Schwimwehr, the Ninth!

The battle begins to reach its critical moments! Despite their many advantages, the Vulgarian cavalry are driven off by the Landgravial Guard (below). Perhaps the amphibians in the marsh imposed too much frog of war.

All riled up, General Rentall finds an alternative method of twisting Furst Saxe-Peste's melons. One of the Rotenburg conscript regiments is suddenly seized by a confusion so vigorous that it causes them to interpenetrate the units in front, taking their place in the first line (below).

For the conscripts, this is not wise. It is, indeed, the very definition of something that is decidedly unwise. There are reasons why Saxe-Peste placed these troops in the second line of the attacking formation. Some of the reasons are evident in the physical condition of the conscripts: the bandy legs; the drool; the hairy limbs; and their penchant for bananas. Other reasons could easily be found in the tactical handling of their weapons, the quality of which could be described in that portion of a Venn diagram that overlaps two circles marked 'Ineffective' and 'Blancmange'.

Rentall's satisfaction is short-lived, however. Exchanges of fire ensue in which at other parts of the line the Rotenburg's lethal volleys begin to tell. (Above) Another one of the Vulgarian regiments collapses in the heat of the musketry fire. There is now a hole in the Vulgarian line, and the vital road is uncovered!

(Above) Two of Rentall's five infantry regiments have now been routed, and the remaining three infantry units are split into two separate groups. Even in Mittelheim military doctrine, this is recognised as a Bad Thing about which Something Must Be Done. With no allies to blame and with no one smaller to hurt, the Vulgarians make one last throw of their curiously weighted green dice.

Schwimwehr, the Eighth!

Abandoning his Landgravial Guard to whatever watery wastery they can pass their time with, Furst Augustus searches for other ways in which he might put pressure on Rentall: sitting on him until he stops breathing is his preference; but failing that, and having been stymied in his earlier charge in the centre, the Furst decides to take advantage of an excellent series of musketry volleys on his left.

(Above) Saxe-Peste orders a charge against a badly disordered enemy unit, and pushes one of his regiments forward! Desperate hand-to-hand fighting ensues: desperately bad, that is. Still, war is a relative activity, and it turns out that the Rotenbergers are relatively better at bayonet fighting than their adversaries: in the same way that otters are relatively better at badminton than snails.

(Above) The Vulgarian infantry unit is routed and driven from the field of battle. Alas for General Rentall, this regiment turns out to have been very popular with the rest of the army. Perhaps they were good listeners. Whatever the reason,Vulgarian morale droops lower than a long moustache on a short Bulgarian! Here at least Rentall has a reserve to plug the gap, but the pressure is now on the defending Vulgarians, with all four of their remaining infantry regiments part of the firing line.

One option available to the Vulgarians might be to move their irregular infantry into the marsh (below, at the top) and from there fire upon the Rotenburgers. But, as Furst Augustus has already claimed loudly and confidently, this just isn't allowed; and, even if it were, it's an option that only thigh-slapping shandy boys would resort to. In Mittelheim, the main role of irregular infantry is to frighten geese, although military doctrine lacks clarity on why this would be an urgent operational role.

Rentall decides it's time to regain the initiative with a cheeky charge of his cavalry. In Mittelheim warfare, though, this is rarely a good idea: initiative requires action; action requires intrepidity; and intrepidity, like nubility, jocundity, and bipedality requires a thesaurus, one of any Mittelheimer's least favourite dinosaurs. (Below) Despite this, with a slight wheel to the right, Rentall's cavalry throw themselves into the fray!

The cavalry charge with a certain measure of confidence. The enemy are Rotenburg guard, true: but that simply means that they are a bit taller than average, which just brings them closer to the Vulgarian sabres. More to the point, the defending infantry are deployed in the marsh, a feature that is to effective linear warfare what geese might contribute to irregular operations. It looks like it's time for Furst Augustus to broach the brandy again!

Schwimwehr, the Seventh!

It's bad news for the Vulgarian cavalry. But then, isn't it always? If only they were currently enrolled in a competition focused on acquiring the most disorder in the shortest space of time. Then, they would surely be guaranteed to win an exciting prize. The cavalry charge through the marsh, disordering themselves; their attack is quickly driven back by the defending infantry, disordering them even more; they are then disordered again as they retreat; alas too quickly to pick up their prize. One wonders indeed whether the term 'disorder' might be a strong enough term for the colossal bundle of bedlam that characterises their condition. Luckily, the problem is resolved almost straight away when a volley from the infantry completely routs the Vulgarian cavalry regiment from the field.

Though he has now worked off some of his frustration, it is clear to Saxe-Peste that no further progress will be made on this flank. The Furst decides to shift to a new and more direct approach. 'Grenadiers forward!' he orders, and 'charge!'. 'Hold the line! Hold the line!' shouts Rentall in response. The centre clashes in bloody hand-to-hand combat! (below). Even in Mittelheim, the term 'hand-to-hand combat' generally does involve the use of muskets and bayonets and not actual hands, although there is still rather more eye-poking, hair pulling and wrinkled sack wrenching than would be normal in most Enlightenment tactical military doctrine.

There follows an extended period of mithanthropic mayhem as the Mittleheim murder muppets melee with one another! But to the chagrin of Saxe-Peste, the Rotenburgers fail to make a breakthrough and their line falls back (below). In fact, it's a close-run thing, with one of the attacking units themselves teetering on the brink of routing.

This isn't the only bad news for the Rotenburg commander. General Rentall can't help himself and tests the Furst's temper with even more marsh-related miscreancy. A great bout of confusion overcomes the Rotenburg Landgravial guard, and they find themselves strangely tempted to undertake an ambulatory excursion into the slushy water feature in front of them. The water looks so inviting, what with the delightful crust of algae, the choking toads, and the same smell of gassy flatulence that reminds them of home. They stagger forwards, splashing through the marsh. (Below) Now unable to fire and with portions of the line hanging out in places ripe for an enemy cavalry counterattack, the troops come to a halt right in front of the Vulgarian cavalry.

Furst Saxe-Peste is drinking brandy again. Marshes seem to be on his mind; and also various ways that these geographical features might be forced painfully into Rentall's bodily cavities. It doesn't look good for the Rotenburgers ...

Schwimwehr, the Sixth!

General Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste is drinking brandy. Lots and lots of brandy. While this isn't likely to improve his powers of concentration, it does at least force him to interrupt his swearing and so breathe occasionally. The general's petulant profanity mixes references to swampy water features, the enemy general, bodily orifices, large spikey objects, and the sort of vigorous transit through narrow straits that might make the eyes of Magellan himself start to water.

(Above) With the Rotenburg infantry stymied in their advance, the Vulgarian cavalry are able to about face and redeploy beyond musket range. Suddenly, the pressure on the Vulgarian army is released.

(Below) Thwarted in his attempts to trap and destroy the enemy cavalry, Saxe-Peste orders his infantry to commence volley fire. Or at least, that's probably what he is trying to order, although his instructions to his troops do sound a lot like he is still keen that Rentall should take his marsh and investigate the extent to which it might fit in that place of the Dutchman's body which is currently resting upon his saddle.

Not that he is petulant or anything but the Furst makes it a priority to find ways in which Rentall can be punished for his marsh mischievousness. Suffused with swampy spite, Saxe-Peste finds just the thing, (Below) Suddenly, overwhelmed by the heat of the moment, one of the Vulgarian cavalry regiments gives a loud 'huzzah!' and charges forwards into the swamp and then into the Rotenburg infantry.

It is a brave move. And also, of course, immensely stupid. If cavalry were meant to charge through marshes, then they would have flippers instead of hands and gills instead of noses. Actually, some of the Vulgarians do have both of these given that in rural Vulgaria the term 'my wife and sister' doesn't always refer to two people. But still, this is a charge that will require some quite extraordinary luck if it is to succeed.

It is also a slightly controversial act. Captain Sebastian Wankrat, Furst Augustus' orderly, hurries to speak to the general. As he meets Saxe-Peste, the latter is standing in front of a fire. He has in front of him a book and he is ripping out each page, screwing it up, and then throwing it on the fire.

Wankrat salutes. 'Sir, is it the case that troops that have acted in the heat of battle can charge through difficult terrain?'
Saxe-Peste shrugs. 'Well, captain, they seem to have done so. I think that the restrictions only apply if they are in or behind cover'.
'Well, sir, we could check the rule book. Do you know where it is?'
'Nope', says the Furst, ripping out the last page of the volume in his hands and throwing it in the fire. 'No idea'.

Schwimwehr, the Fifth!

Continuing to reflect the triumph of optimism over experience, the Vulgarian artillery fires upon the advancing Rotenburg line. Like an old opium addict in the bath, they produce a lot of smoke but their balls swing uncomfortably low into the water in front of them. The enemy infantry are unaffected.

(Below) On the other flank, Rentall's cavalry suffers casualties to Rotenburg infantry fire. The enemy has crept forward until they are at the closest of ranges and now pour volleys into the Vulgarian horsemen to their front. The cavalry must now draw on their training to provide a solution. Sadly, four days spent tied to a horse and five months attending wild gala dinners do not immediately provide many useful suggestions.

(Below) The Vulgarians draw off, but they are hemmed in. What can they do now? Are they just destined to be cut down in their saddles? How can escape their situation? And where is it exactly that babies come from? The enemy infantry shuffles forward, closing the range again. This is exactly the sort of tactical situation to avoid. Attack, and the cavalry are likely to lose badly; retreat, and the infantry will simply continue to advance.

Rentall considers his options. In such circumstances, there is only one possible response. Rentall turns to Duke Neucheim.

'Neucheim, get me a map!'

'At once sir!'

'Neucheim, get me a marsh!'

'But there isn't a ma ... goodness, sir, what's that?'

'Gottle a geer!' chortles Baron Tostov gleefully.

 

Schwimwehr, the Fourth!

On the Rotenburg left, the Vulgarian cavalry adjusts itself: after all, those saddles aren't always comfortable. (Below) The regiments of Vulgarian horse wheel to the left, more fully to menace the advancing enemy foot.

(Below) Saxe-Peste's infantry line grinds forwards. Or obliquewards. Or whatever word describes the process of going wards when one is also heading to the side. On the left, his front line is now within musketry range of the enemy cavalry who have no space with which to move around the enemy flank. No doubt the general has the intention of forcing the cavalry to commit themselves to a frontal assault upon his infantry's bayonets. 

On the other side, the Rotenburg infantry move sufficiently to avoid the marsh. Some of the second line begins to wheel to the right, though, because of the potential threat from the Vulgarian irregulars. Of course, this would be more of a threat if the irregular infantry could fire whilst they were in the marsh. Alas, they aren't allowed: though in this case 'not allowed' refers to an extra-special interpretation of the rules by the Rotenburg commander - an interpretation which could be described as 'imaginative but somewhat contestable'. If, that is, by 'somewhat contestable' one meant that it was entirely wrong and that by 'imaginative' one meant something that was in fact a bald-faced lie, but one told with panache and confidence.

Also on the Rotenburg right, the cavalry is having an altogether less strenuous battle. Nevertheless (bottom) Saxe-Peste has ordered his horsed troops forward. This is partly in order to fulfil one of the key principles of Mittelheim warfare which is that one's own artillery should whenever possible be masked. This prevents them from firing and so reduces the chance of them embarrassing themselves.

However, a second reason for the cavalry to advance somewhat is that the Vulgarian irregular troops have also begun to creep forward (above, top right). The last thing that any gentleman needs is Vulgarian irregulars threatening to lap his flanks, so the cavalry have been ordered into a position where they can charge any of the enemy cheeky enough to cross the stream.

Saxe-Peste is happy with the progress of the battle thus far. His plan is unfolding as he had hoped, and he has also hidden the rule book. Now, anything is possible.

Merry Christmas!

It's 1pm, and so Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel is having his breakfast.
His chamberlain, Leopold von Fecklenburg, enters the room. As is so often the case, Fecklenburg instantly regrets this decision and concludes that a much better one would have been to have kept the door firmly closed and then to have bashed his own head against it until he fell mercifully unconscious.

'You're not wearing any britches, sire' says Fecklenburg.

In other places, such a statement might be uttered in tones of surprise, shock, or horror, and might also be uttered with a good chance of then being answered by a reply such as "Goodness, how terrible, you are correct - I shall at once repair to my bed chambers and cover my nether regions with a socially appropriate yet fashionable garment designed to envelop me from the waist down". But this is Mittelheim, so the chamberlain utters the phrase in the same tone as one might say 'the sky is blue", "the night is dark" or "this sausage is really quite small".

Rupprecht frowns in a way that implies that Fecklenburg's inquiry is entirely superfluous because the sky is indeed blue, the night is quite dark and, yes, obviously, this sausage is tiny. 

'I'm having a bottomless brunch', the prince says.

The chamberlain considers this. 'My lord, I don't think that this is what "bottomless brunch" means: I think that the phrase refers to having unlimited booze with one's food'.
'But I do that anyway', says Rupprecht, confused. 'So where's the Christmas fun in that?'
The chamberlain considers a range of replies. Almost all of them will result in the prince having him executed. Since that would at least mean that Fecklenburg wouldn't have to talk to Rupprecht anymore, it's a close call before he comes up with something more neutral.

'How do you think your end-of-year speech to the nobility went, my lord?'

Rupprecht considers this. 'Well, I should say. I hit all the right notes. You were there: it was, I think you'll agree, very moving'.
'In the sense, sire, that most of the audience moved into another room, I think that you are correct'.
'Fie and tush, Fecklenburg: I was magnificent: stirring, and yet sensitive. It was a special moment: a coming together - a moment of extraordinary mutual connection. I don't think that I go too far in saying that the audience touched me, and that I, in so many ways, touched them'.
'Indeed sire: I think that it was touching them that caused them to leave the room. That, and the surprise distribution of Christmas monkeys'.

As this modest publication has already noted, a traditional Christmas in the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel isn't complete without the addition of a monkey, greased in lard, which is chased until it is exhausted and then used as the centre-piece for the Christmas table decorations. How this tradition came to be isn't clear and is probably best not investigated without the means to scrub oneself clean.

'And did you get the one that I sent you for Christmas, Fecklenburg?'

The chamberlain extends his arm in order to show Rupprecht the bites.

'Indeed sire. And thank you for gifting me an angry primate instead of a country estate or a large sum of money'.

'You're welcome', replies Rupprecht. 'It's at this time of year, hands covered with fur, lard, and teeth-marks, that I like to reflect on what really matters in life'.

'Pigs, my lord?' enquires Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht looks hurt. 'No, no, chamberlain: I mean family, friendship, and human kindness'.

'Really, sire?' replies Fecklenburg, impressed and a little moved.

'No, not really - of course it's pigs' says the prince chortling.

At the end of another year, the editors of this modest publication wish all of/both of/our reader(s) a restful festive period and the hope that the coming year brings you in large measure good and gentle things.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!