the last biscuit and fried termites in his mouth before reaching for his rain cape. "No rest for the weary, eh?"

At the door he turned with a wink. "Keep the tea warm." Then he was gone up the trench. 

Blod set down the mending and made sure that the Is-Caerten's sword was clean and sharp, and that extra magazines for his pistol were ready. Then he checked the action on his own rhyfle, making sure everything was clean.

Just in case there's more going on than Yawdryl Hypfrth needing a requisition signed for more high explosive bombs. And, he thought to himself, a rhyfler's pride is a clean rhyfle.

*********************

I ordered more trench pieces from Ironclad Miniatures earlier this summer and finally got them painted. I used the same recipe as last time, but there is still variation in the finish.

Three more gun pits, another intersection, another weapons bay, and six zig-zag connecting trench pieces. So I think I've increased my total trenches by about 50%. The three gun pits now means that I can do a proper Brequar Manor layout with four guns to eliminate. The zig-zag pieces will also mean I can do proper zig-zag trenches instead of long straight sections, and hopefully have some interesting fighting along a trench.

I am pondering how to rig camouflage netting over the guns and perhaps some overhead cover for the weapons bays,  so they could have a machine gun.

The Tollyn-Maeryn are lacking support weapons,  so I asked for some German trench mortars to go with them.  I've always liked the look of the squat little trench mortars. I assembled two dismounted from their carriage. But because I like the look of it, one is on it's carriage for some hasty firing.

The Is-Caerten's Bootbuck

Young Blodwyn is given instruction by a Yawdryl

Blod was sitting on his bunk, buffing his leather belts and humming a marching song. He dipped his rag, made from some worn underpants into his tin of wax and vigorously rubbed the wax into the equipment until it gleamed. Satisfied, he hung the belts up beside his tunic, where the buttons already shone brightly. 

A good rhyfler kept his buttons polished. Polished buttons meant clean and tidy gear. Polished buttons, each embossed with the "22" of the 22nd Fusilier Regiment, were a rhyfler's pride.

Rhyflers

Lots of shiny buttons

He reached down to pick up his boots which were next. Clean, shiny boots, boots that you could march in for eight hours, were also a rhyfler's pride.

"Heyup Bloddie, me ol' china!" Nobbie called form his bunk, where he was playing a hand of Trees and Pykpyks with Pod and Brych, and from the look of things, losing. "Kin you clean my kit, mate? 'elp a squaddie out, eh?"

Blod spread the boot wax and began bulling the toe of the boot with his bush. "Oh aye? An' what's innit for me then?"

"I'll pay. 'arf a crown an' all."

The others laughed. "You'd need to win back some of what you owe us first, Nobs!"

Just then Master-Yawdryl Paerwyn strode in. Everyone stopped lounging and tried to look suddenly busy, lest some previously unknown fatigue fall upon them. He stopped in front of Blod's bunk. Blod kept his snout down, polishing his boot, doing small circles with another piece of worn underpants to bring the mirror shine up. He could see the Master-Yawdryl's face faintly in the reflected surface.

Milwers pointing

Yawdryls with big SMGs and also pointing

"Rhyfler '076 Blodwyn" the Master-Yawdryl announced. 

Blod jumped to attention, boot in one hand, underpants in the other. "Yes Master-Yawdryl!"

"At ease, Blodwyn." Blod stood to Parade Rest.

"You're a good rhyfler, Blod."

"I do my best, Master-Yawdryl."

Master-Yawdryl Paerwyn prowled around Blod's bunk space, inspecting his kit, all clean and neatly hung, or folded and stored in the regulation manner. "Button's always polished. Kit always clean."

"Yes, Master-Yawdryl." Blod kept staring straight ahead. Everyone else in the barracks was trying very hard to look in other directions.

"You are now part of Headquarters Squad as the Commander's Bootbuck."

"Master-Yawdryl?"

"Six A.M. tomorrow, you will report to our new Is-Caerten. You" the Master-Yawdryl emphasized this with all five fingers aimed at his chest like a blade "...are now responsible that our new Is-Caerten is always well turned out; shiny buttons, polished boots, gleaming leather, cleaned, pressed, and..." Paerwyn sighed slightly "chipper. Bring him his tea, fetch his pipe, everything a pampered young scion of the First Families doesn't know how to do for himself. Leave his mind free for the responsibilities of command." And bothering me with new-fangled ideas, Paerwyn thought to himself.

Blod stood up straighter. "Yes, Master-Yawdryl! I'm honoured Master-Yawdryl!"

Paerwyn laughed. "We'll see if you still feel honoured after you've humped His Nibs' pack plus your own for a few days. For this honourable burden, you will be paid an extra two Crowns a week."

Blod caught Nobbie's eye and smirked slightly.

****************************************

A big batch of the First World War German flavoured Tollyn-Mearyn finished. This gives me two more Yawdryls, two pointing Milwers, and 13 more Rhyflers. So the 8th Company of the 22nd Fusiliers now has three good sized squads and a small Command Squad of Officer, Master-Yawdryl, Cook, Officer's Bootbuck (Batman in human English), and Squirrel Handler. 

They're still awaiting some Veteran and Female rhyflers and their squad light machine guns which still need to be printed. Once all four squads are filled out, I can put extras in the HQ Squad for defense and to act as runners, or extras for the trench mortar and field gun crews.

Again a few of the Rhyflers are looking pretty casual with shouldered arms and the other hand holding a pipe or cigar. I made the pipes from greenstuff and wire to give a sensible reason for the left hand to be in the position it was in, without faffing about cutting wrists and rotating hands.

Cigar and pipe

Teapot and pipes

I only had a right arm with a teapot and nothing to put in the left, so I gave him a pipe as well, to continue my casual vibe with this army, and the tea drinking for all of my Quar. I decided while writing this story that he's going to be the officer's batman or Bootbuck, (I tried 'Batquar' and it just didn't sound right), and become part of the HQ squad. After I had painted him, and started basing, I decided that he really needed to be laden down with gear, so I retrofitted the pack, bedroll, and Coftyran ration tube from spare plastic bits and then very carefully painted them.

I discovered that the Crusader backpacks looked very similar, so I used some of them to put more packs on the rhyflers. Crusader pack on left, 'official' Tollyn-Maeryn pack on the right. Bootbuck Blod in the middle has Crusader small pack, backpack and bedroll, plus Coftyran ration tube on top of pack.

By naming them the 22nd Fusiliers, I'm giving a nod to another distinguished Canadian Army regiment, the Van Doos, from the French Vingt-duex, because they were formed from French Canadian recruits in 1914 as the 22nd Canadian Expeditionary Force battalion. 

Faelvor armoured wagons. Painted a few months ago. Somehow I didn't get these on the blog.

The Tollyn-Maeryn, Quar Army number 7, now number 30 Rhyflers and NCOs, a small HQ of Is-Caerten, Master-Yawdryl, Cook, Squirrel Handler, and Bootbuck, 2 Faelvor armoured wagons, and 16 artillery crew to man a battery of big howitzers.

When you get Dr. Seuss to design your armoured fighting vehicles

Tartarian BTRs

Komrade People's Komissar Soroyan Ansonov opened his small notebook and uncapped his pen. He gave a dead eyed stare at the squirming figures standing in front of him and sighed inwardly. 

"I am too old for this" he thought. He had survived the Second World War and a Soviet POW camp... for this.

Notice different shades of green

But the aches in his legs from shrapnel received in the Dnieper Salient reminded him he was too old and broken to be leading a platoon of Motor Rifles.

So, here he was, an obedient functionary of the Soviet installed Communist government,  just as he'd been an enthusiastic officer for the Nazis when they took over in 1936. But it was the way to survive. He'd seen too many idealistically zealous Tartarian nationalists end up in a ditch.

Survival was everything. He hadn't eaten rats in a Siberian work camp to let these idiots give him a problem. 

"So" He looked at his notebook "Komrade Mechanic Second Class Boris Tarpalov." 

A figure in oily mechanics coveralls looked at him in wide eyed panic. The others were suddenly interested in what the floor was doing under their boots. 

"How did... this" he gestured nonchalantly to the multi-hued armoured vehicles in the workshop and yard around them "...happen."

He poised his pen on his notebook. "Exactly."

The mechanic coughed. "We were told to paint the new armoured troop carriers just arrived from our glorious Soviet allies."

"And...?"

"These are colours they got painted!"

"The paint wasn't mixed properly?"

Boris and Sergei grinned sheepishly. "We follow instructions on can! Not our fault is not regulation shade of green!"

New T54 beside T54 from first batch

Komrade Senior Sergeant Olav Bakalov piped up. "This was the paint ordered by the Supply Komissariat. And..." The Senior Sergeant grinned hopefully, "...the BTRs are all green.  What is 'regulation' green anyway, Komrade Komissar?"

Soroyan tapped his pen thoughtfully, letting the figures squirm some more. It was probably just a bad batch of paint from the Soviet factory. Or the Supply Komissariat sent the wrong shade. Blaming the Russians for poor quality would see him back in Siberia. 

HQ vehicles. I should come up with a Formation Sign to put on them.

He checked his notes. The complaint was made by Komrade Major Ordovic, the Division Supply Officer. Who was probably engaging in some ass-covering.

He made a note to order covert surveillance on Komrade Major Ordovic and a thorough examination of the Major's finances. He hated corrupt officials selling supplies more than he hated the Mantovians. He would also have to make discreet inquiries into Ordovic's political connections. Survival was more important than rooting out corruption, after all. 

He hoped one, or all, of the mechanics in front of him wouldn't have to go to a Punishment Detachment. The People's Democratic Republic of Tartaria needed mechanics more than supply majors.

He closed his notebook and capped his pen. "Well, Komrades, the troop carriers are all green. I think we can consider this matter closed after we toast the People's Revolution with some of the slivovice that Senior Sergeant Bakalov obviously has in his office."

***********************

My Tartarian armour is having difficulty having a standardized shade of green. Despite trying to follow the same steps.

First tanks. A nice medium green. 

The rest, much lighter, after apparently following the same process.

After the first battle, I decided I didn't really like the light green. So, I decided to give them an ink wash to darken the green, and pick out the details better. 

After the ink

I've also marked a turret with a white cross which was a common recognition sign. This will help me mark the Command Tank without resorting to numbers

So I painted the second batch of armour Don had sent me. 1x T54, 10x BTR-152s, 6x BTR-40s, a couple of GAZ radio vans, and another artillery command BTR.

Except the ink wash didn't come out the same as the first batch. I tried two different brands of sepia ink and both were different.

Batch one on right, batch two center and left showing both brands of sepia ink

Batch one in front

Batch one on left, batch two center and right.

But I'm not going to panic over it. This is one of those problems that seems a REALLY BIG DEAL while you are painting and now that I've put them under lights and in front of the camera, I think will go away as I use them. After the first game they'll be all mixed up, no one will notice, and Komissar Ansonov can close the file.

16 new BTRs should give me more than enough transport for my Motor Rifles.