Monthly Archives: April 2010

Ask Aunt Mary – Covert Operations

02 Friday Apr 2010

Posted by in Ladies Lounge

≈ 6 Comments

Summerhaven by the Sea

Hello Nephews and Nieces, your Aunt Mary is back from a lovely holiday by the sea. I’ve returned to a very full box; stuffed with queries such as this one from an angry nephew.

Dear Aunt Mary,

I live next to some urban cave dwellers from the end of Europe that time forgot. They smoke something that might need to be upgraded to compete with donkey dung.  The smell is frightful! They also hack up buckets of phlegm and spit them all over their yard (at about 85 decibels). This starts from about 5 am and our only relief is when the whole tribe goes off to church to receive wisdom from their God. So, sitting out on our deck, enjoying the beautiful weather and having a genteel meal with friends has become a nightmare. I’d like to simply nuke their whole tribe.  Is there a better solution?
Shatoff with the Spitoff – Inner West Cyberia

Well, this is quite a conundrum, isn’t it? My first reaction, like yours, dear Shatoff, would be to lob a sack of steaming dog poo over the fence and hope I hit one of the gobbing stinkers; but, as history has taught us all too often, such actions almost always end in an escalation of violence. You could soon find yourself dodging a rain of spittle yourself every time you step out onto your deck, or worse. No, this is exactly the kind of situation that calls for a covert operation.

Nephew, yours is a situation in which it behooves you to act like a superpower. Think for a moment about how large, powerful nations, such as the United States, have succeeded bringing about change from behind the scenes. I’m thinking specifically of Iran in ’53 and Australia in ’75; but you can probably recall any number of incidents in Bogota, Burma, Costa Rica, Korea, Laos, Guatamala, Indonesia, Iran, China, Taiwan, the Middle East, as examples. These covert operations, whatever our opinion of them, were in most cases very successful; well, as long as you leave Cuba ’61 off the list.

Funnily enough, your problem reminds me of something that took place during my recent holiday. My annual trips to the seaside, always involve a visit to my dear, old friend Judith. Judith runs a charming little B and B called Sunnyhaven and I usually find my stay there is a much needed retreat from the stress and strains of day to day existence. You see, Judith rarely if ever has any other guests apart from me.

Unfortunately for all concerned, this year was quite different. This year Sunnyhaven was a Mecca of sorts to a group of free-spirited pagans who apparently have taken the phrase “sex and drugs and rock n roll” as their personal credo. Now Judith is a lovely lady, an excellent cook and keeps Sunnyhaven’s rooms and garden in pristine condition; but to say confrontation is not her strong suit is akin to stating that verbal dexterity is not George W. Bush’s claim to fame.

This is all to say that by the time of my arrival, Judith was at her wits end. Her subtle suggestions that nakedness, loud music, drug taking and general hedonism were not the norm at Sunnyhaven were either ignored or did not even register as complaints. I could see immediately that Judith was reaching out to me for a solution and I decided immediately on a course of action. I explained to Judith the age old of concept of good cop/bad cop – one of the truly great covert operations of all time

Our plan agreed upon, I took to my task with relish. I pestered the other guests unflinchingly for the entire first day of my visit. “Oh my god!” I screamed in the morning as I happened upon my neighbors tanning au natural. “Aren’t you worried about burning those things? And… “Please! Do I have to look at those first thing in the morning? I’ve just finished a large plate of eggs!”  Later in the day, I proclaimed loudly on my cell phone: “It’s a dank, musty smell. I’m not sure it’s tobacco at all. Do you think I should call the police?” That evening I knocked on the door to their room dressed in a gaudy nightgown, my face covered with skin crème and my hair bound up in curlers asking: How long do you intend to play that so-called music? I need my beauty sleep!” On each occasion, Judith appeared at my shoulder to smooth over the situation and carefully note that even though she wanted her guests to feel at home in Sunnyhaven she did have to try and consider the sensitivities of ALL her guests.

Interestingly enough, the more resolutely Judith apologized to the offending guests for MY behaviour, the more amenable they were to curtailing their salacious activities. Within a day or two they began to behave more or less like regular folks. One might even go so far as to say they were pleasant neighbours. Certainly the brownies they gave Judith and I on the second day of my stay were quite delightful. We had such fun that night drinking tea and gobbling brownies and giggling like schoolgirls over the success of our covert operation.

Anyway, it seems to me, dear Shatoff, you are in desperate need a visit from an unflinching granny or aunt. I suggest you invite her over today and immediately let her loose to inflict the most outrageous assault imaginable on your miscreant neighbors. Have her loudly point out each and every one of their disgusting habits but be sure to step in quickly and forthrightly each time to apologize sincerely for the old ladies “crazy” behaviour. I am sure you will not only form a new bond with your neighbours they will more than likely see some of the error of their ways. It’s worth a shot anyway, right Shatoff? After all, how often does a Bay of Pigs happen anyway?

Until next time… nosce te ipsum, dear ones.

Much love,
Aunt Mary

Cyrus: Chapter 16, part 3

01 Thursday Apr 2010

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

≈ 11 Comments

Cyrus

by

Theseustoo

Chapter 16, part 3 (I think!)

Cyrus and Croesus strode purposefully across the palace courtyard towards their horses, which had already been saddled and were waiting for them together with Harpagus and an honour-guard of fifty of his very best cavalrymen. Cyrus gave his final instructions for the care of Lydia and its capital to the young general to whom it had been entrusted, who kept pace with them as they walked:

“Tabalus, I’ve sent the army back to Agbatana; I’m leaving you here in charge of Sardis. Croesus will come with me to Agbatana. Ionia and Aeolia can wait a while; I have bigger fish to fry… I must take Babylon; if I don’t the Assyrians may strike at our rear. After Babylon I’ll take Bactria and the Sacae and then… Egypt! I’ve instructed Pactyas to collect Croesus’ treasure and follow me to Media. I know… I know… He’s a Lydian, but from all accounts he’s an honest man and I want to show the Lydians that I mean to treat them fairly; they are an honourable people. Be firm with them, Tabalus… as firm as you need to be… but be fair!”

“Yes Lord! I will.” Tabalus said. Then, as his king reached his horse, he added, “but I still think it’s dangerous to trust a Lydian with so much…”

The youthful Prince of the Busae was voicing exactly the concern Cyrus had been expecting from him. Indulgently the monarch smiled; then he gripped Tabalus’ shoulder with his right hand and, shaking it gently, said, “Tabalus, you worry like an old woman! Sometimes it is necessary to take a chance and trust people… If we can rely on Pactyas’ honesty we’ll gain a great deal; if not, we’ll find out who the traitors are…”

Tabalus was only slightly reassured, but although he still felt nervous at least he no longer felt that he needed to worry too much about these newly-conquered Lydians rebelling against their new overlord. In fact, he now felt that his king was virtually inviting a rebellion to start during his absence in much the same manner that one ignores a boil as it erupts and grows and only when the time is right and not before, one lances it. Cyrus’ wisdom was transcendent, Tabalus thought, astounded at his king’s sagacity, as he replied with a sharp salute, “Yes your majesty! Farewell your majesty! May the gods go with you!”

Cyrus nodded his thanks for the officer’s blessing as he and Croesus mounted their steeds and, joining Harpagus at the head of the cavalry column, cantered smartly out of the city gates.

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Only a few days later Tabalus found himself experiencing something like ‘deja-vu’ as he escorted the Lydian, Pactyas, across the same courtyard towards a baggage train which was waiting along with its guard for its leader.

Although the surviving Lydians had been allowed to keep their own property, all of the wealth they had possessed in the form of precious metals such as copper, bronze, brass and iron had been collected together as a tribute to their conqueror and was now about to be taken away by Pactyas to Agbatana, which Cyrus had been using as his own capital ever since he had defeated Astyages.

“I’ve provided you with an escort of twenty armed guards;” Tabalus was saying to the Lydian, “they’ll see you safely to Agbatana.”

Privately he wished that he could spare more than a mere twenty guards for this particular detail; there were several hundred talents of precious metals in the five huge wagons, each drawn by a team of a dozen oxen, which comprised the baggage-train. But Cyrus had sent most of the army back ahead of him to Agbatana, and twenty men were all that Tabalus could spare.

He consoled himself with the thought that no-one in his right mind would dare to hijack this caravan; one does not rob the Son of Heaven with impunity. And at least he’d made sure the guards were all either Medes or Persians; and that their loyalty to their king was beyond question.

“Thank you Tabalus!” Pactyas replied smoothly. But as he added, “Very thoughtful of you; fare you well until I return…” Tabalus could not help but feel that the Lydian was being disingenuous. Had Pactyas emphasized the word ‘return’, just a little? And if so, was he attempting to lull Tabalus into a false sense of security with this subtle emphasis, that he would, after all, return? Was that mockery he could see in the Lydian’s eyes he wondered; or was it merely his own imagination?

With mounting trepidation Tabalus watched as the far too cheerful Pactyas nonchalantly mounted the lead wagon and led it out through the city gates. As the baggage-train pulled away from the city, with its load of miscellaneous metal items rattling and creaking; and the oxen bellowing their protests at the enormous load they had to shift, Tabalus could not help but wonder how he could manage to be quite so cheerful with such a burdensome responsibility.

***   *****   ***

The baggage train had only travelled a few dozen stades when, due to the mountainous nature of the whole region, they were obliged to travel through a narrow defile between the two sides of a very steep and darkly-wooded valley. The guards, however, were alert to the presence of danger as they marched along. Two guards, well-armed with bows, swords and spears, were seated on a high bench at the front of each wagon; one driving, holding the leather traces which were used to steer the beasts that pulled the massive load, and a long bullwhip to encourage them to greater efforts as and when required. Another guard marched along on either side of the rear axles of each wagon; their eyes constantly scanning the dense forest which covered the high ridges above them on either side for the slightest sign of an enemy.

They saw nothing; for the ambushers had planned well; they did not attack immediately they saw the wagon-train but remained well hidden until they’d allowed the whole wagon train pass by below them, while they patiently waited for exactly the right moment. Only when the last wagon’s rear wheels finally passed their secret marker; a large stone which they had carefully placed beside the road prior to the baggage-train’s arrival; did they finally attack.

But as soon as the last wagon’s rear wheels passed this marker, with exquisite marksmanship, the ambushers first shot the guards and drivers of the rear wagon and then proceeded up the whole column wagon by wagon, as, silently, the dead and dying guards fell unnoticed into the dust. The noise of the oxen bellowing and tramping along, the creaking of the great axles turning and the huge, heavily-laden wagons constantly groaning with even the slightest bump or deviation in the deeply-rutted track, as their contents, much of which was comprised of gardening tools and kitchenware, constantly rattled with every jolt and creak, effectively hiding whatever small, surprised gasps or moans may have escaped their lips as the guards fell dying or dead in the dust.

The noises of the wagons and beasts also covered the small noises made by the archers as, advancing in a broad row behind their quarry, they ran up behind the column and, at their captain’s signal, with great discipline, let fly not singly, or as individuals, but in volleys of arrows; each man having his own predetermined target. At each of the five wagons there were only four targets; and there were fifty raiders; although only twenty ran behind the wagons while the others still hid along the ridges on either side right above them, just in case anything went wrong.

Nothing did; for the team had rehearsed their ambush several times until everyone knew exactly what to do and exactly what was expected of them. Wagon by wagon, their crews were all slaughtered in turn. At each wagon the crew all died in the same instant, each fatally pierced by five bronze-tipped Lydian arrows. Before any of the guards had time to warn the others, they were all dead and lying in the dust, bristling like pin-cushions with the Lydian arrows with which they had been silently slain.

During the whole attack, which in all had taken less than two minutes, Pactyas had remained perfectly calm in his position in the leading wagon; simply maintaining the wagon-train’s slow but steady pace. But, when he saw that the last of the Persian guards; those in his own wagon; had all fallen and realized that the arrows had finally stopped flying, he halted his wagon; and the oxen in all of the other wagons instinctively followed suit. Pactyas then cheerfully descended from the lead wagon to greet the ambushing archers as they now greeted him with their cries of victory and jubilation. He had personally hand-picked these men for their speed and accuracy with the bow as well as their discipline and stealth, as the thirty men still on the ridges now came openly running down the sides of the gorge to meet their leader.

“Well done men!” He exclaimed, congratulating them all enthusiastically. “Now fall in beside the baggage-train; the fishing village of Priene is not far from here; the people there have no love for Cyrus! With their ships and the wealth we have captured they’ll help us to hire mercenaries; many Prienians will also join our cause; and Phocaea will help us too, I’m sure! Cyrus will not hold Sardis for long!”

***   *****   ***