Trebuchet (long)

dennis grace amazing at
Thu Dec 5 07:02:40 PST 1996

Greetings, Cosyns,

Lyonel here.

I pulled this one off the An Tir list.  Thought Gnith et alia would
appreciate this even if it has little practical application in our war

>_A Scud It's Not, But the Trebuchet Hurls a Mean Piano_
>Giant Medieval War Machine Is Wowing British Farmers And
>Scaring the Sheep
>By Glynn Mapes, Staff Reporter of the Wall Street Journal
>ACTON ROUND, England--With surprising grace, the grand piano sails
>through  the sky a hundred feet above a pasture here, finally
>returning to earth in a fortissimo explosion of wood chunks, ivory
>keys and piano wire.
>Nor is the piano the strangest thing to startle the grazing sheep
>this Sunday morning. A few minutes later, a car soars by - a 1975
>blue two-door Hillman, to be exact - following the same flight path
>and meeting  the same loud fate. Pigs fly here, too. In recent months,
>many dead 500-pound sows (two of them wearing parachutes) have passed
>overhead, as has the occasional dead horse.
>It's the work of Hew Kennedy's medieval siege engine, a four story
>tall, 30 ton behemoth that's the talk of bucolic Shropshire, 140 miles
>northwest of London. In ancient times, such war machines were dreaded
>instruments of destruction, flinging huge missiles, including plague-
>ridden horses, over the walls of besieged castles. Only one full-sized
>one exists today, designed and built by Mr. Kennedy, a wealthy
>landowner, inventor, military historian and - need it be said? -
>full-blown eccentric.
>At Acton, Round Hall, Mr. Kennedy's handsome Georgian manor house
>here, one enters the bizarre world of a P. G. Wodehouse novel. A
>stuffed baboon hangs from the dining room chandelier (`Shot it in
>Africa. Nowhere else to put it,' Mr. Kennedy explains). Lining the
>walls are dozens of halberds and suits of armor. A full suit of
>Indian elephant armor, rebuilt by Mr. Kennedy, shimmers resplendently
>on an elephant-sized frame. In the garden outside stands a 50-foot-
>high Chinese pagoda.
>Capping this scene, atop a hill on the other side of the 620-acre
>Kennedy estate, is the siege engine, punctuating the skyline like an
>oil derrick. Known by its 14th-century French name, trebuchet (pro-
>nounced tray-boo-shay), it's not to be confused with a catapult, a
>much smaller device that throws rocks with a spoon-like arm propelled
>by twisted ropes or animal gut.
>Mr. Kennedy, a burly, energetic 52-year-old, and Richard Barr, his
>46-year-old neighbor and partner, have spent a year and #10,000
>($17,000) assembling the trebuchet. They have worked from ancient
>texts, some in Latin, and crude wood-block engravings of siege
>The big question is why?
>Mr. Kennedy looks puzzled, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him
>before. `Well why not? It's bloody good fun!' he finally exclaims.
>When pressed, he adds that for several hundred years, military
>technicians have been trying fruitlessly to reconstruct a working
>trebuchet. Cortez built one for the siege of Mexico City. On its
>first shot, it flung a huge boulder straight up - and then straight
>down, demolishing the machine. In 1851, Napoleon III had a go at it,
>as an academic exercise. His trebuchet was poorly balanced and barely
>managed to hurl the missiles - backward. `Ours works a hell of a lot
>better than the Frogs', which is a satisfaction,' Mr. Kennedy says
>with relish.
>How it works seems simple enough. The heart of the siege engine is a
>three-ton, 60-foot tapered beam made from laminated wood. It's pivoted
>near the heavy end, to which is attached a weight box filled with 5
>tons of steel bar. Two huge A-frames made from lashed-together tree
>trunks support a steel axle, around which the beam pivots. When the
>machine is at rest, the beam is vertical, slender end at the top and
>weight box just clearing the ground.
>When launch time comes, a farm tractor cocks the trebuchet, slowly
>hauling the slender end of the beam down and the weighted end up.
>Several dozen nervous sheep, hearing the tractor and knowing what
>comes next, make a break for the far side of the pasture. A crowd of
>60 friends and neighbors buzzes with anticipation as a 30-foot,
>steel-cable sling is attached - one end to the slender end of the
>beam and the other to the projectile, in this case a grand piano
>(purchased by the truckload from a junk dealer) .
>`If you see the missile coming toward you, simply step aside,' Mr.
>Kennedy shouts to the onlookers.
>Then, with a great groaning, the beam is let go. As the counter-
>weight plummets, the piano in its sling whips through an enormous
>arc, up and over the top of the trebuchet and down the pasture, a
>flight of 125 yards. The record for pianos is 151 yards (an upright
>model, with less wind resistance). A 112 pound iron weight made it
>235 yards. Dead hogs go for about 175 yards, and horses 100 yards;
>the field is cratered with the graves of the beasts, buried by a
>backhoe where they landed.
>Mr. Kennedy has been studying and writing about ancient engines of
>war since his days at Sandhurst, Britain's military academy, some 30
>years ago. But what spurred him to build one was, as he puts it, `my
>nutter cousin' in Northumberland, who put together a pint-sized
>trebuchet for a county fair. The device hurled porcelain toilets
>soaked in gasoline and set afire. A local paper described the event
>under the headline `Those Magnificent Men and Their Flaming Latrines.'
>Building a full-sized siege engine is a more daunting task. Mr.
>Kennedy believes that dead horses are the key. That's because
>engravings usually depict the trebuchet hurling boulders, and there
>is no way to determine what the rocks weigh, or the counterweight
>necessary to fling them. But a few drawings show dead horses being
>loaded onto trebuchets, putrid animals being an early form of
>biological warfare.Since horses weigh now what they did in the 1300s,
>the engineering calculations followed easily.
>One thing has frustrated Mr. Kennedy and his partner: They haven't
>found any commercial value to the trebuchet. Says a neighbor helping
>to carry the piano to the trebuchet, `Too bad Hew can't make the
>transition between building this marvelous machine and making any
>money out of it.'
>It's not for lack of trying. Last year Mr. Kennedy walked onto the
>English set of the Kevin Costner Robin Hood movie, volunteering his
>trebuchet for the scene where Robin and his sidekick are catapulted
>over a wall. `The directors insisted on something made out of
>plastic and cardboard,' he recalls with distaste. `Nobody cares
>about correctness these days.''
>More recently, he has been approached by an entrepreneur who wants
>to bus tourists up from London to see cars and pigs fly through the
>air. So far, that's come to naught.
>Mr. Kennedy looks to the U.S. as his best chance of getting part of
>his investment back: A theme park could commission him to build an
>even bigger trebuchet that could throw U.S.-sized cars into the sky.
>`Its an amusement in America to smash up motor cars, isn't it?' he
>inquires hopefully.
>Finally, there's the prospect of flinging a man into space - a
>living man, that is. This isn't a new idea, Mr. Kennedy points out:
>Trebuchets were often used to fling ambassadors and prisoners of war
>back over castle walls, a sure way to demoralize the opposition.
>Some English sports parachutists think they can throw a man in the
>air *and* bring him down alive. In a series of experiments on Mr.
>Kennedy's machine, they've thrown several man-sized logs and two
>quarter-ton dead pigs into the air; one of the pigs parachuted gently
>back to earth, the other landed rather more forcefully .
>Trouble is, an accelerometer carried inside the logs recorded a
>centrifugal force during the launch of as much as 20 Gs (the actual
>acceleration was zero to 90 miles per hour in 1.5 seconds). Scient-
>ists are divided over whether a man can stand that many Gs for more
>than a second or two before his blood vessels burst.
>The parachutists are nonetheless enthusiastic. But Mr. Kennedy
>thinks the idea may only be pie in the sky.
>`It would be splendid to throw a bloke, really splendid,' he says
>wistfully. `He'd float down fine. But he'd float down dead.'
Dennis G. Grace
Postmodern Medievalist
Division of Rhetoric and Composition
Department of English
University of Texas at Austin
amazing at

Si hoc legere scis, nimium eruditionis habes.

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