"When a man is down, you don't leave him there." *

Well....With any luck, Mrs J and I will have slept in our own beds last night having arrived in our home port and having dropped Little J and LJW off at Houston International for their trip back to the Sandbox.

Not being a gifted reader of the future, I can't pre-post any current events that may have gone on while I was pouring wine, so I'm going to dig deep into my minuscule mental reservoir of historical stories for this week's posting.

Sarge did a post on this guy in one of his (much missed) Friday Flyby's, and I'd mentioned him in a posting about "First" Air Force Medal of Honor Recipients. Today we'll focus on him.

Major Bernard "Bernie" Fisher (Pronounced Burr-nerd) was born in 1927 in California, but his family moved to Idaho almost immediately thereafter.  He joined the Navy at the very end of WWII, then got out and went to school.  He joined the Idaho Air National Guard in 1947, was commissioned in 1951 and sent to Pilot Training.  After getting his wings, he flew Air Defense Interceptors until 1965 when he volunteered to go to Vietnam to fly the A-1E.  Although the aircraft was officially named Skyraider, it was commonly referred to as Spad.

In early March of 1966, an Army of Vietnam (ARVN) camp with about 400 ARVN Soldiers augmented by 17 Green Beret was attacked by ~2000 North Vietnamese in the A Shau Valley on the border of South Vietnam and Laos.

The line just to the right of the yellow marker is named Ho Chi Minh Trail.  That would explain its importance.

 

The initial attack was defeated with the support of Spads and Spooky's (AC-47 Gunship.  An old DC-3 with 3 x7.62mm  which gave it the capability to put a round in every 6' of a 50 yard diameter circle in 3 seconds.  This would be known as a "lot of hurt".)

Source

However, overnight the weather got worse and subsequent attacks penetrated the perimeter.  On March 10th, Major Fisher is an Element Lead in a flight of 6 Spads tasked with supporting the defenders.  The weather in the area is canine feces, but they manage to find a hole and enter the valley.  OK, entering a hole in a cloud in a cloud filled mountain valley?  They're not called "sucker holes" for nothing. That scares me just thinking about it.

Still, riding to the sound of the guns is what Heroes do.

They come out underneath and assess that the weather, while not optimum, is workable.  So, they begin attacking positions as requested by the folks on the ground.  The North Vietnamese have brought AAA with them.  I believe Sarge's saying of "Metric Crap Ton" is a reliable measure in this case.

As they're attacking and re-attacking enemy positions, Major Fisher's wingman, Major D. W. "Jump" Myers, who had received word the night before that he'd been selected for Lt Colonel, is hit by AAA and crash lands on the runway.  The A-1E is fueled with 120 Octane Aviation Gasoline which burns extremely well, and does so in this case.  Major Fisher's initial report is that the aircraft has crashed in a fireball and it's unlikely Major Myers has survived.  However on his next pass, Major Fisher sees Major Myers exiting the aircraft and sprinting into a nearby ditch.

Major Fisher informs, not asks, the command post that he is going to land and pick Major Myers up.  At this point, the North Vietnamese are less than 200' from Major Myer's position.  Major Fisher asks the command post what is the length of the runway and is informed 3500'.  Knowing that the A-1E can land and takeoff in 3000' he starts his approach.  Plants the landing and hits the brakes, but quickly realizes he's not going to get it stopped.  Stands on the brakes and swings the aircraft around (being in a tail dragger is handy sometimes).  Later he would find that the actual field length was 2500'.

This was the actual aircraft he flew on the mission.  It shortly thereafter was shot down and badly damaged but was recovered, refurbished and now is on display at the US Air Force Museum at Wright Patterson AFB. Source

He then begins taxiing back to where Major Myers is hiding.  Arriving, Major Myers jumps on the wing, but can't get in the aircraft.  Major Fisher then sets the parking brake, unstraps and exits the aircraft to help his wingman in.

Did I mention the North Vietnamese are still shooting at them? and not missing?

Finally, Major Myers is in the aircraft so Major Fisher jumps into his lap, takes off the parking brake, cobs the power to the engine and takes off.

The return flight was uneventful.

Cheated death? Yeah, pretty sure I'd be smiling also.
Source

There's another piece of remarkable coincidence with the story.  It turns out that a similar rescue had taken place in WWII near Ploesti.  Captain Dick Willsie and Flt Officer Dick Andrews were flying P-38's when Willsie was shot down, crash landing in a field.  Andrews landed his P-38 in the field and took Willsie aboard, successfully returning with him to base. The coincidence is that  Willsie was the Spad Squadron Commander during Major Fisher's rescue and Andrews was one of the other Spads in the formation.

 There are several videos of this sortie on YouTube.  This one, I think, is the best.

If that doesn't bring some moisture to your eyes, we can't be friends.

 Major Fisher's Citation:

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty. On that date, the special forces camp at A Shau was under attack by 2,000 North Vietnamese Army regulars.

Hostile troops had positioned themselves between the airstrip and the camp. Other hostile troops had surrounded the camp and were continuously raking it with automatic weapons fire from the surrounding hills.

The tops of the 1,500-foot hills were obscured by an 800 foot ceiling, limiting aircraft maneuverability and forcing pilots to operate within range of hostile gun positions, which often were able to fire down on the attacking aircraft.

During the battle, Maj. Fisher observed a fellow airman crash land on the battle-torn airstrip. In the belief that the downed pilot was seriously injured and in imminent danger of capture, Maj. Fisher announced his intention to land on the airstrip to effect a rescue.

Although aware of the extreme danger and likely failure of such an attempt, he elected to continue. Directing his own air cover, he landed his aircraft and taxied almost the full length of the runway, which was littered with battle debris and parts of an exploded aircraft.

While effecting a successful rescue of the downed pilot, heavy ground fire was observed, with 19 bullets striking his aircraft. In the face of the withering ground fire, he applied power and gained enough speed to lift-off at the overrun of the airstrip.

Maj. Fisher's profound concern for his fellow airman, and at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty are in the highest traditions of the U.S. Air Force and reflect great credit upon himself and the Armed Forces of his country.

 Major Fisher was the first person to receive the Air Force Medal of Honor, up to this point previous recipients received the Army Medal of Honor.  Navy and Marine recipients receive the Navy Medal of Honor.

Major Fisher passed away in 2014 at age 87.

Rest in Peace, Warrior!

* His response to a question in the mission debrief as to why he took this action.

Nothing to Say...

It was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. It was a good day, a damned fine day. The way things are going, I doubt that I will ever again set foot upon an aircraft carrier headed out to sea. Kinda sad, but good in some ways.

I guess...

Hand salutes were rendered...
Those who know, know.

A fine day, spent with family and friends...

Eyes are good today.

Still mourning the loss of a fine musician, the old days are dying, the new days are upon us. For better or worse, just gotta roll with it brothers and sisters.

Otherwise, I've nothing to say...

Nothing to Say

Ian Anderson

Every day there's someone asking

"What is there to do?

Should I love or should I fight?

Is it all the same to you?"

"No," I say, "I have the answer

Proven to be true

But if I were to share it with you

You would stand to gain and I to lose."

Oh, I couldn't bear it, so I've got nothing to say

Nothing to say nothing to say

Every morning pressure forming all around my eyes

Ceilings crash the walls collapse broken by the lies

That your misfortune brought upon us

And I won't disguise them

So don't ask me will I explain

I won't even begin to tell you why

No, just because I have a name well I've got nothing to say

Nothing to say nothing to say

Climb a tower of freedom paint your own deceiving sign

It's not my part to criticize or to ask you to be blind

To your own pressing problem and the [heat] you must unwind

And ask of me no answer there is none that I could give you wouldn't find

I went your way ten years ago and I've got nothing to say

Nothing to say nothing to say

Nothing, nothing to say

Nothing, nothing to say

Nothing, nothing to say, nothing to say

Nothing, nothing to say, nothing to say

Nothing, nothing to say

Squirrel Vision

(Source)

Okay, this post has nothing to do with squirrels, I'm using squirrel in the sense of "squirrelly," as in, my eyesight was being very squirrelly Friday. Unpredictable, all over the place, and just weird.

Going to back to work this past week after having two weeks off led to the usual upset to the sleep cycle, from holiday to work. Another factor was having nothing to do at work, you wouldn't believe how tiresome that is. So I decided to take yesterday off, get some much needed sleep and I could do nothing at home much more effectively than at work. I also had a couple of chores which needed doing.

But sleeping late was a two-edged sword on Friday. My body and brain felt blessedly rested, my eyes on the other hand suffered. I slept too long and my eyes got too dry. It's happened before and I freaked out, thought I was going blind, not, just over-tired and dry eyes. So I'm keeping them liberally dosed with artificial tears (something one of my many eye docs recommended). The downside is, everything is bloody blurry as Hell. So this will be a quick post as last night I needed to rest my eyes as much as I could.

On the upside, Operation Marble Throne Room  is complete. Oorah! I was very pleased with our contractor and would hire him again in a heartbeat. In fact, this spring Operation Marble Throne Room II will commence. He's giving us a good rate as we've hooked him up with a bunch of jobs for the friends of The Missus Herself. Good stuff that.

Anyhoo, here's some photos I took of the renovated throne room. It hasn't been decorated yet, that's the purview of The Missus Herself and she shan't be rushed. I can wait, I know she'll make it look even better. 😁

But before I do that, here's what the trip to work looked like the other day (Wednesday I think, might have been Tuesday, I'm an old man, I get confused... nope, it was Wednesday because I recall bitching about getting this lovely look two weeks to the day after Christmas, you know me, I like my white Christmases.)

A lovely morning, but that night the bottom fell out of the temperature, down into the high teens, low 20s it was. I know, I know, 'tis nothing for the likes of nylon12 and Scott the Badger, but for Little Rhody, with the wind coming in off of the Atlantic, that's pretty damned cold. Bitter cold all of Thursday as well.

Then Friday dawned cloudy but "warm," mid-40s. But that's New England weather, don't like what you've got? Wait a minute, it'll change.

Anyhoo, behold the vast expanses of marble, yup, that's the real deal. Some quarry someplace (I'm hoping it was the home state) provided a lot of tile for this project. I think it looks lovely, sure YMMV, but you didn't pay for it, did ya? 😉

I kinda wished I'd taken some "before" photos, didn't look nearly this nice (the walls and tile were pink for crying out loud, that should tell you something). It had a vanity with a single sink and just one mirror as well. Now we're all fancy with dual sinks and mirrors. Woohoo!

Be well, hopefully my vision is better this day, I'll let you know in Sunday's post, POCIR.

RIP Neil...

Neil Peart
September 12, 1952 - January 7, 2020
(Source)

The man was an amazing drummer...

THE Queen has been graciously pleased to signify...

The defence of Rorke's Drift 1879
Alphonse-Marie-Adolphe de Neuville
Painting of the Battle of Rorke's Drift which took place in Natal during the Anglo-Zulu War in 1879. De Neuville based the painting on eye witness accounts and it depicts several events of the battle occurring at once. Defenders depicted in the painting: Lieutenant John Chard (to the right at the barrier in pale breeches with rifle) Corporal Scammell of the Natal Native Contingent incorrectly shown in the uniform of the 24th or Corporal William Allen (handing cartridges to Chard) Corporal Ferdinand Schiess (wearing a bandoleer and stabbing a Zulu at the barrier with his bayonet) Chaplain George Smith (bearded man handing out cartridges from a haversack) Acting Assistant Commissary James Dalton (sat in foreground with a wounded shoulder) Surgeon James Reynolds (attending to Dalton's wound) Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead (standing in the centre of the painting pointing to his left) Private Frederick Hitch (standing behind Bromhead) Private Henry Hook (carrying Private John Connolly on his back away from the burning hospital) Assistant Commissary Walter Dunne (to the left holding a biscuit box). (Source)

SUPPLEMENT TO THE LONDON GAZETTE, MAY 2, 1879

(Source)

In the aftermath of the Battles of Isandlwana (an unmitigated disaster) and Rorke's Drift (a resounding success), the British government awarded Victoria Crosses (VC) to eleven of the roughly 150 men who defended Rorke's Drift against the attacking Zulu. Seven of these VCs went to members of B Company of the 2nd Battalion of the 24th Regiment of Foot. The commander of the post, Lieutenant Chard of the Royal Engineers was also awarded the Victoria Cross.

Men who were not members of the 24th and were awarded the Victoria Cross for this action were: Corporal Christian Schiess of the 3rd Natal Native Contingent, Surgeon James Reynolds of the Army Medical Department, and Assistant Commissary James Dalton of the Commissariat and Transport Department.

The eleven awards of the Victoria Cross for the defense of Rorke's Drift is the record for the most VCs awarded for a single action, the seven VCs awarded to members of the 24th Foot is the record for the most VCs awarded to a single regiment for a single action.

A comment over on koobecaF from my old buddy Advocaat (former Air Force cop, currently an attorney) sparked the writing of this post. He mentioned the seven awards as being the most for a single action, I knew that number as eleven. Technically we were both correct as you can see above. (Seven for one regiment in the same action, eleven for one action.)

With the exception of Corporal Schiess, photos exist of the men who fought at Rorke's Drift and received Britain's highest award for valor. Here they are (photos are from here, an excellent source for the events in Zululand way back in January of 1879) -

Christian Schiess
Likeness from de Neuville's painting

When first established, it was not possible to award the Victoria Cross posthumously. If you'll note at the end of that extract from the London Gazette above, Lieutenants Melville and Coghill, both members of the 1st Battalion of the 24th Foot would have been awarded the Victoria Cross had they survived Isandlwana. The prohibition to the award of the VC posthumously was lifted in 1907, at that time both men were awarded the Victoria Cross. Twenty-eight years after their deaths in South Africa.

Brave men all.

One wonders how many awards for valor would have gone to their Zulu opponents during that war. I suspect it would have been many.

Badge of the 24th Foot
(Source)

Other sources:

• 24th Regiment of Foot
• List of Zulu War Victoria Cross recipients
• Coghill
• Melville

About That Hill

The last stand at Isandlwana
Charles Edwin Fripp

In a comment over at Shaun's place, on one of his many excellent posts, I made a reference to a place in Africa...

Here's what that hill looked like in Shaun's video -

(Source)

It shows up in the first couple of seconds of the video and it immediately made me think of this -

Isandlwana Hill, South Africa
(Source)

I know, bit of a stretch as the left side of Isandlwana Hill is much higher than what Shaun now calls "Isandalwana Ridge" on his ranch -

(Source)

(I hope you didn't try playing that "video" above, it's actually a screen shot of part of the post where Shaun made the reference noted above. I also won't dog him regarding the spelling of "Isandalwana," the name of the hill is the English equivalent of the Zulu word for the place. I've seen it spelled a couple of different ways in official accounts of the battle, which we'll get to, shortly.)

Anyhoo, way back in January of 1879 the British Empire invaded the lands of the Zulu. The reasons for this were nefarious and even suspect at the time. Seems that the High Commissioner for Southern Africa, one Sir Henry Bartle Frere, thought it would be just peachy for the Empire to take over the independent South African Republic and the Kingdom of Zululand in order to bring enlightenment and solid British administration to these "benighted" lands. Benighted as they weren't under British rule I suppose.

Note that the South African Republic was also known as the Transvaal Republic, to its white inhabitants, the Boers, it was the Zuid Afrikaansche Republiek. That may look like Dutch but it's actually Afrikaans. Related to the Dutch language but with some differences which escape me. I once watched a show on Dutch TV and was amazed that what sounded Dutch to me had subtitles in Dutch running at the bottom of the screen. Some of the words sounded weird but close. A Dutch friend of mine knew the show and told me the show was in Afrikaans. Odd that.

Anyhoo, where were we? Ah yes, Sir Henry covets the lands of the Zulu and the Boers. No doubt thinking that the black Zulu would be easy pickings as opposed to the white Boers, they sent an ultimatum to the Zulu king, Cetshwayo. As I recall the ultimatum would have essentially required the Zulu king to give up his authority over his people and not call up his army without the permission of the British. (They did go after the Boers later. In the first Boer War, the Brits lost. Though they did win the second and managed to screw the locals. You can read more about that here.)

Not a surprise that Cetshwayo pretty much told Sir Henry to "Piss off."

So off into Zululand went Lord Chelmsford and his 15,000 men, of whom approximately 2,500 were African auxiliaries of the Natal Native Contingent (NNC). Most of them were poorly trained in European tactics (but pretty damned good at traditional African methods of war), poorly equipped, and poorly led. Most of the Europeans tended to look down upon the NNC.

The scene in the film Zulu, in which the following exchange between Michael Caine's character, Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead commanding company B of the 2nd Battalion of the 24th Foot, and Gert van den Bergh's character, Lieutenant Gert Adendorff of the 1st Battalion, 3rd NNC upon hearing of the destruction of the British force at Isandlwana is illustrative of European attitudes towards native troops -

Lt. Bromhead: The entire column? It's damned impossible! Eight hundred men?

Lt. Adendorff: Twelve hundred men. There were four hundred native levies, also.

Lt. Bromhead: Damn the levies, man, more cowardly blacks!

Lt. Adendorff: What the hell do you mean, "cowardly blacks"? They died on your side, didn't they? And who the hell do you think is coming to wipe out your little command? The Grenadier Guards?

Great scene. (Bromhead and Adendorff were both real people, both survived Rorke's Drift.)

At any rate, Lord Chelmsford's biggest concern seems to have been that the Zulus wouldn't stand and fight but slip behind his force into Natal to terrorize the populace. So he divided his forces in order to force the Zulus to come to battle. I'd let that sink in for a moment, divided his forces in the face of a numerically superior force. Sure they were armed with mostly shields and spears and a few older firearms, surely no match for a European army. It's worth noting that the Zulu were a warrior culture, a very tough and hard fighting warrior culture. I've written of them before, not a group you'd want to underestimate, which is precisely what Chelmsford did.

A pretty good account of the Battle of Isandlwana can be found here, suffice to say the Brits almost literally stumbled over the main Zulu force. They fired upon them, the Zulu took umbrage and attacked and destroyed the force Chelmsford left behind to "guard" the camp.

The battle went well for the British until the ammunition began to run low. Not even insane courage can force the human body to fling itself against a wall of Martini-Henry rifles over and over again. Lord knows, the Zulu tried. Then the firing slowed and in some cases ceased, when that happened the redcoats and their native allies went down under the enraged Zulus and their assegai (spears).

Thirteen hundred plus men. Lost.

British casualties at Isandlwana were over 1,300 killed - 52 officers, 727 British regulars, 343 from the Natal Native Contingent, 133 European Colonial troops, and 2 artillery pieces captured. The Zulu lost at least 1,000 killed (perhaps as many as 2,500) with roughly 2,000 wounded.

Of the approximately 20,000 Zulu at Isandlwana, some 3,000 to 5,000 (the Zulu reserve) were not engaged in the battle. They moved on to hit Rorke's Drift, a small outpost near the Buffalo River and where Chelmsford's forces had crossed into Zululand. There some 150 soldiers (mostly British with a few auxiliaries and a civilian or three) awaited the coming of the Zulu.

So you'd think that after destroying the force at Isandlwana the small contingent at Rorke's Drift had no chance, no chance at all.

And you'd be wrong.

Chelmsford's camp, under the command of Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Henry Pulleine, 1st of the 24th Foot, had made no preparations for defense and had their lines too far forward for mutual support. Worthy of note is that this violated Chelmsford's own instructions for fortifying the camp at each stop. Chelmsford himself decided not to fortify the camp as it would take too long and that it wasn't necessary - he severely underestimated his enemy. Apparently the officers at Rorke's Drift paid attention to their orders and when word came of the disaster at Isandlwana, they immediately began fortifying their post with whatever was available.

At Rorke's Drift, in very hard fighting, 150 men withstood and drove off a Zulu force which outnumbered them by at least 20 to 1, perhaps more. The defenders lost 17 killed and 15 wounded, the attackers at least 351 killed and roughly 500 wounded, most of whom were put to death after the battle.* A good account of the Battle of Rorke's Drift can be found here.

 I've read this a few times as well. A good history of the Zulu.

Where the fighting occurred.
Google Maps

Let's just say that the campaign in Zululand in 1879 left quite an impression on me. So when I see something that reminds me of something in history, even just a little, I mention it. Even if it was just a little hill in western Nebraska which reminded me of a much bigger hill in South Africa.

And yeah, I hear this in my mind...

* Some sources indicate that the relief column which came up to Rorke's Drift after the battle killed most of the Zulu wounded, even burying some of them alive. The actual defenders were too damned tired to engage in that slaughter apparently. The Zulu custom of disemboweling a dead (or nearly dead) enemy (to release the spirit from the body) probably contributed to the killing of the Zulu wounded.

Mice, Damn It!

So the other day The Missus Herself is getting ready to steam up some rice, she's in the washing process and keeps pulling something out of the rice, looking at it intently, then setting it aside. I'm only semi-paying attention, I think I was toasting an English muffin. After a bit, she seeks my counsel...

"Honey, what is this?" Holding a small grain-looking sort of thing. Grain-looking, but not grain.

"Uh, that's a mouse turd. You need to dump all of that rice, clean the pot and your hands really, really well."

"Mouse turd?"

"Yup."

"Crap."

"Precisely."

So it seems that we once again have a mouse problem here at Chez Sarge. Surely, you say (you know the rest), how can you have a mouse problem? You have two cats!

Yes my precious, we do indeed have two cats, two very senior cats, they're 16 years old, essentially 80 years old in human terms. Hunting is no longer something they do well, truth be told, Sasha was always the hunter, Anya is more of the laid back, live and let live cat of the duo. In fact, the feline staff don't hunt at all anymore, and the local mice have gotten cocky.

So it's up to me to bait and place traps, then to dispose of the evidence. But this reminds me of a time when the cats, well Sasha, were deadly hunters indeed.

(Source)

Jumbo, Felix One. I have movement at my two o'clock.

Copy Felix One, monitor, do not engage at this time.

Felix Two, Jumbo. Mount up, grid coordinates fife-niner-two-three-niner-six-fife-one.

Two.

Jumbo, Felix One. Contact is hostile, I repeat, hostile. Engaging now!

As I sat on the couch, perusing a sporting event on the television, I heard mad scrambling from the stairs leading down into the basement. Coming to a higher alert state I sat up straight and spied a small gray creature wriggling out from under the basement door. With a look of panic upon his small visage, he turned in my direction and came towards me in full grunt. As I sat there, flabbergasted that this tiny rodent would have the temerity to charge me, I then understood what all the commotion was about and why the wee beastie would challenge me in my own lair.

Through the cat door came Sasha, fangs bared, hair on fire, and ready to rumble. She was in hot pursuit of this tiny gray animal and had every intention of destroying it. After first, no doubt, making the wee mouse regret ever having been born. (There is nothing quite as cruel as a cat with time on its "hands" and nothing better to do than torment something.)

The mouse veered off at the last minute, Sasha bent to her right and pulled Gs as she tried to turn inside that mouse. But the angles were all wrong and the mouse managed to find sanctuary in the radiator in the living room.

Crap...

Felix One, Jumbo. Do you still have contact on the hostile?

One, Negative. Hostile has gone to ground, repeat, hostile has gone to ground.

Jumbo, Felix Two. On station, Felix One in sight.

Copy Two, stand by.

Two.

Sasha slid to a stop where the mouse had disappeared. She was as alert as only a cat with the scent of prey in her nostrils can be. Her sister, Anya, had ambled into the room to see what all the fuss was about, with one glare from Sasha, Anya sat down, well back from her sister. For those who don't know, Sasha is the Alpha. No one challenges her. Not even the humans, well except The Missus Herself, she is "Alpha Actual" at Chez Sarge. All I do is "pick things up and put them down."

With said Alpha Actual away for the day, it devolved upon me to take command of the situation and provide support to the hunters. I was kinda the on call air support, if you will.

Jumbo, Felix Two. I'm going in...

NEGATIVE TWO! HOLD POSITION, I SAY AGAIN, HOLD POSITION!!

As Anya's curiosity overcame her better instincts, she just had to get closer. Sasha turned and hissed at her sister. With that, the mouse broke cover and scrambled for the kitchen.

Crap...

MOVEMENT! I'VE GOT MOVEMENT, TWO YOU SEE THAT?

Two.

The mouse sprints to the kitchen and into the radiator there. Two cats in hot pursuit. Human close behind, ready to provide support. Mouse comes out of hiding, Sasha feints, mouse back into hiding. Checking the clock, I note that Alpha Actual should be home soon. There is no way she will appreciate the "mouse in the house." I know it sounds kinda cute but this ain't Mickey Mouse, this is an actual rodent.

So while the cats keep an eye on the mouse's last known location. I go get "The Equalizer." It's a broom. With the brush end I can swat the mouse to death should it break cover. With the other end I can poke it to death if it's in concealment, rather than cover. (Cover hides you and protects you. Concealment merely makes it hard to spot you.)

Jumbo, Felix One. Hostile's position is just inside the tree line at the northwest corner of the AO.

Roger One, Jumbo has eyes on the target. Rolling in hot.

Jumbo, all friendlies stay clear, deploying the broom handle at this time.

One.

Two.

The mouse was wedged into the very corner of the radiator at the northwestern side of the kitchen. The hole where the pipe entered the radiator from the basement was not big enough for the mouse to escape through. It would try to move down the radiator to the other end but Sasha kept poking her paw in there. The poor wee beastie was cornered. Nowhere to go.

Jab. Bang. It's over...

Jumbo, that's a hit, confirmed kill, no need for another pass. Hostile is down, repeat, hostile is down.

Jumbo is RTB at this time.

One.

Two.

Just after I had sent the mouse to the great beyond, The Missus Herself comes into the kitchen from the deck. Everything in the kitchen which could be moved, was moved. Nothing was left to hide that mouse except the radiator. Both cats were sitting there, still staring at the radiator, and I was kneeling nearby with broom in hand.

"What is that red stuff on the end of the broom?" The Missus Herself inquired.

"Blood."

"WHAT?"

"Honey, there is a dead mouse in the radiator. I'm going to dispose of the body now. You might want to go into the other room for a few minutes."

"But why is there a dead mouse in the... Oh." With that Alpha Actual departed the AO and I fished the expired rodent out of the radiator. Disposing of the wee corpse in the small woodlot adjacent to our abode. Returning to the manse, I cleaned off the broom and put it away.

Sasha was slightly peeved that she no longer had a mouse to "play" with. Anya, who isn't much of a hunter, truth be told, had already wandered off, show was over, nothing to see here. Move along.

Things do get exciting in small town New England from time to time.

And yes, I have other mouse stories, none of them end well for the mice.