The postage-stamp-sized German colony of
Pogoland (famous only for the export of delicious sausage and the energetic vertical dancing of the natives) is insignificant but for one key point. It has a naval wireless station housing a powerful radio transmitter. To hamper communications between Berlin and the bothersome ocean-going commerce raiders such as the
Elke, it cannot be allowed to remain in German hands.
A scratch force of those troops that can be spared from
British Central Africa is quickly assembled under the command of Lord Cut Glass of Sweet Lamb (
He's the best we've got! - But that ain't saying much!). The expedition is named CUTFORCE and is landed at Wursthaven, the colony's only port. All that is facing them are the local
Polizeitruppe, under the command of Polizeirat von Sickers. The landings are not opposed, rather the police retire into the interior and prepare to defend the wireless station. The docks, government buildings and sausage factory are soon in British hands.
Meanwhile the Germans dig in on Station Ridge, overlooking the approaches to the transmitter...
Two units of police and a Maxim gun prepare to face the attack.
Sgt. Ifor "Dancing" Williams is first over the top, and leads his boyos forward with gusto.CUTFORCE assembled on their start line behind the railway embankment, ready to assault the ridge. The force consisted of the
Brecknock and Radnorshire Rifles, stiffened with a detachment from the famous
KAR, whose bush-fighting skills would provide a useful addition, it was thought.
"Now then, chaps. I don't want you to worry at all, but we've got quite a lot of open ground to cover before we can get at the bloody Hun, so it's inevitable that quite a few of you aren't going to make it. But be not downhearted, it's time to show your King that true-hearted Welshmen know how to die well. Hip-Hip-Hoorah! Off you go, now. See you at the finish!"Indeed, previously such attacks in
German Central Africa had always ended in horrible slaughter as the attackers were mown down like so many hay stalks (in our games at any rate). So this time some support was provided in the form of...
They've got the mortar, borrowed from the neighbouring French colony of Côte de Stupidité, but can these Welsh lads figure out how the damn thing works?...A trench mortar,
...and a mountain gun from the
1st Kaffiristan Mountain Battery, in addition to the B&RR's own Vickers HMG. Hopefully this would be enough to suppress the defences. Fingers crossed!
Now here's the thing. Sickers has developed something of a phobia about artillery. He's convinced that whenever he faces it in a game it always strikes with deadly accuracy, and yet whenever he has command of any himself, it is always next to bloody useless. How would the gods of Arty treat him today? Well, the trench mortar began "warming up" the German position. Its main use is to suppress the enemy, only having a 1 in 5 chance of actually causing harm. But it scored direct hits two turns in a row, causing a few casualties. This convinced Sickers the gods were against him again, and he made a decision that would have a decisive effect on the outcome of the battle...
He withdrew all his infantry to the reverse slope of the ridge, where their tormentors could do them little harm. Only the Maxim was left in the firing line, as it was doing good work scoring hits on the enemy infantry at long range.
But now the MG was the only available target, and so all the British support weapons concentrated on it. It was quickly silenced.
The Brits couldn't believe their luck. They advanced unmolested to the cover of the dry ditch. Von Sickers intended to reoccupy his defences to pour fire on the attackers, but when was the best moment? He hesitated and procrastinated. Would it prove fatal?
On the British left flank, a long range exchange of fire began as the KAR had now advanced into view of the navy crew of the wireless station. They were determined not to give up their post cheaply. Both sides started taking casualties.
Still no sign of the Germans on the ridge, so the order came to advance.
"Organ Morgan" opens fire. Previously chapel organist in Llandod, he now plays his tune on an altogether more deadly instrument.With nothing else to shoot at, the Vickers was brought forward to the termite mound to support the KAR, and its presence was soon felt. The sailors would not be able to stand this for long.
The plucky Welshmen had by now nearly reached the ridge. Von Sickers to his horror realised he had left it too late. The B&RR would be able to snap fire at his men as they tried to reach their trenches again. In desperation, and not knowing what else to do, he ordered his constables to fix their bayonets and...
...Charge! They piled down the hill into the squad of unlucky Llangunllo postman, Sgt. Attila Rees. They would surely have been swept away, but for the quick thinking of fellow-sergeant Evans the Death, coffin-maker and funeral director of Penybont; whose squad was in range to give support. Screaming
"Up the Rifles! Give it to 'em, ye unruly young buggers!" in his booming bass-baritone voice he led his men crashing into the German police's flank. As in civilian life, Evans' gruesome nickname was once again most apt.
At the other end of the ridge, a similar desperate fight was taking place. It was time for Dancing Williams' boys to show the enemy that a Welshman with a bayonet was not something to be taken lightly.
And so it proved. The Politzeitruppe were cut down in a bloody melee, and now virtually nothing stood between the British and their goal. And they had achieved this with remarkably few casualties.
Von Sickers, whose dreadful mishandling of his troops had caused this debacle, fled for his life across the corn fields. If he ever made it back to Germany, he would have some serious explaining to do. He had managed to serve up the kind of gargantuan military cock-up the Brits usually specialise in.
The single remaining brave defender of the station could see the writing on the wall, and he reluctantly gave up possession of his post to the enemy. So that was that. The brief, doomed resistance put up by the German colony of Pogoland was over. It would become
The British Mandate of Pogoland in 1919. In thanks for the loan of the trench mortar, the French were given charge of the sausage factory, which became France's smallest overseas possession,
Pogoland Français until independence in 1963. After a plebiscite of the population (i.e. the factory workers) it merged with the newly independent
British Pogoland to become the
Pogolese Democratic Republic in 1965. It remains the producer of the best
Rote Wurst outside of Europe to this day.
Well, that's it. A bad day for Sickers. His artillerophobia really contributed to his downfall this time. Two lucky hits and he lost his nerve, convinced he would be slaughtered by the shelling. In withdrawing to safety he gave up his only advantage: The ability to cause crippling casualties as the British advanced across the deadly open space. Had he stuck it out and held his nerve, I believe the result would have been much closer. As it was the Brits only lost eight men, while the Germans lost almost all of theirs in their foolish "Banzai" charge.
A series of sort of time-lapse shots of the game in progress, documenting the British advance...
Rules were
Price of Glory. Figures by
HLBSC,
Copplestone,
Brigade,
Old Glory and converted
Great War Miniatures.
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April 27, 2024, 11:50:57 AM
April 17, 2013, 09:47:10 PM