Bogorovsk, the Sixth!

The Kurlandian battery opens fire. (Below) Alas, however, the gunners are too well steeped in the doctrines of Mittelheim artillery. This is a doctrine which seeks to surprise the enemy and, to be fair, their own troops, by missing all the time and rarely ever inflicting any casualties. This wrong-foots the enemy, laying them open to more effective forms of attack such as tickling or pillow fighting.

Still, for General Retchin there are surely a range of other interesting and effective options. Or so one might think.  Although the enemy artillery is on the glacis, and so too close to be the target of a trench raid, the enemy saps are not. A company of Kurlandian grenadiers, accompanied by a unit of sappers, launches a bold attack upon the enemy supporting trenches, seeking to fill them in (below).

Alas, the only thing that gets filled in is the sappers themselves. There are, in life, many sad sights to be seen: the weeping of a child; the howl of a hungry hound; an English penalty shoot-out. But there are surely few things sadder than seeing a trench raid defeated by a trench that has no enemy troops in it whatsoever. One can only surmise that the Nabstrian works were inhabited by some particularly doughty badgers; or some very long and surprisingly elastic worms. Whatever the reason, Retchin again finds himself lounging on the sofa when Mister Cock-up comes calling.

Things don't improve, however.

(Above) The Nabstrian batteries reload and pound the bastion. Clearly poorly trained, they hit their target, rendering irrelevant their carefully husbanded pillow cases.

On the other side of the siege works, things aren't much better either.

(Above) Before one can say "This is likely to sting a bit", Nasbtrian sappers have popped no less than three artillery positions on the glacis. Worse, Rumpfler is able to move up three batteries to occupy these new positions. The defending batteries fire but have the predictable effect - which is to say Jacques Merde.

Worse, the busy Nabstrian sapper companies then plop two more emplacements in front of the Kurlandian bastion. From these positions, Rumpfler's artillery will be able to commence breaching fire. At so short a range, and with a target that is literally larger than a barn door, some of their fire is bound to hit. You'd think.

And so, as General Retchin makes up a bed for Mister Cock-up, the situation for the defenders looks dimmer than a Guard's officer on a foggy morning. 

Bogorovsk, the Fifth!

Of course, the sappers are cut to pieces. And then, to compound Rumpfler's problems, the Kurlandians launch yet another trench raid, but this time with two companies of grenadiers! Now, their target is the other sapper company on this flank. However, the defenders are supported by infantry in a nearby trench. The Kurlandians really believe that they have got the hang of raiding trenches. Which, one might suppose, isn't so surprising, given that the process of a surreptitious nighttime manoeuvre that ends in a quick act of messy violence is quite like most Kurlandian marriages, except that trench raids are better paid.

Surprise! (above) Overconfident and overweight, after a sharp tussle, the grenadiers are forced to withdraw, but without serious casualties.

(Above) General Retchin has yet to wheel forward his fortress guns. At the moment, he feels that the enemy is still too far away. He needs targets that are nearer, and preferably quite fat and tall; and also, if possible, with a round aiming point marked on their bodies. However, the moment for their deployment might be arriving.

(Above) In front of the other bastion, the Nabstrian sappers have now made their way onto the glacis. For the troops, there is a moment of disappointment when they find that there is no French ice cream here, but this disappointment is compensated for by the fact that they are now too close to the fortress walls for the defenders to be able to launch trench raids against them.

The enemy troops in the covered way are those of Baron Felix Kraptin, and consist of a regiment of veteran invalids and a regiment of local militia. These defenders are probably better than no garrison at all, although opinion might be somewhat divided on this point. From his position behind the second parallel, however, Horst, Freiherr von Friedegge, understandably fancies his chances if it comes to a storming action.

Quite quickly, the Nabstrians begin to get mit it, and put in place the makings of some offensive positions. As any Mittelheim officer could tell one, third parallels are for girls - the sort that keep wanting to talk about feelings, emotions, and an even division of household chores. Best just to jump straight to building batteries. (Above) One position is quickly established at close range to a bastion. (Below, top) Then, on the other wing, two more are put into place!

Rumpfler also sends his one-time paramour and now dangerous spy, Nora Hindquarters, into the fortress. She successfully sows discontent amongst the population with tales that the outer defensive works are made of earth, and not frozen dairy products, and that tales of chocolate flakes there too, are mere fantasies. (Above) Retchin manages to deploy his guns forward - the Nabstrian defensive fire misses and the Kurlandians poise, guns loaded, ready to fire ....

Bogorovsk, the Fourth!

Like a Mittleheim waistband, the Nabstrian works creep inexorably outwards. Each of Rumpler's pioneer companies is put to creating its own sap (below). If there is one thing that Mittelheimers have a reliable knowledge of, not least because it is forms such an important part of their culture and culinary heritage, it is mud. Wriggling gleefully in the filth, the troops tunnel their way through the earth like moles on their way to a hot, but poorly lit, date.

Having learnt from the experience of previous siege operations, the Nabstrians have identified the risks involved in being too cavalier in pushing forward unsupported saps. As a result, and most disappointingly to the Kurlandian defenders, the next flurry from the sappers brings forth a set of trenches (below).

In a rare moment of coordination, the supporting infantry is able to move up almost straight away (above and below). This provides the sappers with support in case of an enemy attack. Kurlandian infantry continues to wait in the covered way. They have not yet decided to take their lives (and probably a range of saggy body parts) in their hands, and move up to the firing step, a position from which they can both fire and be fired upon.

Siege warfare, however, is in many respects about geometry, angles, protractor-thingies, and, you know, paying attention to where one's troops are relative to the enemy guns. (Above top) Whilst the Nabstrian infantry are safely protected in their trenches from enemy fire to their front, this is not the case in relation to another enemy battery (out of wood cut and to the right) that is now in an excellent position to fire right down the side of their defences. This is what is known in other parts of Europe as an 'enfilade': in Mittleheim, though, this sounds rather too much like 'lemonade', and for Mittelheim gunners risks confusing serious artillery work with fizzy beverages. Thus, the Kurlandian gunners prefer to refer to what they intend to do as a 'spank you with my gun'. 

It is a sound spanking that they mete out. A barrage from a heavy battery on a flanking ravelin skips munitions right down the trench, routing the defenders (above), although the comments from the defenders that they have 'spanked the Nabbies with their balls' seem unlikely to appear in the official history of the action. 

Barely pausing to goad the Nabstrians with some ripe and inventive allusions to their mothers and their proclivities towards cavorting on hot dates with moles, the defenders then compound the damage by launching a night trench raid with one of their grenadier companies (above)! What Rumpfler needs is some early luck that will bloody Retchin's nose, and, metaphorically, stuff some moles up his nostrils (not least to remove the temptation from the Nabstrian mothers). Can the sappers drive off the small attacking force? I mean, probably not, but you never know: the grenadiers might get lost, or tired, or get attacked by irate and horny moles whose dates have failed to turn up.

Bogorovsk, the Third!

The Nabstrian forces begin the process of sapping forward, intent on creating a third parallel. The general has four sapper companies at his disposal, one company of miners, and fourteen regiments of infantry, including two of grenadiers and one of guard infantry. Four regiments are under the command of Michael von Pfannensteil, scion of one of the great military families of the burgravate; General Heinrich von Zwöllen-Glantz commands the grenadiers and guard; Baron Florian von Meyer-Fleischwund commands three regiments of musketeers;  Horst, Freiherr von Friedegge commands the remaining four regiments, all of musketeers.

(Above, right) Rumpfler has established three main battery positions. He has five siege batteries, two heavy batteries, and two batteries of mortars. The mortars and one heavy battery are placed in the first parallel, with the remainder divided between two batteries in the second parallel. The general is a firm believer in the Christian principle of 'women and children first'. As such, he intends that both batteries of mortars will bombard the town, to terrorise innocent civilians and, if the Gentle Lord wills it, to set them alight. 

At this early stage, though, the general declines to fire, saving his powder for later. Instead, as his sapping commences, Rumpfler decides to commit one of his spies in order to spread unease amongst the population.

His choice is Roderigo the Spaniard (above). What led Roderigo to Mittelheim is a mystery. But this big, butch, bearded, ex-blacksmith is a master of disguise. A smudge of lipstick, a quick change of clothes, and a twist of his chorizo, and Roderigo is ready to undertake any manner of subterfuge. Or so Rumpfler hopes. 

Alas, Roderigo has made a fatal mistake. Sent to foment unhappiness amongst the population of Bogorovsk, he has chosen an entirely unsuitable ensemble -  a rococo style robe à la française, with a fitted bodice, elaborate trimming, and a full, pleated skirt supported by petticoats. The problem is - it's just too good. The style in Kurland this season is the same as every season - robe à la badger tres rough. Roderigo has made the same mistake as many Europeans trying to blend into Mittelhein: he's too competent.

Needless to say, Roderigo stands out like a Nabstrian spy in a rococo style robe à la française, with a fitted bodice, elaborate trimming, and a full, pleated skirt supported by petticoats. Quickly identified as an enemy agent, he is executed and then interrogated: an order of events that the Kurlandian secret police later begin to recognise may not be optimal.

News of Roderigo's demise is met with the necessary solemnity for someone who has given their life for the Nabstrian cause. 'What a loser!' snorts General Rumpfler angrily. (Above) Having expended one of his three spies, the general orders his sapper companies to continue with their efforts. Each company continues to dig forward: two on the left and two on the right, giving Rumpfler the sort of operational flexibility that mirrors his moral elasticity.

Bogorovsk, the Second!

The Nabstrian army has set its quite inconsiderable might against the walls of Bogorovsk.  The town is one of Kurland's major industrial centres, though the word 'major' here is rather a relative concept. Bogorovsk is certainly more industrialised than the surrounding area; but the same could probably be said of any house in the region with more than two pieces of cutlery. In the white heat of Mittelheim industry, the major products of Bogorovsk's nascent factories include spoons, iron nostril straighteners, and clockwork wheelchairs for mice.

(Above) Which is all to say that the town is strangely well protected given its risible contribution to the Kurland economy. The governor, General Retchin, has at his disposal four fortress artillery batteries, two heavy batteries, one light battery, and a battery of mortars. The fortress batteries are not as yet deployed upon the town's bastions. Having heard the lessons of previous Mittelheim sieges, the general has determined that exposing his batteries too early will simply make them targets for the enemy guns, and ensure that the enemy is so far away that they will not make useful targets. 

In addition to the guns, Retchin has six infantry regiments, divided into three brigades. One of these, commanded by Baron Felix Kraptin, consists of a regiment of veteran invalids and a regiment of local militia. The militia (above) are volunteers - a term which in Kurland simply indicates any individual worse at running than a recruitment sergeant. Brigade Kraptin is hardly an elite formation, and so is likely to form more of tripwire than a reliable defensive line. What it might succeed in tripping up, though, is open to question, unless the enemy mainly consists of mice in clockwork wheelchairs.    General Pyotr Ticklikoff, dressed in a dashing yellow uniform, commands the garrison's converged grenadiers (above, top). The remaining three regiments, all musketeers, labour under the command of Count Alexei Barfolovamisev, a septuagenarian goat worrier who, it turns out, is surprisingly spritely for his age - something that routinely disappoints his pet goats. The bulk of the troops are sent to the covered way, whilst the grenadiers and two companies of sappers remain in the town itself.

With this deployment, the Nabstrians then begin their attack!

Bogorovsk, the First!

Gauging the weather, dear readers*, this must be summer. Gauging the smell, this must be the border town of Bogorovsk in Kurland. Gauging the competence of the besieging force, this must be the Nabstrian army.

Testing the power of the law of averages, General Hieronymous von Rumpfler has decided to confront once again the troops of the Grand Duchy of Kurland. This time, though, he has besieged the enemy within a town, a condition that should reduce the enemy's mobility and allow the Nabstrians to leverage one of the key strengths of their army - their ability to move mud from one place to another destination that is quite close by. Utilising this skill, the besieging army has already managed to construct the first two parallels of their siege lines.

Content with the progress thus far, Rumpfler has found time to meet various important personages attached to his headquarters (below). One is Bishop Munschrugge, who has come to bless the efforts of the Burgravate's army. This is an activity that, to an outsider untutored in religious doctrine, might seem functionally the same as getting wildly hammered on the general's store of port, and then exposing his buttocks to passers by, on the basis that the Good Lord blesses those who turn the other cheek. Also here, however, is Lady Katherine Timsbury of Steventon, an advocate of something known as 'professional military education'. If we move closer, we might be able to hear the conversation ...

'And so, general, I think that I have demonstrated the great value that might accrue to your army if you signed up to the King's College's extra special programmes for the education of military officers'.

'But Lady Steventon, is it not the case that you have been selling these courses to our adversaries?'
'Of course - my institution takes its ethical responsibilities very seriously'.
'So, you would be against war, and conflict, and violence, and things such as that?'
'No, no: it's just that we sell to both sides so that we cannot be accused of unethical favouritism'.
'Well, how much are these courses?'
'I would be embarrassed to say, sir'
'Well, that's very ...'
'But I'll happily write it down here on a contract ....'
'How much? Jumping Jesus', the general blasphemes. 'That's as much as I spend on port in a month!'
'Well', says Timsbury, coyly. 'Perhaps, under the circumstances, I might do you a special deal'. She crosses out something and then writes something else.
'Jesus pole-vaulting Christ!', exclaims Rumpfler. 'That figure is higher than the first one!'
'Well, sir, there's been a sudden jump in demand'.

'But my army is large', says the general. He watches two of his sappers hit one another with shovels. 'And the need is very great. How can you possibly find sufficient tutors to begin the education of my army?'

Lady Steventon produces a pistol. 'Well, general, if it bleeds ...', she cocks the pistol, '... it can teach. Just give me a cart, some restraints, and directions to the nearest village'.
'There's also the additional work', says Rumpfler. 'My troops are already busy'. He gestures to some sappers who are experimenting with which end of a shovel seems a more efficient mechanism for moving soil. 'How will they have time for this process of education?'

'You may have heard', says Lady Steventon, 'of the new-fangled technique of Ape Interpretation?'

'AI? Yes, madame. But you can't mean that ...'

'Indeed, sir - you can just get the monkeys to do the donkey work. Or the donkeys to do the monkey work - I don't suppose that it matters'.

'But won't the fraud be exposed when you mark the work, madame?'

'Mark the work? ha, ha, ha, ha ... oh, you're actually serious'. Lady Katherine strikes a solemn pose. 'At the King's College, we feel that marking work is a judgmental and inequitable process that crushes the creative faculties of our students. So, we gently drop any written work down a set of stairs and let God sort them out'.

'That doesn't seem quite right', says Rumpfler. 'I mean, it seems quite wrong ...'

'I think', says Lady Katherine, 'that one of the many advantages of taking our courses would be that you would begin to understand that everything is contested and just a matter of perspective - except, of course, our prices'.

'Well, excellent', says Rumpfler. 'I think that with some quality postgraduate professional military education, we have a ninety per cent chance of success!'

Lady Timsbury watches as one of the sappers begins to eat the dirt that he has just shovelled.
'Ninety per cent seems quite high, sir ...'

* I use the plural more in hope than certainty.

Salade Days!

'I fear, sir, that I seem to have won again', says Chamberlain Fecklenburg sadly.
'Fie and tush!' cries Prince Rupprecht of Bachscuttel. 'And also, bugger it!' he throws his cards aside. 'Poker isn't a real man's game anyway. Snap - that's what alpha gentlemen play these days'.

Fecklenburg shrugs. 'My lord, you still haven't settled the debt that you owed me on our last playing of Snap'.

'Bah!' retorts the prince sourly. 'How much do I owe you?'

'Bavaria', replies the chamberlain. 'And also Poland, depending upon the rules of inheritance and who it is that dies first'.

''Hmmph!' says the prince. 'Add it to my tab! Anyway,' he continues, after a pause, 'I've got another game that I think I shall play with you instead.'

A look of alarm passes across the chamberlain's face. 'It's not a painful game, my lord?' says the chamberlain in alarm. 'You're not going to suggest that you play me at chess?'

'Oh no, no, no, no!' says the prince quickly. 'Although ...' he stops and thinks. 'No, not this time. The new game that I have is a collectable card game where players battle using decks built from a vast array of spells, magical abilities, and vegetables'.

'Vegetables, my lord?'

'Yes - it's called 'Radish: The Buggering'. Would you like to play it with me?'

'No, sir. I really, really would not', says Fecklenburg firmly. The chamberlain frowns. 'But who could have invented such a game?'

'Donatien Alphonse Francois de Salade', replies Rupprecht.

'That great French pervert?'

'Yes', replies Rupprecht. 'The Marquise de Salade! The things he did with cucumbers', the prince continues, admiringly.

'Anyway, Fecklenburg', continues Rupprecht, 'wasn't there something that you wanted to tell me, before I so comprehensively defeated you at cards?'

'Indeed, sir', replies the chamberlain. 'I was trying to report to you that our allies, the Burgravate of Nabstria, have invaded Kurland!'

'But, Fecklenburg - haven't they already fought the Kurlandians?'

'Yes, sir. But they have now sought to regain the initiative by besieging and taking the town of Bogorovsk'.

'But they lost against the Kurlandians - why would they want to take them on again?'

'On the basis, I presume my lord, of "In for a penny, in for a pound"'.

Rupprecht frowns. 'But why would they be exchanging English money if all they want to do is fight?'

'No, my lord - it's an aphorism. Like "A bird in the hand is worth two in a bush"'.

Rupprecht snorts. 'But should I be putting my hands in bushes? Because, you know, I seem to have got into a lot of trouble for doing that in Austria'.

'No, my lord, an aphorism: it is a ...'. He looks at Rupprecht's thinking face - a sight only distinguishable from the bottom of a farting cat because the latter is less hairy. '... it is an irrelevance. All you need to know, my lord, is that our allies are attacking a Kurlandian border town'.

'Well, excellent. I think that the Nabstrians probably have a one hundred per cent chance of success!'

'They are Nabstrians, my lord. One hundred per cent seems quite high ... Sir, why are you taking out those vegetables ...'

'To try out the Marquise de Salade's game. Now, let me give you this aubergine ...'

'I think I'd like to leave now, my lord'.