Well, how about that?

He's not wrong, but ...

That tree in the neighbor's yard is well ahead of the game, never saw it do that before. Won't be long before that Japanese maple (the one in the middle, saying "Well") will be bright red, at least I hope so. There was one year where it waited and waited before donning it's bright red cloak, only to shed it all on a wind-swept rainy night in October. Barely got to see it in full grunt. Less than a day really.

Yes, fall is here. As a kid growing up the foliage was part of existence, it got so you'd look out the window and think, "Okay, colorful, nice," but you got so used to seeing it, it became almost blasé. Where we live in Little Rhody, not far from the Bay, it doesn't get all that colorful. So yeah, I miss it.

Yeah, there's a street I go down on my way to work and home again where the trees all suddenly have these deep red leaves and golden leaves as well, very striking. Then the guy down the street has a couple of trees that turn nicely.

But for the most part, when the conditions are right for max color, the conditions are also right for rain and wind. Strips all that prettiness away and flings it to the ground.

Sigh ...

Went to dinner with friends Saturday night, a Portuguese place, had a very good steak and a cuppla these -

Very crisp, lots of flavor. Went well with the steak. Next time I want to try the paelha, which is the Portuguese version of paella. My buddy assures me it's very, very good. But Saturday was a steak night, with an egg on top in a very delicious burgundy sauce, yum.

Speaking of my buddy, up until Saturday I thought that all we had in common was having Korean wives and having served in the military. Nope, there's more.

He was telling me of a trip up to Canada to sell off some family land which no one wanted.

"So where is this land?" I asked.

He pulls out his phone and shows me a map, "Here's Montreal, here's Quebec, here's where my family is from."

I looked, then I looked again. "Ya mean Trois-Rivières?" My voice betrayed my excitement I suppose.

"What? You've heard of it?"

"Heard of it, my great-grandfather was born there."

"No shit?"

"Ya, no shit."

Small world, innit?

A Day for Wondering

Vermont in Autumn
(Source)

It's autumn in New England.

Friday was a pretty day, a bit cool, the wind was up, the sun was shining, it was a good day to stop and thank God for another day.

Friday evening arrived and, to tell the truth, I just didn't feel like writing about war. Somehow the weekends just feel too peaceful to write about men fighting and dying, even in a good cause. So it was an evening for reflection.

And, oddly enough, listening to a lot of Jethro Tull. Back in the day when I was painfully lonely and shy, the music of that particular band kept me going. I knew that someday things would get better.

Boy, did they ever.

Anyhoo ...

Had one of these systems installed at Chez Sarge -

Ductless Mini Split AC System
(Source)

Got a good deal on installation and financing so we decided to go for it. I'd seen this type of system mentioned in Juvat's posts about his new workshop, so I was confident it was something that would work for us as well. (As the price of home heating oil continues to climb, it will also save us a bit on heating too. As a Scot, thrifty is a thing.)

Took the lads who did it three days, start to finish. Neat and precise they were, The Missus Herself was happy with their workmanship and their manners. I made sure their bosses knew that.

Downstairs bathroom renovation continues, though getting materials has proven to be a challenge at times. Our contractor said he could do the job in October, well, a couple of his jobs fell through and would we mind getting it done earlier?

Well, no, we wouldn't mind at all. But we had nothing in place to get going, which was okay, they had to strip things down to the studs anyway, do the basic plumbing and electrical work as well. Gave us some time to get the rest of what we needed.

We just learned the remaining materials to complete the job have come in and this coming week should see us in the home stretch of that project, before beginning another.

Sigh, homeownership is kind of a never-ending stream of "Oh look, this is broken" events. As a renter it's "Hey, landlord, fix this, it's busted." Now it's "Say contractor, ya got a minute? Yes, yes, I have the funds ..."

And so it goes.

But I'm in a position to afford all this, much as it pains me to part with those hard earned shekels. But I have them in hand so, hey, I've got that going for me.

Years ago, I was sad listening to this song, wondering, aloud as it were, if I'd ever get to that sort of place.

The answer is a resounding yes.

Wond'ring Aloud

Ian Anderson

Wond'ring aloud --

How we feel today

Last night sipped the sunset --

My hand in her hair

We are our own saviours

As we start both our hearts beating life

Into each other

Wond'ring aloud --

Will the years treat us well

As she floats in the kitchen

I'm tasting the smell, yeah

Of toast as the butter runs

Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed

And I shake my head

And it's only the giving

That makes you what you are

(Source)

I know what I've got, I'm a happy man.

Blood on the Sand, Western Desert, October 1941

Destroyed Crusader Mk III, North Africa
(Source)

Fitzhugh spotted the German tanks first, "Mark IIIs 10 o'clock!" He was already in the process of slewing the turret when something hit the engine compartment.

Caddick screamed over the intercom, "The bloody engine's seized up!"

O'Connell had sat down hard when the tank was hit, banging his head on the hatch coaming. He saw stars and nearly passed out before collecting himself. He poked his head up out of his hatch and saw an Italian anti-tank gun to his right. That gun was shifting its fire to another target, the gunner making the assumption that he had killed O'Connell's tank.

While he tried to regain control of his senses, his own tank cannon barked. Turning his head quickly, and instantly regretting it, he saw a German Mark III not fifty yards off. The wind was abating and things were becoming clearer now. But he was still in something of a fog mentally.

"Damn it Teddy, what's going on out there?!" Fitzhugh was screaming at him.

O'Connell's head cleared. He saw the German tank starting to burn, it's crew bailing out as he watched. He thought it odd that he could already smell the enemy tank starting to burn when the wind was blowing at his back. Then he turned and looked back towards his own engine compartment. His tank was starting to burn!

Hoffmeister gasped as he saw his friend Johannes Becker's Panzer come to an abrupt stop. It had been hit, that much was obvious. As smoke began to issue from the hatches he sighed in relief as he saw the crew jumping from the tank and heading to the rear. Almost immediately he saw the vehicle which had killed Panzer 412. His gunner had seen it as well.

The cannon barked and he saw the English Panzer take a hit in the engine compartment. It stopped, but the turret was still moving. In less time than it took to think it, the enemy gunner's barrel was pointed directly at Panzer 413. Hoffmeister winced as the enemy fired.

"Gott sei dank!" Hoffmeister whispered as he heard the enemy round hiss past, a near miss!

"Horst!" he barked at his gunner.

"On it!" Krebs answered.

"Verdammt!" 413's shot went high as the English tank began to reverse. Whatever damage he'd taken to his engine didn't prevent them from reversing apparently.

Caddick was working the levers frantically as he managed to get the tank into reverse. "It ain't the engine, transmission is wonky, Sarge!"

"Hold here!" O'Connell ordered his driver as the tank was now out of sight of the Germans. "We must support the infantry. Eyes open lads. Fitzie, kill anything that comes over that ridge to our front!"

"Wilco, Teddy."

As the firing of tank cannon died out, Morley risked taking a peek over the lip of the trench, Falasco didn't seem to notice. The young Italian had his rifled trained on something in the near distance. With a sharp grunt, Falasco fired his rifle.

"Ti ho preso, bastardo!¹" Falasco bellowed as he worked the bolt on his rifle. Then he gasped and turned to his left, swinging his weapon in that direction.

Morley heard the sound of metal impacting flesh and winced. He couldn't believe his eyes, the young Italian who had been watching over him had been hit in the head. The man's helmet went flying and Morley was showered with the young man's blood. As Falasco slumped to the floor of the trench, Morley heard a voice speaking English.

"Take that you Italian bastard. Where's your friends, I'll bloody kill them too!"

The accent sounded Australian, Morley yelled out, "Don't shoot! I'm English! A pilot!"

"Hey Winnie! We've got a right Pommy bastard over here! Bleeding Eyetie speaks pretty good English too." Private Larry Babcock had a man standing in front of him at bayonet point as he beckoned to his sergeant.

"Sergeant Winston Humphries trotted over and pointed back to the British lines, "Get his arse back to the lorries. The bleeding tankers have driven the Jerries off for now and we've done for most of the Italians. F**kahs put up quite a fight!"

Humphries took a moment to check on Babcock's prisoner, the man was soaked in blood.

"Jaysus mate, you alright then? You look quite the mess."

"It's not my blood Sergeant, and I am British, the Italians took my identification after capturing me. If you look in that tent," he nodded towards a large tent just behind the trench line, "you'll find my papers and my flying kit. About a half-mile further on you'll find my Hurricane."

Humphries grinned then prodded Morley with his bayonet, "Cheeky bastard, ain't ya? Get a move on, we'll let the captain sort you out. But for now we've got to be off before the bleeding Huns regroup."

"Right then, lead on." Morley began to lower his hands.

"Nah mate, after you and keep those paws in the air."

Rather than risk being pricked with the man's bayonet again, Morley did as he was told.

Destroyed Panzerkampfwagen III, North Africa
(Source)

Hoffmeister crawled to the edge of the slight ridge his Panzer was behind. He had two vehicles still alive besides his own. On the bright side, they hadn't lost anyone. Max Petersen's driver had a slight wound but all they had lost was vehicles, no men.

The Italians hadn't made out so well. Their camp was a shambles and there were a number of bodies strewn around, especially near the Italian gun pits. Those gunners had sold themselves dearly, some of the bodies were English. (Hoffmeister had no way of knowing that they were Australians, to him the enemy were "the English.")

Fritz Weber soon joined him, staying on his belly as the enemy were still in the process of withdrawing. "Engine is all right, that fire you saw was Lutz's blanket burning. Poor bastard will be cold tonight!"

"His blanket?"

"Yes, the English round hit one of the ventilator fan mountings and must have thrown off a lot of sparks, it's all scorched there, but all it did was set Schumacher's blanket alight."

"No damage otherwise?"

"None, she's drivable, ready for action."

Gesturing towards the Italian camp, Weber said, "I don't think we'll be getting any infantry support from that lot, will we?"

"No, the ones who didn't die are probably halfway to Benghazi by now. We should report back, at least we stopped that English patrol."

Weber nodded towards the wrecks of two British tanks, "Looks like we traded two for two."

"Yes, we got lucky. The English were close in, we had no advantage other than surprise. The bastards recovered well. Let's pack it in."

Morley was being shoved along by one of the Australians when they came upon an Australian officer.

"Lookee here Cap'n, caught myself an Eyetie. Poor bugger keeps claiming he's bloody English."

Captain Miles O'Donoghue looked towards the man speaking, "Right then, how do you know he's Italian, Babcock?"

"Well, caught him in the Eyetie camp, hunkered down in one of the trenches, we gunned his mate down then took him prisoner. All the fight was out of him by then."

O'Donoghue looked at Morley, "You can put your hands down Flight Leftenant. Are you the Hurricane pilot that went down in these parts four days ago?"

Morley lowered his hands, his left shoulder was aching, he suspected that he'd damaged something up there. "Thank you, name's Morley by the way, Reginald Morley, friends call me Reg."

"I'm O'Donoghue, despite the name I'm from Sussex, as English as can be. Friends call me Miles, need a lift?" O'Donoghue gestured at one of the Bedford lorries, "You can ride with me, seems we have some space now, sorry to say we lost about twenty of our chaps. The Italians wanted to fight today."

"Don't suppose you've a medic with you? Bashed my shoulder pretty good during your attack, fell on an ammo crate."

"Well no, we don't. Is it broken?"

"Don't think so, just aches. I'll be all right I suppose."

As the lorry he was riding turned about and headed east, Morley saw that the Australians had tanks with them as well. He also saw the wrecks of two British and two German tanks. He wondered why the Australians were leaving their dead behind until he saw a dust column to the west, the Germans, maybe the Italians, were reacting to the small British raid.

Collect the dead, you might join them. Harsh but then again, that's the very nature of war.

As the camp dropped out of sight, he thought about the young Italian soldier. A decent kid, he'd treated Morley well. He felt bad about the man's death. He wondered if the grumpy Italian sergeant had survived. Hard to say.

But for now, he was safe.

He wondered if Janice had been informed of his being missing. He would soon find out.

 ¹ "I got you, you bastard! (Italian)

Into the Fire, Western Desert, October 1941

Australian troops advancing on an Italian position
Imperial War Museum

"Christ it's bloody cold." William O'Shea said over the intercom as he drew his greatcoat tighter around himself.

The advance was halted, waiting for dawn. With the engine off, sitting in the dark, the nighttime cold of the desert gradually seeped into the tank, chilling the entire crew. They had bundled up in their greatcoats after retrieving them from where they had been bundled on the outside of the turret. Of course, they were all saturated with sand.

"It's like wearing sandpaper!" Alan Caddick, the tank's driver, had complained when he was back in his seat after donning his coat.

"That's enough lads, haven't you heard, there's a war on." Sergeant O'Connell snapped over the intercom. He was tired and a bit nervous about going into action blind.

The Aussies had sent out a patrol to investigate a number of campfires over the next ridge. They reported back that it was an Italian Army bivouac, no sign of any Germans, or armor. Which made O'Connell a little happier, until his gunner, James Fitzhugh, asked if they'd seen any sign of dug in anti-tank guns.

While a large part of the Italian Army in the desert was made up of conscripts with indifferent leadership, the same didn't hold true for the Italian artillery. Absolute professionals who worked their guns to great effect. The last thing a tanker ever wanted was driving into an anti-tank gun ambush. O'Connell broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of AT guns in the dim light of dawn.

Morley was shaken awake by the young Italian who had been tasked with guarding him. "Tenente, sveglia!¹"

"Cosa, cos'è, Nicola?²" Morley sat up, he was tired and confused. He did note that sunrise wasn't far off, the horizon was beginning to light up. After a brief moment, he heard engines, tank engines.

"Carri armati tedeschi, tenente, presto, devi nasconderti!²" Private Falasco hissed at him as he tugged on Morley's shoulder.

Groggy, not quite awake, his Italian being not as strong as he'd like, he only understood part of what the Italian said. But the words "German" and "hide" got his attention. He was confused as to why Falasco was helping him, but for now he'd go along.

After refueling, Hoffmeister's platoon received orders to move up to the border with Egypt. He was briefed that there was an Italian camp along the way and he could expect an infantry escort from there. The Italians were not motorized, but they could ride the tanks. At least they would have infantry support, even if it was Italian!

Hoffmeister and his men were bundled up against the cold of the desert night, with the hatches closed and the engine running, the men inside the turret and the hull were comfortable. Only Hoffmeister was shivering as he was standing on his seat, he hated moving buttoned up, especially at night. He was cold, but he could see what was around him.

As the horizon in the east began to light up, the platoon entered the Italian bivouac. He had the platoon assume line formation then halted them. He looked around for someone in charge and saw a man he assumed was an officer, also looking for someone among the Germans in charge. "Das bin ich,³" he muttered to himself as he climbed down off of his Panzer.

He walked over to the man he assumed was an officer, and in the dim light saw that the man indeed was an officer, a major by the looks of it. Hoffmeister stood to attention and offered the man a crisp salute, hoping that the officer spoke German because Hoffmeister knew almost no Italian.

Smartly saluting, the Italian officer spoke. "Good morning, Herr Unteroffizier, Maggiore⁴ Feliciano Stagliano at your service." The man grinned then continued, "Yes, I speak German, I went to university in Ulm."

Relieved, Hoffmeister dropped his salute and said, "Good morning Sir, I was told you would have infantry to escort my Panzers as we reconnoiter the line ahead of your position. Aerial reports indicate a Britisher patrol is moving in this direction."

"If you wish I can provide infantry to ride your magnificent tanks. However, if you like, you can take up position here, behind my anti-tank gun screen, and pick off the English survivors when they charge into my cannon." Stagliano smiled as he said that, the man seemed very confident.

Hoffmeister nodded and said, "I understand that Herr Major, but I have my orders to advance. If you wish I will go forward along your desert flank and if the English do show, we can destroy them together. Given those circumstances, I won't advance very far, so I won't need your men to ride my vehicles. Is this acceptable, Sir?"

Stagliano smiled broadly and said, "I think we are of like mind Herr Unteroffizier. Cover my desert flank and we shall give the Englishmen a warm welcome." He then turned on his heel to rejoin his men.

The Australians were out of their trucks and were advancing briskly towards the Italian positions, the sky was getting lighter as they advanced. Private Caddick remarked over the intercom, "Well, it's officially dawn in these parts."

"What makes you say that, Alan?" Ian Sullivan asked from his bow gunner's position.

"The Arabs say that when you can distinguish a black thread from a white thread, then it is dawn." Caddick answered.

"How do you know ..." Sullivan began before being cut off by the tank commander.

"Quiet lads, the Aussies are going in. Caddick, prepare to move." Then over the R/T he transmitted, "All tanks, this is O'Connell, echelon left, forward, walking pace."

As O'Connell finished, Caddick engaged the transmission and the tank began to crawl forward.

The crew of the Cannone da 47/32 anti-tank gun were ready for whatever came at them from out of the blowing dust. It didn't matter if they were the heavy Matildas or the lighter Crusaders. They were ready.

What they weren't ready for was infantry.

The Australians had packed nearly a half-company into the two big Bedford lorries. Eighty-two men had dismounted behind their armored escort, aligned themselves and plunged into the swirling dust kicked up by the wind rising with the sun.

One man, a private from Brisbane, jumped into an Italian gun pit and began joyfully bayoneting the gun crew. He was having a wonderful time until an Italian gunner smacked him in the back of the head with a crow bar. The Aussie went down, his skull caved in.

His squadmate, also from Brisbane, bayoneted the plucky Italian who went down cursing and swinging that crow bar, catching the Aussie's arm as he did so. His killer's arm broken, the Aussie dropped his rifle.

But his mates swarmed in as he fell clutching his broken forearm. They took out the gun pit and swarmed over the surrounding foxholes manned by Italian infantry. Some of the Italians began to head for the rear.

Maggiore Stagliano was furious, shouting at the running infantry to support their brothers in the artillery. They didn't stop. Stagliano drew his pistol, not to threaten his own men, but to engage the enemy soldiers (who he thought were English) he could see starting to emerge from the dust.

An Australian sergeant stopped, aimed his rifle at the Maggiore and began to shout something. He was bayoneted from behind by a group of Italian infantry who were falling back in good order.

Another Australian emerged, shouting his fury at the Italians, the desert, the war, and life in general. Stagliano could see that the man's bayonet was dripping with blood. The Maggiore was offended for some reason by the man's antics, it didn't seem very soldierly.

That didn't stop Stagliano from shooting the man in the chest as he approached, oblivious to the Italian officer standing in front of him. The Maggiore thought he was starting to get control of the situation as another group of his men joined him and began firing at the advancing Australians.

He was directing a small party of five men to the right flank, in the hopes of stopping the enemy, when a Lee-Enfield .303 bullet hit him and spun him around.

There was no pain at first, but Stagliano was having trouble keeping his balance, and he felt winded. Shaking his head, he aimed at another Australian running at him, screaming. He fired an instant too late.

The man from Perth fell without a sound, the Maggiore's bullet had hit him square in the forehead. As he fell, his bayonet struck home, killing the Italian officer from Firenze as it pierced the man's chest.

The Australian attack was faltering as Italian resistance stiffened. The death of their Maggiore had enraged them, he had been a very popular officer.

The Italian infantry were starting to advance, some of the men who had fled shamefacedly rejoined their comrades. One gun pit was retaken and the gunners among the men in the counterattack quickly prepared the gun for firing.

The bark of a tank cannon off to the desert flank on their right startled the men. But one of their lot recognized the sound of a German gun.

"Steady boys! The Afrika Korps has pitched in!"

"Jesus wept! Now what?" O'Connell watched in horror as one of his vehicles staggered to a stop. He hadn't heard the crack of gunfire on his flank until too late. He was on the R/T at once.

"Wheel left, enemy tanks!"

Morley was wondering what fresh Hell he'd wandered into. His guard, Falasco, had been leading him to the center of the bivouac when firing broke out. The shouts of men killing and dying could be heard very close by.

Falasco shoved him into a trench yelling, "Tenente! Nascondere!"

Morley fell hard, banging his left shoulder into an ammunition crate, causing his arm to immediately go numb. As he tried to sit up, Falasco shoved him back down, his rifle at the ready.

"Nicola! What the bloody Hell!" Morley gasped as he tried again to sit up. Just as Falasco started to shove him back down again, both men froze at the sound of a tank cannon firing, not twenty yards away.

Morley began to wonder if he would ever see his Janice again.

¹ Lieutenant, wake up! (Italian)

² German tanks, lieutenant, quick, you have to hide! (Italian)

³ That's me. (German)

⁴ Major (Italian)

The Raid, Western Desert, October 1941

(Source)

As the tank bounced and jostled its crew as it crossed the rough desert floor, each man was lost in his thoughts. They were out on another reconnaissance mission, their platoon and two lorries of infantry. Australians again, which didn't bother Sergeant Ted O'Connell, he rather liked their rough and ready ways.

This op was a bit different, intel was reporting that the Eyeties¹ were holding a number of British prisoners not too far behind the lines, such as they were. The idea was to check out the rumors and report back on what was what. Command had the idea of possibly sending in the SAS² to attempt a rescue.

The position was, as the officers liked to say, "fluid." There were clear lines in some spots, troops actually dug in to hold a location, in many areas it was just the desert. Whoever was on the ground at some spot in time controlled it, but only as long as they were there. Mobile troops don't like sitting still.

As the Axis attempted to build up for an offensive, their armored and motorized forces were being built up, resupplied and reinforced, not being used to hold terrain. Which is where O'Connell and his group came in, roll through the empty desert, find this alleged Italian POW cage, then report back.

The Captain in charge, one of the Australian infantry though an Englishman by birth, had told O'Connell before they had set off, "Between you and me sergeant, if we find the bloody camp, and depending on how many POWs they've got there, I might just decide to liberate them myself. Wouldn't surprise me if the bloody Huns want to get their hands on them. Can't let that happen, can we?"

O'Connell agreed.

Flight Lieutenant Reginald Morley was shivering under the torn and filthy blanket one of the Italians had given him. It still surprised him just how cold the desert got at night. At first he had been angry with the Italian who had given him the blanket, then he saw that the young soldier's own blanket was just as torn, just as filthy. It was apparent that the Italians were not as well supplied as their German allies.

He had exchanged a few words with that soldier until the man's sergeant had yelled at him not to fraternize with the prisoners. Morley understood, but he had no one to talk to as he was the only British POW held at this camp. The young soldier had mentioned Morley being transferred to a larger camp that had an actual POW camp, but conditions weren't good for that at the moment.

"Troppi aerei da combattimento inglesi!³" the young Italian, whose name Morley had learned was Nicola Falasco, had exclaimed, moving his hands in the air to indicate aircraft.

Morley certainly understood that, the RAF was wreaking havoc with the supply convoys running down the coast road. The Italians were certainly wise to stay in one place. His one great fear was being turned over to the Germans. Captivity in Italy might be tolerable, in Germany it wouldn't be, of that he was quite sure.

(Source)

Unteroffizier Willi Hoffmeister sat atop the turret of his Panzer, staring out into the trackless depths of the North African desert. They were still waiting for a fuel truck. His driver, Gefreiter Fritz Weber, had assured him that they maybe had enough fuel to start the engine and move, maybe, a hundred meters.

"If we don't get refueled today Willi, what fuel that's left in the tank wouldn't be enough to start a decent fire!"

So they waited. It seemed that war in North Africa consisted of a few days of frantic maneuvering, close quarters combat with the British, then one side would break contact and weeks of small unit actions, sometimes no action at all would occur. Or not occur as the case may be.

Looking back toward the shady side of the vehicle (which was still hot but at least out of the direct sunlight) Hoffmeister asked his gunner, "Horst, how are we fixed for ammunition?"

"Plenty of high explosive, we're short about ten rounds of armor-piercing, and plenty of ammo for the machine guns. I think we only fired two rounds of HE in that last action."

Hoffmeister nodded, then his loader chimed in, "Water could be a problem real soon Willi. We've plenty of food but water for maybe another day without re-supply."

Hoffmeister nodded, then he looked up towards the ridge to their rear where he had seen a wisp of dust. The wind? Perhaps it was a supply or fuel truck, either would be welcome, but fuel was a priority.

The cloud of dust increased and soon an LKW breasted the ridge, not a fuel truck per se, but he did see that the truck was carrying what had to be fuel drums in the bed. Oh well, we'll be manning the hand pumps, but at least we'll be able to maneuver.

"Hey! Inglese!⁴"

Morley looked up, he saw Falasco's sergeant walking towards him, studying a document of some kind. He stood up, "Cosa vuoi sergente?⁵"

He almost regretted asking the question in Italian. While he spoke the language fairly well, the sergeant obviously resented the fact that he spoke it at all. He looked at Morley and began a long and very fast exposition in Italian, of which Morley understood perhaps one word in ten.

When the sergeant had finished he glared at Morley, as if daring him to ask for an explanation. Knowing that it would give the man pause, Morley simply nodded and said, "Grazie sergente."

With a harrumph, the Italian frowned and turned on his heel, headed back the way he came. The momentary pleasure of getting the grumpy sergeant's goat passed quickly. Of the words Morley had understood, two stood out, "transfer" and "Germans." If he understood correctly, he would be transferred to the custody of the Afrika Korps, perhaps as early as tonight.

He hadn't felt so down since the day he had landed in captivity. Things were going from bad to worse.

¹ WWII British slang for the Italians.

² Special Air Service, still in existence today. Special Operations types, like SEALs or Green Berets.

³ Too many English fighter planes! (Italian)

⁴ Englishman (Italian)

⁵ What do you want sergeant? (Italian)

Author's Note: As you might guess, Blogger repaired whatever it is they tweaked which broke anything having to do with links. Though I'm not ready to don my tinfoil hat just yet, the folks at Gulag/Gargle do seem to be "fixing" things a lot lately. And breaking them. Gives one pause it does.

All Aback

Sails Aback
Don McCullough Photo
(Source)
CC2.0

aback - The situation of the sails of a square-rigged ship when the yards are trimmed to bring the wind to bear on their forward side. Sails are laid aback purposely to stop a ship's way through the water or to assist her in tacking; they are taken aback inadvertently when the ship is brought to by an unexpected change of wind or by the helmsman's lack of attention. Oxford Reference

So Blogger is now having trouble with links, I had to actually do the html thing for those links under the photo. For those who wonder, I used to be able to enter text, "(Source)" - for instance - then highlight the word "Source" and click on a tool thingy that kinda looked like a paperclip, then I just had to paste the actual link into the popup brought up by the paperclip. Yeah, doesn't work anymore.

On Sunday I was unable to link the current post over on MeWe and Facebook. On Monday the MeWe bit worked. Facebook no, no doubt because the link to Facebook is provided by, who else, Blogger. Someone at Gargle effed up the code. I sent Gargle a message along the lines of "What the Hell?" with a brief description of what was broken with a screen shot of what was broken.

I've had emails from a cuppla folks saying "Hey, where's the Such-And-Such link? I love that site."

Well, a few sites have had their links garbled by Gargle and got shoved down to the bottom of the sidebar. That's reserved for blogs without a "feed." Don't click on those, you'll get a faceful of html (might even be xml, it's that ugly).

Anyhoo, this sudden change in the wind has caused a great fury to rise up in me. Makes ya wanna smite someone, know what I mean? So all my creativity has flown, gone like the leaves in late fall, blown off course and out into the woods. (The Muse won't come near me when I'm in a rage, can't say I blame her.)

I know that they will fix it eventually, I know I should be patient, but DAMN IT, why do they keep fixing things that don't need fixing?

Bah! I may seek another avenue for my writing. Blogger and I have been together ten years, but these new "features" (which always break something) are getting to be too much.

Yeah, I know, First World problem.

Sanity Enhancing Techniques *

 As many of the Chant's readers know, a while ago (seems like millennia ago) Mrs. J bought me a new shed to be my wood working shop.  This decision was facilitated by a few factors.  First, we had moved in to our new "forever" home and she wanted to be able to keep an eye on me.  Second, the AC in the old shop had died and well, Texas...> 6 months of the year...temperature=Hades.  Third, 10' x 12' just isn't enough room to work efficiently and safely.  

Yes, Beans, I still have all my extremities attached.  Although not for lack of trying on the shop's part. 

In any case, the new shop is 16' x 24' with a 10' ceiling and two 16' x 8' lofts (7' above the floor) for storage,  and seems infinitely larger than the old one.  

However, for many different reasons, some good, some not so good, I hadn't made much progress since the initial move of "Stuff" from the old shop.  The primary reason, which I believe most woodworkers will understand, is lack of storage.  Yes, it has lofts, but I need my tools and other stuff (stuff is, but not limited to, screws, bolts, braces, bits, pencils, tape measures...on and on ad infinitum) easily available. 

Well, you get the picture.

And...I wanted them where I could see them and get them fairly quickly without having to dig through some tool kit/cabinet/cardboard box/bucket, plastic container. But, I couldn't put up any kind of storage, until I'd put up the interior walls.

I thought I'd get the bottom half done before I started any other part of the plan, but as they say, "No plan survives first contact with the enemy intact"

I needed to move stuff out of the old place before it got too hot this summer.  Unfortunately, the only storage spot was the floor.  I soon found out that the old adage, "Stuff expands to meet available space" is absolutely true.

The foam panel insulation on the assembly table is to protect the sheet of plywood worktable as I sawed various pieces.  For a couple of bucks a sheet, the saw would cut into the insulation and not the plywood.

Now, there's two sides to everything.  On the left side above is the beginning of order and efficiency.  Shelving and tool benches.  On the right, is chaos and land mines, or at least tripping hazards.

One of my main objectives was to keep things visible, but out of the way when not in use.  My drills were the first tools to go up, but not out. (BTW, that's not their final position, just the most convenient at the time.)  Circular Saw and Drills were the "Go To" tools at this time.

The magnetic bar tool holder under the AC was in an excellent position for convenient holding of hand tools at the time.  It's since been moved also.

About this time, my second Grand Daughter arrived a tad early and my carpentry co-worker became a fairly busy trying on his Dad Role.  But, that side of the workshop is going to house my workbench and the place on the floor where the plywood rests is approximately where the table saw will reside, I can move both out of the way fairly easily and their shape and size should protect the insulation quite a bit.  

BTW, and speaking of insulation,  the highest the temperature got this summer inside the workshop with the mini-split AC set at 75 was 78.  And this was a hot summer, even for Texas.

As I said earlier, I wanted storage to move up and take advantage of wasted space, so rather than enclose the rafters on the loft ceilings,  I took advantage of it.

Nuts, bolts, screws, hooks all stored out of the way, but visible and accessible.

Yes, Beans, the router table isn't very functional at this point.

Another thing that always bothered me in my old shop was that clamps were never readily accessible. That's less of a problem now.

While all this is going on, my Daughter asked if I would refinish the diaper table we'd used for her changing when she was a baby.  Now that she's a Mom, she wants her Daughter to follow.  Yes, Beans, it's going to be White instead of that particular shade of brown.

Even the pipe clamps are more accessible.

Or from a different perspective.

So, this shows where I'm at in this project at this point.  

This project so far has been fun and deeply satisfying.  Can't wait to get back from the Cruise * and get back into it.

Along with the other projects, Mrs. J, MBD and others have in mind for me, of course..

Peace out, Y'all!

* Posted on 9/11, because with any luck as you read this Mrs. J, MBD, SIL, MG and our Wine Maker Friends are somewhere in the Med.  Ahhh Well...Somebody's got to do it.