Mud & Blood: Winter Sports, First Foray

My chum Mr Sherwood and I being fans of Mud & Blood, we decided recently to try out the small night raid scenario generator contained in the "Winter Sports" article in the Lardies' Christmas Toast 2010 Special.

First time out of the gate we tried the recipe as written, with a British force seeking to penetrate German lines and snatch a prisoner.

A platoon from the 73rd (Royal Highlanders of Canada) set forth on what was supposed to be a cloudy night. However, by the time they had worked their way through No Man's Land to the gaps cut by an earlier patrol of the 67th Canadian Pioneers Battalion, a change in wind had blown off the clouds, and the patrol was exposed to the bright light of a gibbous moon. German sentries on the alert were very jumpy, and despite Cpl. McCrimmon's brilliant imitation of a rat, they watchers were alert enough to sound the alarm and bring first the area's Feldwebel and then the Leutnant from their warm billet in the command post up to the front line to see what might be brewing. On the way past one of the frontline troop refuges, the Feldwebel stuck his head in and called out the Gefreiter in residence and his Gruppe, in case any serious shooting needed to be done.

McCrimmon had been so pleased with his rat imitation that his section had lagged far behind the others. And while Sgt. Maj. McDonald's zeal in ensuring, personally, that the path through the wire was clear of wire, lines, pit traps, mud holes, and perhaps giant barking spiders, his habit of nipping forward on his own, then back to get his men, then forward on his own again was slowing his section down to a crawl. Several privates in the back were seriously considering pulling out a deck of cards. After all, the moon was giving almost enough light.

The patrol's leader, Lt. McPherson, was having none of any of this. His group of picked riflemen, rifle grenadiers, and bombers moved slowly, it was true, but that was due more to the uneven ground and the mud than anything short of zeal to get stuck in. Perhaps wearing gas masks was a bit overegging the pudding of caution, but there had been reports of nasty tricks further up the line, so he wanted to take no chances.

Finally they had the front line trench in sight! But what was this? The telltale profile of spiked helmets filing into the position from a communication trench! Signalling to the rifle grenadiers to let loose a volley, McPherson unholstered his Webley, waited for the bombs to rain down on the Hun, and then led his boys forward in a charge, yelling like Red Indians.

Not overly alarmed by a few bombs falling on them, the German troops gave a good account of themselves, and the Canadians found it impossible to get a foothold in the trench. McPherson rallied the retreating men and tried to assess whether a second assault would prove efficacious.

He rather thought not. A German Spandau had opened up and was spraying McDonald's men with fire. And in the distance he could hear hoarse shouts and the sound of running boots like a herd of cattle approaching. He could only assume that the nearest counterattacking party had been alerted and was flooding into the area. Best to move back to Dominion lines and have a try on another occasion. The Germans had just been too ready this time.