It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Blisters!

And so, gentle reader(s), another year hauls itself exhaustedly across the temporal finishing line, looking for a chair in which to sit and a large tankard of port to blot out the previous twelve months. One way of improving the end to this difficult year, of course, would be to visit Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachsucttel, said no one ever.

Rupprecht is in one of his fine carriages, making his way back to his palace through the snowy, ill-lit, evening streets of  Pfeildorf. He is at this very moment making one of his more philosophical festive observations to his chancellor, Leopold von Fecklenburg.

'You can shove Christmas up your fundament, Fecklenburg - for I shall have no more of it!'. The prince holds a kerchief to his face and moans.

'I did say, my lord, that proposing at the opera in public to the actress Lotta Klap was a bad idea'.

'But it's Christmas', says Rupprecht, 'and I wanted to pull a cracker! Why would she turn me down?'

'Well, sire, you are, of course, already married. And she's met you, which is another problem. And also, her family were against the union'.

'Her father? I could buy him off'.

'No sire, her husband and children'.

'She threw a cup of hot punch over me!' wails the prince. 'I shall be scorched and maimed beyond the recognition of my own mother!'

'Your mother is mad, my lord and so already cannot reliably distinguish you from an Italianate inlaid wardrobe'.

'Nonsense, Fecklenburg: only poor people are mad: my mother is merely eccentric'.

'The symptoms are quite severe, lord: she talks to the Christmas trees, wears lampshades, and also thinks that you are the very paragon of an able enlightenment ruler'.

'Well, Lotta has really been unreasonable'. He removes the kerchief and experimentally pushes some of the blotches on his face. 'Ow! See how she has disfigured me, Fecklenburg! I am a burned, blistered grotesque!'

'She threw the beverage over your crotch, my lord'.

'Really?' Rupprecht considers this for a moment, then grabs the front of his britches and howls.

'Maimed! Maimed! Christmas maiming! It's so unfair - what did I do wrong, Fecklenburg?'

 'Perhaps, sire, you might work on your amorous repartee. It is ...', Fecklenburg searches for another way of saying  "illegal", "actionable", and "immoral". 'It is ... sub-optimal'.

'But I'm brilliantly witty, chamberlain - everybody says so'.

'Everybody afraid of execution, sire'.

'Well, what did I say to Lotta?'

'You wished her a merry Christmas, sire ...'

'A good start, I think ...'

'Yes, sire, and you then pulled open your britches and said "You can feel what's in my stocking if you like, mistress, or perhaps you'd like to admire my baubles.'

Rupprecht considers this for a moment. 'I was young and reckless, then, Fecklenburg. I believe that I have matured'.

'It was literally twenty minutes ago, sire. And her husband then wished to duel with you, which is why we had to leave'.

'Did I accept the challenge?'

'Again, sire, literally twenty minutes ago. No, my lord, whilst you might honestly have wanted to say "Poltroon! I shall accept your challenge and see you upon the field of dispute at dawn", what you actually said was "Ooooh, I've been naughty! Take me to horny jail straight away!'''

'Horny jail', says Rupprecht flatly.

'Straight away', adds Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht blows a raspberry. 'But everyone always says that in talking to women one should just be oneself'.

'Oh no, sir, for you that is a very bad idea. Have you thought about being someone else, instead?'

'What, like Martin Luther?'
'Oh no, sire, Luther was notoriously dull at parties. His stories about eating worms were simply embarrassing. Perhaps rather than being yourself, you should try and be someone who is thoughtful, emotionally intelligent, and a good listener?'
'Attila the Hun?'

'Not the first name that leaps to mind, sire, or, to be honest, the thousandth; but, on the plus side, I have never read that the bestial Hun Attila ever ended up in horny jail. So there's that'.

There is a moment of silence.

'This coach is travelling quite fast, Fecklenburg' pipes up the prince.

'Indeed, sire. Driver! Slow this carriage!' shouts the chamberlain, thumping the roof of the coach.

From outside, above the creaking of the wheels, there comes a chittering shriek. The coach speeds up.

'You know, he didn't look like my usual coachman', says Rupprecht, raising his voice above the hubbub.

'How so, sire', says the chamberlain suspiciously.

'Well, he was shorter, and hairier, and much more talkative'.

'Short and hairy', says Fecklenburg alarm in his voice. 'He wasn't covered in lard was he, sire ...'

'Well now, come to think of it ...'

As the prince and his chamberlain speed dangerously towards the unknown, may we here at this modest publication take an opportunity to wish you a Merry Christmas and the most happy of New Years!

Falkenhelle, the Sixth!

The Fenwickian volleys fly, with devastating effect! One Bachscuttel regiment is left teetering on the brink of collapse, though, obviously, no Fenwickian could ever actually use the word 'teetering', what with its salacious suggestion of actions involving both teets and rings. Worse, every single enemy shot strikes home against the Milchfrau Lieb Garde, whose musketeers fall to the ground. Many are dead; others just take the opportunity to have a lie down, and the screams of the wounded are interspersed with some loud snoring. But the effect is the same: the entire regiment is effectively destroyed in a single volley, leaving a huge gap in the line! (below).

Barry-Eylund stands agog (also a word that can't be used in Fenwick, though the reasons aren't strictly clear, given that the words 'gog' and 'ag' aren't usually associated with explicit adult activity - except in Wales, of course), slack-jawed and shocked! One of his guard regiments mown down in a single volley! There's only one thing he can do. Alas for him, he is wrestled to the ground by bystanders before he can hit the fire alarm. This leaves him with only one other option: 'Give me those dice!' he cries, and grabs the special green dice which are definitely not dodgy. Armed with these new weapons of chance, the Bachscuttel return volley inflicts heavy casualties! Marshal Cavandish responds with an attempt at a rousing bout of rallying to try to restore order to his infantry line.

Alas for him, the Fenwickians seem resistant at this juncture to his attempts to improve their morale. The problem lies probably with his overly exuberant use of words like 'honour', 'duty', 'jelly', 'wobble', and 'strobate': though to be fair, he was misheard on the last one. This leaves his troops vulnerable to the newly reinvigorated Bachscuttel musketry! 'Give me back my dice!' cries Cavandish. 'No fear!' replies Barry-Eylund, shaking his newly captured cubes of caprice (Above). Another Bachscuttel volley crashes home, and a Fenwickian unit routs!

(Above) This is a problem. Thanks to the ploughed field, Cavandish now finds his infantry split into three separate forces, complicating his operations immensely. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when he could ride it away, or invite it out for some light dinner and dancing, Barry-Eylund acts! Throwing again his burgled baubles of boon, Barry-Eylund's Bachscuttlers batter their bewildered adversaries.

On Cavandish's left wing, some of his sweaty soldiery are suffused with a sudden martial spirit. 'Oooh, I feel quite warm' some of his troops say, glowering at their adversaries with aggressive ardour.

(Above) Infused with the heat of battle, this unit, already quite disordered, charges forward into the Bachscuttel line. Barry-Eylund sniggers, fondling his dodgy dice of doom. For good measure, the Fenwickians wheel more so that they end up charging through bad terrain, because that's the sort of man that Barry-Eylund is. It doesn't look good for the attackers: an elite unit of defenders, and some aggressive-looking flora. Still, this is Mittelheim - a land where anything is possible!

Falkenhelle, the Fifth!

No one! Alas, the only thing that gets worn down is Barry-Eylund's temper. The irregulars fail to inflict a single casualty on the gurning Fenwickian conscripts. A hail of green dice, which are definitely not dodgy, drives back the Bachscuttel light troops, who stumble rearwards to the sniggering of nearby squirrels.

This does leave the light troops in a position for a desperate assault upon the flanks of the enemy line infantry. This threat forces the Fenwickian line to bend slightly (above), but their kink is slight, unlike their commander's, it has to be said. The only positive development for the Bachscuttlers is that, thanks to an unspecified development that probably involves a wrong address on some orders, important intelligence has been obtained from the enemy, and it seems quite likely that, at some stage in the fight, one of the Fenwickian units, in the heat of battle, will probably charge impetuously at an unprofitable target.

(Above, bottom) Still subject to some humiliatingly effective fire from the enemy conscripts, the Bachscuttelers, living up to their name, scuttle backwards again. After an entire morning's fight, the sum total of Barry-Eylund's plan is that his light troops are a pub-stumble forwards from where they began, and the damage inflicted on his adversaries is that four squirrels have laughed so much that they have pulled something.

Worse is to come. His infantry line advances. Or, rather, struck by confusion, one of his infantry units advances (above): through his first line, that is and out into no man's land where it is very much in range of the enemy infantry.

'XXXXing XXX!', roars Barry-Eylund, swearing like a Mittelheim nun. 'XXXX your XXX with a wooden XXXX!' he continues.

There's nothing for it. All of Barry-Eylund's irregular antics have delivered nothing more than to waste a sizeable amount of time. In the end, the general has to go with Plan B: which is Plan 'Hey Diddle Diddle, Up The Middle'. The Bachscuttel musketeers advance straight forward into a sheep-free kill zone (above), and the muskets of both sides level ...

Falkenhelle, the Fourth!

General Redmond Barry-Eylund has, as many would attest, a range of acknowledged faults. He is, for example, a cheating, lying bastard; though, to be fair, he does always remember his mother's birthday. One thing that he couldn't be accused of, though, is a failure to analyse his options: indeed, there are few commanders out there more able to put the word 'anal' into analysis

The general has considered three options. Option one: a cavalry attack on his right. Alas, given the angles, the Fenwickian artillery, with their artillery academy training, would have an opportunity to drill his advancing horse with more holes than a Swiss cheese. Of course, a Swiss cheese would actually ride a horse better than his cavalry. But dairy produce is unlikely to fare well in close-quarters combat. Option two: march his infantry forwards straight away, and trust to the effectiveness of his troops' musketry. Alas, the Fenwickians have lethal volleys, and so the Bachscuttelers would be at a disadvantage, helped by the Fenwickian's 'special green dice'. These green dice are definitely not dodgy. Option three: advance his light troops into the woods to their front, turn the enemy flank and then advance his infantry.

The general plumps for option three. Unfortunately, this means that the first Bachscuttel orders are sent to the irregulars. No battle that begins with an advance by irregulars is likely to engender much faith in the eventual outcome.

The irregulars advance (above), encountering a flock of sheep. If it were possible for Barry-Eylund to catch the sheep and put them in uniform, he would certainly sack his irregulars and use the farmyard animals instead. (Below) Marshal Cavandish can be seen checking the rules of war: a useful activity when Barry-Eylund is around, since the latter tends to view rules like a pirate code: more a set of guidelines around which to structure the drinking of rum.

(Above) The irregulars continue to advance towards the woods. With his line becoming stretched, much like the necks of his light troops if they don't do what they're told, his main body also advances towards the enemy in order to head off some potential command and control problems. Barry-Eylund also hopes that this will increase the moral pressure on his enemy, fixing them in place - although nailing their feet to the floor would probably be a surer bet.

(Above) The Bachscuttel irregulars head into the woods. To the top left, a third line, second-rate, Fenwickian unit is detailed to begin the time-consuming task of wheeling to meet the threat. This more or less sums up the first portion of the battle. A lot of careful manoeuvre - or arsing around, depending upon one's perspective - then ensues in which Barry-Eylund seeks a manoeuvre advantage and Marshal Cavandish seeks a better sleeping position. Time bleeds away.

(Above) Finally, Barry-Eylund has his irregulars where he wants them: or almost where he wants them, since the best place for them would probably be in a bath. Deployed in the woods, the irregulars are no worse than their conscript adversaries, and there are twice as many of them. It's time for the irregulars to do what irregulars do. Well, not the main thing that they do, because then they would have to go back to prison. But the other thing that they do, which is to dart elusively amongst the foliage, skirmishing vigorously and wearing the enemy down. Then, they can wheel, and before you can say 'irregulars all over your flanks' there will be irregulars all over the Fenwickian flanks!

Irregulars making a useful contribution to the battlefield? Who'd have thought it!

Falkenhelle, the Third!

The forces of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel begin to deploy. In Bachscuttel military doctrine, though, 'deploy' is very much a synonym for 'shuffle', 'mill about', or 'self abuse', so that the movement of General Barry Eylund's troops might make a European military professional wince, and any adversary think that it was probably likely to be their lucky day. The general herds his unwilling troops into some semblance of a line, according to the plan that he has concocted.

The Bachscuttlers have come off worst in the preliminary scouting. Thus, Barry-Eylund finds himself the attacker. Attacking is an unfamiliar and very unwelcome mode of action for the Palatinate's generalissimo. The general, widely known as Der Turtlekoenig, is a commander who much prefers the comforting embrace of defensive terrain. Indeed, his main quality as an officer is his ability to bend the laws of physics, and also quite a lot of the actual rules, to shove his whole army into the tiniest space available, and then tit about there until the game ends.

Barry-Eylund deploys all of his infantry, nine regiments (including one of mercenaries) on his left flank. Just to the front, one can see on this woodcut (above) a hill. The general has chosen a battlefield with a hill right in the middle: thus, whichever side of the battlefield that the enemy deploys their artillery, the guns will find their arc of fire blocked in any attempt to fire upon the other. This is just the sort of tedious bed wettery that makes Barry-Eylund so unpopular. On the far left (above, left) the general places both regiments of his irregulars. If Barry-Eylund's plan involves using those troops, then the Palatinate has probably already lost the battle.

(Above) On the far right, Barry-Eylund arrays his three regiments of cavalry. It's best just to keep them out of the way, where they can't be fired upon by the enemy artillery and where they can't get themselves into any trouble. Positioned here, it's clear that the general intends that these troops should protect the flanks of his infantry. Or at least, that they should plausibly look like that's what they are doing. Doctrinally, in the Palatinate's military thinking, cavalry is really just a way of keeping the most dangerously inbred of its military elite out of situations that might stretch their capabilities, which is really any situation that doesn't emphasise dribbling or molesting geese.

Finally, Barry-Eylund places his three batteries of artillery in a position linking his infantry to his cavalry. The guns are dug in, meaning that they are unlikely to move. But that's fine, because moving artillery would impede their ability to do what they do best, which is not firing.

With his forces deployed, Barry-Eylund commences his attack! It can't be a propitious situation when the first element of his army to move is his irregulars ....

Falkenhelle, the Second!

The Fenwickian army marches smartly into position according to the dispositions outlined in Marshal Cavandish's orders.'Smartly', though, in Mittelheim is mostly a synonym for 'slovenly'; and also 'blubbery'. The Fenwickian deployment therefore is smart relative to the usual Mittelheim standard; a standard that would make the word 'slovenly' feel poorly dressed and badly postured. As the troops file to their appointed places, they move like a collection of orangutans with back problems and a bad case of piles. 

To the left of Falkenhelle, Cavandish deploys all four batteries of his artillery (above). These fellows are trained in Fenwick's Artillery Academy and so are worthy of rather more respect than your average Mittelheim fire support. Dug in behind bastions and positioned behind a marsh, these troops are well protected against any saucy attempts to ride them down. Much will be expected of them in the coming encounter, though no one could tell them this, since the use of the word 'coming' in Fenwick would earn one ten years' hard labour; and then another five years for using the word 'hard'.

(Below) On the far left, the Fenwickian cavalry are deployed. One regiment of elite are on the right, and a regiment of conscripts are behind. Positioned here, the cavalry are ready to do what Mittelheim cavalry are best prepared for: to smoke some cigars and make jokes about poor people. 

In command of the cavalry is Theodore Creasey, who has a preternatural mastery over vegetation. Troops under his command can move unimpeded through difficult terrain. As a superpower, it's perhaps not quite up there with being proof against bullets or being able to fly; and also, he seems to smell strangely of hemp. But this is Mittelheim, and one has to take what one can get. Deployed in the open, and with quite a lot of openness to their front, it's not quite clear how Creasey will be able to apply his unique talents. But who can tell what dangerous vegetables might be thrown their way in the ensuing battle?

To the right of the village, the whole of the Fenwickian infantry is deployed in three lines (above). At the back are two regiments of conscripts. The remainder of the troops are trained. For some reason not unrelated to the choices of Cavandish's adversary, General Redmond Barry-Eylund, there is a ploughed field inconveniently positioned amongst the Fenwickian troops. No doubt this feature will be completely irrelevant in the unfolding encounter.

(Above) The army of the Empire of All the Fenwicks is now fully deployed. There is a commotion in the distance. It could be a travelling freak show; or, perhaps, a herd of Welshmen grazing upon leeks. But no - by the terrible smell and the strange profusion of body hair, it is clear that the army of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel has arrived!  

Falkenhelle, the First!

Wherein the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, under General Redmond Barry-Eylund, encounters the forces of the Empire of All the Fenwicks, commanded by Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish.

We return, dear readers, to encounters upon the open field of war: an activity altogether more suited to the soldiers of Mittelheim than sieges, since the former requires less of the tedious study, inky small-mindedness, and ridiculous attention to detail that in Mittelheim is known as pedantry and that in the rest of Europe is known as military professionalism. On the battlefield, one is free to express oneself more fully, and also, of course, to run off more quickly in the confusion.

Here, we find ourselves upon the eaves of the forest of Pupsforst, near the small hamlet of Falkenhelle. The hamlet itself is now full to bursting, overrun by the troops of Fenwick.

(Above) The tiny village consists mainly of what the original estate agent portrayed as 'a perfect family home, built in the rustic style, with interesting period features. The annex is suitable for keeping pigs'. Alas for the purchasers, the annex turned out to be the house; and whilst the animal pen did indeed have some excellent period features, the period in question was some considerable time before the birth of Christ. Most of the inhabitants tired of residing in dwellings with roofs that look like lawns, whose main modcon was hot and cold running slugs, and where the heating was provided by flatulent farm animals. Thus, the villagers are not entirely unhappy at the presence of the Fenwickian army. There is some hope amongst the populace that the unruly troops will engage in some home improvements by burning the place down. 

Marshal Cavandish is deep in conversation with his aide de camp, Captain Fabius Nitzwitz (below). An enemy army is nearby - the troops of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel - and a battle is in the offing.  Cavandish has a reputation as a man keen to conserve his energy, an attribute that explains the main feature of his headquarters (a large bed), and his attire (a nightshirt and nightcap). Spending much of his time asleep does not seem to have materially affected his quality as a commander, and his army has performed exceptionally well in the recent wars. Indeed, they are known widely as the Spartans of Mittelheim. Spending time asleep and not actually giving orders also allows the marshal to reduce the stress involved in commanding Fenwickian troops, not least because it increases the chances of avoiding any double entendre.

The problems caused by the Fenwickian sensitivity to double entendre have already been commented upon in this august* publication. Its military ramifications have been profound. Nowhere in Fenwickian doctrine, for example, does it allow troops to penetrate, drill, mount, or insert. Fenwickian units cannot be ordered to undertake an early withdrawal, or a full frontal assault, or go in hard, or inspect their weapons. Nor can one include in any orders issued to the troops words such as jam, wobbly, pair, dangly, or wibble. Luckily for their monarch, King George, however, this does not seem to have impeded their military effectiveness on the battlefield. Even if Cavandish has largely been reduced to issuing orders in picture form, and many of those seem to be crude pictures of his genitals (or generals - it's possible he was misheard), his army is really very effective.

Now, crayon in hand, the marshal is drawing his orders and deploying his troops for battle! 

* Or October, depending upon when you are reading this.