Wallenover, the Second!

With loud 'huzzahs!' the soldiers of Badwurst-Wurtburp march purposefully forwards. The Margarvate's musketeers advance with all of the vigour and confidence that comes from never having been in a battle before. As the distance closes between the battle lines of the two armies, the artillery of both sides each provide the traditional Mittelheim supporting fire: which is to say, a small one, upon which they make themselves hot beverages to while away the time spent watching the fight between the infantry. The Margravate's cavalry provide protection to the left of Unpronunski's line. Left to their own devices to decide how best this should be done, the cavalry apply a doctrinal approach based upon the principle of not moving or doing anything at all.

(Above) The notables Jonathan, Earl of Bragge and Boris Katsonov are committed to the command of front-line units. With the help of these experienced professionals, the Wurstburp line advances quickly, all gleaming bayonets and marvellously executed drill. With its units formed into mass, the Margravate's army has concentrated a considerable proportion of its combat power against the weakly held Vulgarian positions to their front, some of which seem to be defended only by sheep. Amidst the dense units of infantry, Wurstburpian clerics are hard at work, stirring the troops' martial ardour with inspiring declamations based upon all of the usual themes most prominent in religious doctrine: heaven for the faithful; hell-fire for the enemy; damnation for those who covet their neighbour's oxes. The clerics succeed in working themselves into quite a lather. In Wurstburp, Catholicism has been given quite a local make-over, the church there having  removed some of the most robust and logical doctrinal elements of the Catholic faith (fish on Fridays and the kissing of Bishops' rings) and replacing them with additional helpings of intolerance, narrow-mindedness, and, reflecting the impact of Jacobite immigration, porridge.

The Wurstburp line halts when it reaches within musket range of the Vulgarian irregular cavalry positioned in the marsh. General Unpronunski, seeing this through his telescope, orders Prince Karl forward.
'Go hence, Prince Karl - lead our troops from the front! Push the enemy from the difficult ground and sweep leftwards to roll up the enemy line!'
Prince Karl chews his lip for a moment, considering his reply.
'Well general,' says Karl. 'I could give you my diplomatic answer to that order; or I could give you my undiplomatic answer.'
Unpronunski thinks about this. He is an old gentlemen, who prefers to maintain where possible a civilised atmosphere in his headquarters. 'I should say that I would prefer your diplomatic answer.'
The prince nods. 'Then I must say in answer to your request, general "Bog off, you haddock-faced squirrel tickler."'
The general looks shocked. 'So you're not going to lift a finger to help our forces?'
'Au contraire, general. I am going to lift this finger,' says Prince Karl, raising the middle digit of his right hand and extending it towards Unpronunski. 'Which I think should communicate fairly clearly my feelings about my likely involvement in this enterprise. What you are asking is really quite dangerous to my person.'
'Hmmm,' replies Unpronunski. 'I feel that I have to say, Prince Karl, that, inexperienced though I am in the ways of war, I believe that it is normal presumption in military organisations that, as you are under my command, you in fact are compelled to obey my orders.'
'Sadly, general, since I am of the house of Porckenstauffen, your authority over me is weaker than a haggis helmet.'
There is a pause. The general sighs dejectedly.
'Is my face really reminiscent of a haddock?'
The prince considers this carefully for a moment. 'There is certainly a ... piscine quality to it. Or perhaps something dolphinish. And crab-like. I think that it is your wobbly lips.'
'Oh,' says the general sadly. 'And the squirrel tickling?'

'I made that up,' admits Karl. 'But it certainly sounds like the sort of morally questionable activity that might be engaged in by fish-faced people.'

'Dish dushent look good,' says General Hertz van Rentall to no one in particular. At the Vulgarian headquarters, it is clear that the Voivodate's army is in some difficulties. After only a short period of time, the main Wurstburpian infantry line is within range of the Vulgarian irregular cavalry in the marsh. Though the initial enemy volleys largely are ineffective, the irregulars cannot reply and are no match for the musketeers in a frontal attack. It is a mark of Vulgaria's lack of options that (below, top right), Ranald Drumpf, Principal Councillor and, at the moment commander of the Vulgarian troops, is forced to order his artillery to open fire.

'Councillor Drumpf!' calls von Neucheim. 'What is our plan!'
Drumpf brushes crumbs from his waistcoat and then, rather theatrically, he flourishes a large sheet of paper in front of the rest of the officers.
'Behold!' he says.
There is a moment of silence. In the background, the sound of fighting continues.
General Rentall raises an eyebrow. 'Itsh, ah ... itsh a piesh of paper.'
'It contains my plan!'
Rentall raises the eyebrow a little higher. 'Itsh, ah ... itsh a blank piesh of paper.'
'Precisely!' says Drumpf, waving his little hands. 'I refuse to conform to predictable military thinking! We must be agile! We must be adaptable! This is a beautiful moment - really beautiful. In having no plan, we also have every plan!'
'I don't understand' says von Neucheim.
'Gottle a geer,' adds Baron Tostov.
'I'm pushing forward the frontiers of military thinking,' replies Drumpf.
'Hmm,' says von Neucheim. 'I can only assume then that those frontiers are quite close, because I don't think that this plan is going to get us very far.'
'No, no, I can assure you that it is a splendid plan!' retorts Drumpf.
At that moment, a breathless courier arrives, ending the disagreement. 'My lords! Disastrous confusion in our ranks!'

(Above) And indeed, it would seem that conditions for the Vulgarians have further worsened! Whether through bad luck, fate, the friction of war, or congenital idiocy, the left flank Vulgarian battalion wheels rightwards and advances against the Wurstburp line! In doing so, it masks the supporting artillery and exposes its flank to flanking fire and an enemy charge.
'Dammit! Dammit!' Ignoring Drumpf, a cursing van Rentall spurs his horse towards the emerging crisis.
Drumpf looks confused and non-plussed. 'Is this bad? Is something bad happening?' He turns to Cameron von Muller. 'Von Muller - what do you think?'
'Well,' replies Muller. 'The word, "cack" seems to be jigging around at the front of my mind, shouting "Pick me! Pick me!" I should say that we are in a spot of bother.'
Drumpf bridles. 'What about my battle plan?'

'You don't have a battle plan,' says Neucheim. 'You just have a sheet of paper and some honking sounds.'

Drumpf listens for the moment to the rising tide of battle. The he says decisively: 'I have an idea. I'll be back in a minute. Victory is assured.'
'Excellent,' replies Muller.
'That's splendid,' says Neucheim.
Muller and Neucheim wait for a while.
'He's not coming back is he,' says Muller.

Wallenover, the First!

Wherein the army of the Margarvate of Wurstburp under the command of General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski encounters the army of the Voivodate of Vulgaria commanded by General Hertz van Rentall.

'Stop that!' says Death wearily. He is leaning against a tall tree. The morning is fine: or as fine as mornings ever are in Vulgaria; which is to say less fine than mornings in any other part of the world, but somewhat more fine than being stabbed in the tongue by a toasting fork. The tree stands in the vicinity of a small hamlet named Wallenover, by Mittelheim standards a pleasant little place with less of the more obvious signs of depression, decrepitude and expansive outdoor sewerage than one is likely to find in these parts.

'Stop. That.' repeats Death. He waggles a bony finger at a small companion who stands nearby.

'But I need a wee,' says the little fellow.

'Well, have a wee then,' says Death.

'Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!' says his companion running around in circles, 'Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!'
'Just kill me now,' whispers Death. This is, naturally, a pointless entreaty. Notwithstanding the practical difficulties one would encounter in topping oneself with a two handed long-handle scythe, Death is of course immortal.

Death is regretting his newly acquired apprentice. Having spent some time musing on the question of whether or not Mittelheim really was, in the collecting of the souls of those passed, worthy of the attention of Death himself, the Grim Reaper* concluded that perhaps the way forward was to delegate a little more to others. With War, Pestilence, and Famine all otherwise engaged, Death had tried to engage the services of some of the other, lesser, harbingers of human expiration. But Dropsy and Consumption weren't interested in stepping up. Boredom, who must surely have been the cause of the passing of many souls in Mittelheim, didn't even bother to reply to his letter. Neither did Revenge, Passion, Ladders, or Seafood. In fact, Death was left with a short-list of precisely one: Cheese.

'I was thinking as we arrived here,' says Death, watching as Cheese, having tired himself out, slows to a stop. 'How exactly do people die by cheese?'

'You might be surprised,' replies Cheese in his strange voice: part churned milk, part crisp biscuit.

'Yes,' says Death, 'I suspect strongly that I might.'

'Well, one can die from eating too much cheese - cheese gluttons were a good part of my work. Then there were those runny French cheeses - they could be dangerous to the inexperienced. Then there are those killed whilst eating cheese. Careless carriage drivers, bayoneted soldiers and the like.'

Death nods slowly, his vertebrae clicking. 'But, to be picky, you weren't actually responsible directly for their deaths.'

'Granted,' replies Cheese, 'cheeses aren't as dangerous as, say, war or disease. But I always thought that a carelessly consumed blue cheese could still be surprisingly perilous. Anyway, because of my low numbers there seemed to be some move to force me take on more work and do natural disasters as well. But, well - floods, droughts, and cheese: it's not a natural portfolio. So I thought that it was time to move on.'

'Quite so,' says Death. He takes a few steps to his left, ensuring that he is not downwind of Cheese. His new apprentice has a very strange smell, mitigated somewhat only in the presence of celery and grapes.

Behind the two figures, drums suddenly roll, and thousands of voices begin to shout.
'Well', says Death picking up his scythe. 'Pay attention - I think that things are about to begin.'

In front of Death, two armies are drawn up on the plains in front of Wallenover. On one side stands the army of  the Margravate of Wurstburp; on the other the forces of the Voivodate of Vulgaria. The clash of light forces at Donaukerbad had seen the Vulgarians gain the upper hand in the kleine Krieg. But the imminent battle between the main forces of both sides had been interrupted by winter. Now, with a new campaigning season in the offing, the main armies of both sides are once again active.

On the left of the field stands the forces of Wurstburp (right). The Margravate's army is commanded by General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski. Unpronunski is of Polish extraction; although which Pole he was extracted from isn't in actuality as clear as his birth certificate might imply. He is aided by the soldiers of fortune Jonathan, Earl of Bragge and Boris Katsonov. The Margravate's army is rather traditional in its approach to warfare and utilises Mass and a la Bayonette. Their strong Catholic faith means that the troops are accompanied by Clerics. This is the first time in living memory that the Margrave's army has ever taken the field of battle, and so there is a measure of uncertainty in the Wurstburp headquarters as to what one should do in these sorts of situations.

'What about the enemy?' asks Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen. Porckenstauffen has been attached to Unpronunski's headquarters and is positioned with the general, Bragge and Katsonov behind the main infantry line. Officially, the Prince is here to obtain suitable military experience through contributing usefully in a vital but yet-to-be-determined battlefield role. In reality, the Margrave hopes that Karl will obtain a suitable enemy cannonball-type experience through any usefully vital yet-to-be-determined part of his body. Karl is the Margave's nephew, and, as the Margrave has yet to produce any male issue, also his heir. This fact the Margrave is not altogether happy about. His nephew's side of the family has a somewhat disreputable lineage. One part can be traced back to a best-left-forgotten Bishop of Trier who evidently viewed his vows of chastity as more of an aspiration than as strictly enforced prohibition. The other side of the family can trace its way back to one of the Dukes of Atholl in the far lands of Scotland. In the 1660s, the Duke had made the acquaintance of a local cake maker's daughter by the name of Flora Spreadswell. After one creamy encounter too many, the local lass found herself with child, a condition that, if it was surprising to the Duke was even more so to his wife. Flora was whisked off to Europe to a place where no one would find her; or, if they did find her, a place where the roads were too poorly maintained to be able to get her out again. This, of course, was Mittelheim. Eventually, Flora travelled to Wurstburp plying her baking trade; there she met and married a member of the local nobility, a man attracted to the flame-red of her hair and the impressive rise of her buns. Indeed, in the wake of  the Jacobite rebellion of 1745, a good number of Prince Charles' adherents also fled Scotland and settled in Mittelheim, particularly in the northern region of Wurstburp. With little more than a decade having passed, northern Wurstburp still has a decidedly Scottish feel to it reflected not least in the inhabitant's excessive fondness for whisky, deep-fried food, and a strange concoction created by adding metal filings to beer, a drink known locally as 'iron brew.'

Prince Karl repeats his question. 'What about the enemy army?'

General Unpronunski looks non-plussed. 'What enemy army?'

'That enemy army,' replies Karl, pointing at the Vulgarian force across the plain.

The general looks suddenly startled. 'The enemy! What in god's name are they doing here?'

'It's a battle,' says the prince. 'They are here to fight us: who did you think that they were?'

The general looks worried. 'Spectators. Or actors. Must we fight them?'

Unpronunski is a soldier from a different age. The middle ages, probably. These modern times have left him behind. he was happier in the days before the Enlightenment. Happy days; certain days; days when men were still men; women were still women; and ducks were still a form of waterfowl from the Anatidae family.
The general purses his lips. 'It's just that, well - I'm not altogether certain what it is that one should do in these circumstances.'
'I thought that you were an experienced officer of engineers?' asks Karl, pointedly.
'No,' says the general. 'I just said to the Margrave that I was good at bridge.'
The Earl of Bragge interjects. 'Sirs, I suggest that we make best use of the natural skills of our soldiery. Form the infantry into columns of mass. Advance rapidly against the enemy. Give them bayonets.'
Prince Karl nods in agreement. He is, it must be said, hardly a handsome fellow: bulging eyes; bulbous lips; and a pair of front teeth so protuberant that he is commonly known as "Bunnie Prince Karlie". 'I agree. We should form the men up immediately. We must not hand the Vulgarians the initiative. Those wily Vulgarians are always planning, always stratagising.'

In the Vulgarian headquarters, General Hertz van Rentall looks on, whilst Duke Walter von Neucheim plans and stratagises. 

'Waaaaaaaaaah! We're all going to die!' cries the Duke.
'For wunsch, my duke,' replies the general, 'you might not be sho wrong.'

They look at a nearby hill. Ranald Drumpf stands upon it. He is looking through a telescope. He might be there for some time. At least as long, for example, as it takes him to realise that he needs to remove the instrument from its case. Drumpf's arrival has done nothing for the morale of Rentall's headquarters staff; even the ever-optimistic Baron Tostov could emit only a sour 'gottle a geer.' Matters have been made immediately worse as it turns out that the Voivode's Principal Councillor carries orders putting him in charge of the army.
Cameron von Muller, Rentall's artillery commander, tries to raise the morale of the assembled officers.
'It might not be so bad,' he says. 'I think that Drumpf has grown as a man over the last few months.'
Neicheim snorts. 'He's got fatter - it's not the same thing.'

'But I saw him crying when that old soldier was run over by the artillery limber,' says Muller.

'He cried because he was laughing so much,' says the duke.

'Are you sure?'

Neucheim nods. 'I'm not sure that giggling, pointing, and saying "Ha, Ha" is a normal sign of emotional trauma.

Rentall can wait no longer. While he waits for Drumpf to return, the general orders the army into a semblance of battle order.

(Above) His right is held by all three regiments of cavalry, hidden from enemy artillery fire by a hill. The nearby wood is secured by both of Rentall's units of irregular infantry. In the centre, the infantry is deployed in line, four regiments up and one behind in reserve, bolstered by emplaced artillery. The left is anchored on a marsh. The marsh itself contains two regiments of irregular cavalry.

After a while, Drumpf returns. Rentall waits, with growing ire, as the Principal Councillor orders set in front of him a hearty second breakfast. Finally, the general can take no more.
'Herr Prinshipal Counshillor. We need to know your plansh!'

Drumpf nods. 'Well, I've been giving this some careful thought.'
'Exshellent' says the general.
'I think I'm going to eat the bacon first, and then the sausage.'

(Below) 'No, shir! I mean plans for da coming battle. See, shir - da enemy are deployed for a mashive and shushtained ashault upon our left!'

'A what?' asks Drumpf, bewildered.
'A mashive and shushtained ashault.'
'No,' says Drumpf. 'You're going to have to say something with less "S"s in it.'
'Dimwit!' cries Rentall, furiously.
'Yes,' says Drumpf. 'Like that. But not as rude. I am the Voivode's Principal Councillor. You will treat me with respect Rentall, damn your eyes! More of this lip and I'll have you declared persona non gratin.'
'You mean persona non grata,' suggests Muller. 'Non gratin would not be a significant penalty.'
'Well,' says Drumpf huffily. 'I rather think that that depends upon how much he likes cheese, wouldn't you say?'

Further debate, however, is ended - suddenly, from across the plain, the troops of Wurstburp let out a great roar. In perfect order, the dense battalion columns begin to swing forwards, bayonets fixed and clerics at the ready.
'Gentlemen,' says Rentall, his eyes flashing. 'It has begun. To your posts!'

* A name that Death has never really liked - it has a rather bleak and sombre feel to it. In general, Death much prefers to be referred to by more traditional forms of address: Osiris, or Hades, or Roger.