Jangthof, the First!

Wherein the army of the Landgravate of Rotenburg commanded by Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste encounters the army of the Margarvate of Wurstburp under the command of General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski

'You utter, utter bastards', says Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen. 'You miserable pot-bellied, left-footed, badger-faced frauds.' He pauses, expectantly.
'Well', replies General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski finally. 'It's not the pre-battle speech that I would choose to deliver but who knows, it might inspire the men - if they've had particularly difficult childhoods; or a problematic relationship with their parents'.
Prince Karl frowns. The prince's protuberant teeth, bulging eyes, and bulbous lips give him the look of  an ill-favoured rabbit of a sort so ugly that the phrase 'breed like rabbits' would be unlikely ever to apply to him, unless the other rabbit was blind, tied up, or charging carrots by the hour.
'Perhaps some references to porridge to tie into their wild Gaelic heritage?' suggests Adjutant von Hardtpumping.
'Perhaps casting fewer aspersions on their parentage and masculinity might be in order, my prince. Try and appeal to their better nature', counters the general.
Prince Karl scoffs dismissively. 'They don't have a better nature. What you think is their better nature is just alcoholism'.

The prince's desire to stimulate the morale of his troops is understandable given the context. Thoroughly defeated by the Vulgarians at the battle of Wackdorf, the Wurstburpers should at least have been entitled to a relaxing rout all the way back to their margravate. However, their well-deserved opportunity for a restful period of desertion, pillage, disease, and internecine squabbling has been stolen from them, thanks to the sudden and unexpected arrival of an army from the landgravate of Rotenburg. Caught near the river Procksi in the vicinity of the village of Jangthof, Unpronunski has been forced to deploy his army for battle.

(Above) Taking advice from Prince Karl, the general has formed his infantry into battalion masses; the musketeers are then deployed into two unequal lines - five regiments in the first and two in the second. These troops comprise entirely of conscripts.  Behind them, in reserve, he holds his two trained units. The conscripts have been recruited on the march, and a sorry lot they are too. Enemy deserters, Gelderlanders, Vulgarian peasants with a poor grasp of geography and politics - all have been issued with a musket and a uniform and pressed into the ranks. As unfamiliar with battle as they are with soap or napkins, these troops will have to be skilfully handled if they are to avoid destruction at the hands of enemy volley fire. The artillery and cavalry are aggressively positioned upon Jangthof hill, the possession of which is critical for success in this battle.

Of the general's two trained infantry regiments, one in particular is worthy of note. Sent forwards from the Wurstburp regimental depots is a unit comprised mainly of old Jacobite Scots (below), lured into the army by the promise of a lovely new uniform, a pint of iron brew, and the sort of campaign for which their experiences in the '45 rebellion have made them familiar: a romantic cause;  grandiose promises of success; passable folk-songs; poorly organised logistics; dithering leadership; and, if required, abandonment by their commander for a damp bint on a boat.

Despite their inexperience these are tough troops, their resilience shaped by a traditional Scottish life based upon embracing adventure and avoiding vegetables. Their one concession to the climes of Mittelheim has been to eschew the wearing amongst the rank and file of kilts, the traditional attire worn without undergarments, and to instead embrace the safely supportive warmth of a good pair of military britches. Officers, however, are still allowed to wear kilts, on condition that they never, in a public place, climb up a ladder; and that they do not, in the presence of ladies, stroke their sporrans.

Across the meadow, Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste, Knight Commander of the Rotenburg Order of the Golden Fleas and General-in-Chief of the Grand Army of the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg-Schillingsfurst looks on through his spyglass at the Wurstburpers as they deploy their forces. Thanks to his heavy defeat at the hands of the Nabstrians at the battle of Putschdorf, the Furst's army is also in poor shape. Four of his infantry regiments are made up of conscripts, as are three of his four cavalry regiments. The Furst needs a victory. In the court of Rotenburg, his enemies are whispering against him, and Landgrave Choldwig has been really very specific as to the necessity for a success. 'Come back with your shield or upon it', was Choldwig's exact comment.
'But I haven't got a shield', replied the Furst.
'Well, get one then. So that you can bring it back or return upon it'.
'But, my lord: a shield is really quite superfluous to my role as commander of the army. And it's quite heavy. Couldn't I just take something else with me that was, well, a bit handier'.
'Such as?'
'Well, uh ... a spoon perhaps?'

The landgrave frowned. 'Is it a big spoon?'
'Ah, uh ... I could procure quite a large one, my lord. Two, if you like'.
Choldwig paused, and then shrugged. 'Very well. But you'd better make it quite a big spoon. "Come back with your spoon or on it". Or else. Hmm, as a threat, I think that it lacks a certain something. But anyway, I think that it goes without saying that, if you lose this battle, Furst, then whatever the state of your cutlery, it's likely to result in you being relieved of an assortment of appendages, the selection of which I think that in the spirit of the open-mindedness and flexibility for which I am famous, we should leave until the required moment. Now - off you go!'

Clutching his spoons tightly, through his orderly, Captain Sebastian Wankrat, Furst Augustus quickly begins to issue orders for the deployment of his troops. (Above) Augustus deploys all of his cavalry to his left; if 'deploy' is the right word to use for a force as familiar with riding horses as they are with riding turtles or wrestling mermaids. 'Milling' might be just as appropriate a description; as might 'falling off'. Still, his cavalry is at least well out of the way, as is his artillery, both batteries of which are positioned on the extreme right. The Furst's plan is clear from his deployment: he intends a bold frontal assault with his infantry, which is deployed in three lines, closely supporting one another. Included in this force are units of the newly formed Legion Britannique.

At the Wurstburp headquarters, Prince Karl seems to have arrived at a rather different conclusion as to the value of mounted troops. (Below) Jangthoff hill is the key position for this battle. Prince Karl has convinced Unpronunski that the route to success in this desperate encounter lies in a focus on artillery preparation and then a decisive intervention by the Wurstburp cavalry.

'Our cavalry?' enquires the general dubiously. 'Though I cannot claim to be an experienced general officer,' notes Unpronunski thoughtfully, 'it has certainly not escaped my attention that, upon observing the previous experiences of encounters in the Wars of the Gelderland Succession, relying upon cavalry to deliver decisive results on the battlefield is something that seems bound to deliver disappointment. As an instrument they seem to be ... unreliable'.

'Undependable', agrees Adjutant von Hardtpumping.

'Untrustworthy', adds Unpronunski.

'A big bag of shite', says the adjutant.

'Enough!' shouts the prince. 'As the margrave's nephew and heir, my strong recommendation is that you do as I say, general.'

The general sighs. 'As you wish, my prince. But betting upon horses: it rarely goes well ...'

To the Colours!

Ist Battalion (The Lady Alison’s Own) Rotenburg Legion Britanique. A short and noble account of their raising; or the real, true, secret, inside story of the scandal that dare not speak its name.

It is a fact, universally acknowledged by no one at all save one, that a woman in possession of great wealth and intellect is in want of her own battalion. But such a thing is not easily obtained particularly when it is considered a rather unladylike plaything. Better that the fairer sex should content themselves with sowing, fashionable hairstyles, intrigue and gossip about puppies and butterflies and who is doing who behind the folly.

However, in a minority opinion of one to everybody else in the whole world, Lady Alison, recent widow of Prince Frederick of Hesse-Homburg (a man who knew a thing or two about millinery) had decided she wanted a battalion all of her own and she would bloody well get what she wanted. She did after all now possess the vast fortune that her father had paid in dowry to the Prince only last week.

Lady Allison’s father had made a fortune through the not quite illegal, but certainly morally questionable practice, of investing other people’s money in a complex web of financial products to do with the import and export of leeches, and both the avoiding and paying of tariffs and duties. No accountant in whole of Europe could quite grasp how the scheme made money as shipments of leeches transited around the globe, never unloading at any port visited. It was almost as if the leeches were on a sightseeing cruise of the rather more unattractive ports of Europe.

As the recently married but even more recently widowed Lady Allison sat in her drawing room reflecting on the socially imposed constraints upon female empowerment, the denial of education, the exclusion from the right to play an active part in the political, civic and military spheres of life, she resolved to take action. She would cast off the whale bone constraints of society and her corset and raise, outfit and deploy her own regiment.

Whilst still only a slip of a girl, Alison had embarked upon the most prestigious correspondence course in Military History, Strategy, Theory and Practice. She had read all the great texts on the art of war, written essay’s on long forgotten and obscure campaigns from history, formulated conceptual models to explain success and failure, commented on the latest developments in battlefield etiquette and dress in the professional journals of the age. All of this however, had to be accomplished through deception; one of her own principles of war and getting what she wanted. The Lady Alison had undertaken the course and corresponded with the greatest strategic minds of the day, in the guise of Kevin. She liked to think of her alias as Kevin the Clever, or Kevin the Capable or at least Kevin the Curious and so she set her considerable intellect to the problem of acquiring her own regiment.

She possessed the requisite funds for the regiment, she had spent considerable time browsing through the swatches of the finest uniform cloth Europe had to offer before settling on her preferred colour scheme and matching military accessories (it was vital to get the essential triangle of triceorn, gaiters and turn backs just so). The real difficulty lay in manpower recruitment to the ranks and finding a commander who could do her regiment justice in the field.

The first problem was solved through the granting of pardons to those criminals, bigamists, swindlers and ne'r-do-wells who would take up the Lady’s shilling. The second problem was proving rather more taxing and obstinate. None of the twenty eight interviews she had conducted so far had revealed a single applicant for command who had the slightest grasp of current operational planning concepts, the levels of war or even which end of a sharp piece of metal to actually point at the enemy.

There had been one who might, as a last resort, be able to fill the post of aide de camp purely by virtue of his family connections to the aristocracy of Europe; it would facilitate the passage of the regiment when on campaign if a viable logistical chain of run down hovels were established for the rank and file in addition to a steady supply of marzipan leeches and invitations to most fashionable balls and drawing rooms for the officers. But one worthy of overall command of her pride and joy continued to elude her. When suddenly the idea struck her, quickly forming the idea into a sensible research question she wondered under her breath, ‘Why didn’t she take command?’ She had after all fooled the greatest strategic minds in Christendom that she was a man called Kevin. She could simply write out the warrant of commission to Kevin, dress up in a pair of trousers and present herself to a rather dim, but likable well-connected second in command. With letters patent, a sealed commission and references from academic tutors that ran to several dozen pages of unintelligible drivel, she could easily fool him.

So it came to pass that the 1st Battalion (Lady Alison’s Own) Legion Britanique formed up in the sunshine of a late spring morning to await with anticipation the arrival of their new commander, Colonel Kevin. Presently a surprisingly modest in stature officer, in tight ankle length trousers and an incredible, if not unbelievable, moustache, marched up to Lieutenant Colonel the Honourable Percy Nil-Mandible. With a strong voice that fluctuated over several octaves, Kevin introduced herself and presented Percy with an impressive stack of paper, parchment and papyrus and formally assumed command of the battalion.

Percy was at once struck dumb by the imposing, if short and slight figure of Colonel Kevin. He found himself transfixed by the way the colonel’s moustache ends flopped about his face when he spoke, they appeared to tickle his little button nose, as if he were unused to their presence on his top lip. But surely anything that long and luscious would have taken years of manly grooming to cultivate. Percy knew at once that he was lost, he had found his Adonis, his Hector, his Achilles, he would forever be crushed by feelings of devotion to his new commander; unspoken, unacknowledged and surely unrequited.

Attack!

'Well, my lord, I think we're almost done!' Landgrave Choldwig III of Rotenburg's tailor stands back admiringly. Choldwig is in his dressing chamber. Eschewing his usual Macedonian style of dress, the Landgrave's midriff is mercifully covered by a stylish waistcoat and jacket. His green silk britches ensure that his lower portions also are covered and that they are generally terrapin free. Also in the room with Choldwig are his key advisors: Wilhelm, the Baron Woffeltop, Choldwig's shrewd Austrian diplomat; Baron Lothar von Prohlaps, Minister for Alexandrification; Count Lenz von Haut, Minister for War, Alcohol, Sharp Instruments and Children's Welfare; and Graf Theodor von Poppenzeitz, Minister of Finance. The Landgrave is trying to multi-task. On the one hand, there seem to be important matters of state that need attending to. On the other, he is preparing for a night at the opera. By the grim set of his advisors' faces, however, it would seem that the balance of Choldwig's interest is focused rather more on the latter than the former. They shift impatiently.

Baron Woffeltop has pushed Choldwig hard for this meeting, if 'pushed hard' is the right phrase for a series of gentle suggestions in which the harshest words include 'if it would please you, my lord'. Choldwig III is a man whose ambitions are as vast as his loincloth is skimpy, and one has to handle him with care (or not at all, if he has been oiled). The landgrave takes his prerogatives seriously, being a firm believer in the old adage that 'power corrupts, and absolute power is great fun.' But for Woffeltop and his compatriots it is clear that Rotenburg has a moment of opportunity, and Choldwig must be encouraged to realise this. Latest reports indicate that the army of the Margravate of Badwurst-Wurstburp has been terribly defeated by Rotenburg's Vulgarian allies. They have retreated, and are now in eastern Gelderland licking their wounds (an activity which seems, even by the standards of the time, rather unhygienic.) Rotenburg must make the most of this opportunity and attack the weakened Wurstburpers forthwith! But only Choldwig can order this.

'An evening at the opera, my lord?' asks Woffeltop, trying to move things along.
'Ah yes', replies Choldwig. 'I'm going out this evening with Lady Eugenie'.
'Lady Eugenie?' asks Count von Haut.
'Yes, yes: I asked her out again.'
'I thought that she refused, my lord.'
'That was last week. She called me a pimply bone-headed buttock.'
'Didn't she also kick you heartily in your, ah, ... that it to say ... in your illustrious crotch?'
'Yes, she gave me quite a punt,' admits Choldwig.
'So, she changed her mind yesterday and agreed to accompany you?'
'No, no. She called me a buttock-headed bony pimple and then punched me vigorously in my crown jewels.'
'Well,' says Woffeltop, 'I'd count that as progress.'
'I hope so, I hope so,' replies Choldwig.  'I don't think my heart can take any more rejection. Or my gonads, for that matter.'

'Excellent!' says Choldwig finally, admiring himself. He has spent quite some time preparing for the evening, a process that has required more than the usual quantity of dabbing, primping, preening, painting, gluing, hammering, and sawing. The tailor begins to clean a selection of shoes.
'So', says Choldwig finally. 'These matters of state ...'
'Indeed', says Poppenzeitz. 'We believe that recent events have created an opportunity for our forces in this war.' A clicking sound emanates from under the Graf's wig. Thanks to a terrible accident resulting from a poorly conceived practical joke that comprised a loaded cannon and the line 'this cannon barrel is really big: why don't you stick your head down it and look', Poppenzeitz was once the recipient of a terrible head wound. Graf Theodor's life was saved only by the efforts of the famous engineer Wolfgang von Kempelen, the world's foremost expert in cutting-edge clockwork technology. Much of what is now under the Graf's rather extensive wig is now machine. The upsides of this include a remarkable capacity for logical analysis, and great powers of concentration; the downsides include a constant and rather disquieting whirring sound that emanates from under his wig and also the fact that, since he has a clockwork brain, Graf Theodor is rather easy to wind up.

'The Wurstburpers have been badly defeated', continues Graf Theodor. 'They are vulnerable to an attack from our army if you are willing, my lord, to order it forth.'
'Badly defeated, you say?' says Choldwig, admiring the selection of shoes.
'Oh yes, sir', says Woffeltop. 'The Wurstburp army has really been given a most vigorous whacking.'
Choldwig considers this. 'Hmmm. But I was under the impression that our troops were in a poor way after our defeat at the hands of the poltroons of Nabstria.'
'Yes, my lord,' replies Woffeltop. 'But the Wursburpers are in an even worst state than we are. Besides which, our forces have been augmented. We have only recently acquired a goodly quantity of chasseurs britanniques.'
'Excellent,' says Choldwig. 'I'm really quite peckish.'
'No, sir, no: that would be chicken chasseur. This is different. We have managed to recruit a new regiment comprised of English prisoners of war.'
'Are we at war with England?' says the landgrave, looking confused.
'No,' admits Woffeltop. 'We aren't - but they still keep surrendering to us anyway. They tend to be quite drunk. And rather inexperienced at the moment.'
Choldwig nods. 'I understand. So - when can I eat them?'
'No, my lord,' replies Woffeltop patiently. 'The chasseurs are part of your new regiment: the Legion Britannique; whereas chicken chasseur is a recipe. I can see how the confusion could arise: one comprises of wine-marinated chickens, and the other is a delicious stew.

Rotenburg conscripts: cheaper than manure and just as likely
to end up fertilising the ground.

Choldwig nods.
Woffeltop paces the room. 'This new regiment, my lord, has been raised by one of your most loyal admirers, the Lady Allison.'
'The Lady Allison?' asks Choldwig with interest. 'Does she like opera?'
'I cannot say, my lord.'
'How hard can she kick?'
'Again, my lord, I cannot say. But what I can say is that now is the time for action! Order forwards your army! Let us fall upon the sheep of Wurstburp like a great quantity of something that sheep don't like! The day will be ours! The fortunes of this war will be reversed! The victory will be all yours, my lord! A victory that will make you universally admired! A victory, my lord, that will render you irresistible to anyone in a petticoat!'

'Well hurrah to that!' cries Choldwig, leaping up. 'Yes, let us strike now! To the colours! Rouse the men! Onwards to victory!' He quaffs from a nearby cup. 'Gah!' he cries, wincing. 'Blkah! Hnnurh!' His body crumples. 'Blee! Blee! Flaargh!' He keels over.
'My lord! My lord!' cry his assembled advisors.
'I'm alright, I'm alright!' says Choldwig, pulling himself to his feet. 'That leech brandy,' he says looking at the cup. 'It's certainly improving.'
Woffeltop nods. 'That was shoe polish, my lord.'

Wallenover, the Final!

General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski gnashes his teeth in ire.
'Not on the map?' he shouts. 'But we've been over this ground already! I mean, quite literally, that we have walked over this ground and it was solid, and now there is a marsh here! How can that be! Magic? The work of a very large flock of incontinent sheep? An unwanted visit from Biffo and His Great Piddling Circus?'

Of course, Unpronunski is not the first general in Mittelheim to have been confronted  during a fight by an unwanted geographical obstacle that wasn't on his map. But he seems at this late stage in the battle to be taking it particularly badly. Unpronunski gesticulates wildly, red faced, agitated, sweating like Martin Luther at a Jesuit barbecue.
'How can a marsh appear on ground that my troops have already walked over? Surely that is physically and logically impossible?'
One of the general's staff officers, Adjutant von Hardtpumping, takes his career, and probably also his life, in his hands by interrupting the monologue.
'But we have a card or two up our sleeves, though general. I should think our opponent will be smiling on the other side of his face when we play them ...'
'We wouldn't want them up our sleeves!' says Unpronunski snarling, 'after I've taken them and shoved them up our opponent's ar ....'

'General, you must calm down ...'

'I mean right up it,' shouts the general, miming vigorously the action with his arm.

'That would indeed be quite far up,' agrees his staff officer. 'But in the meantime, what orders should I issue?'

'Bah!' says Unpronunski. 'There's nothing for it but to continue the assault! Order our two flanking units into the marsh: We must hope that we have both the time and and a sufficient break in my temper to permit me to order them further forwards later!'

(Below, at the top) In front of the general, two regiments splosh quickly into the marsh.

(Below) The remaining two regiments Unpronunski orders forwards in a vigorous bayonet charge!
'Forwards my fine fellows!' urges the general.
'I suddenly have a warm feeling,' says Hardtpumping.
'You're optimistic about the outcome of our attack?' asks Unpromunski appreciately.
'No sir,' replies the adjutant.  'I've wet myself.'

At this late stage in the battle, the ensuing combat is like that that one might see between two wrestlers locked in an engagement, if it turned out that they were not wrestlers, but actually a pair of inebriated ducks trying to honk one another into submission. (Below) Finally, outnumbered two-to-one, Orlok's regiment is routed from the battle, but not before they have sufficiently disordered one of their attackers so that it, too, quits the field.

(Above) In front of the Wurstburpian columns stands the red-coated Vulgarian troops of the Grand Prior's Regiment. The original regiment was a militia unit in the service of the Herzo-Carpathian army, raised by Grand Prior Valerian Vafa in 1690. The Grand Prior himself had not lasted long, what with the weight of his responsibilities, and the weight also that resulted from a diet consisting mainly of pastry products, with green introduced only if he happened mistakenly to drop his pie in the grass. But the honourific title remained. With Wurstburpian morale now lower than something that was already really quite low indeed, Rentall senses his opportunity. (Below) He orders the Grand Prior'sRegiment forwards with the bayonet. With a cheer, the Vulgarians march forwards.

With clerics long ago expended, and in some disorder, and without the attacking benefit of their bayonets, the Wurstburpian situation is perilous. Moreover, as battle is joined, the Vulgarian unit pushes forwards its grenadier contingent.
Unpronunski cannot see the fight from his position. But soon Adjutant von Hardtpumping rides to his position with news.
'Their grenadiers are advancing forward, whereas our grenadiers have shrunk from combat!'
'And our privates?'
Hardtpumping blinks. 'No change from this morning, as far as I'm concerned.'

Nearby, Death looks down at the carpet of bodies strewn across the meadow land. Some, the lucky ones, are actually dead. But many more are merely mainly dead, having received wounds that should under normal circumstances have been mortal but which now, for some reason, don't quite seem to have carried them off. Mainly expired and partially disarticulated Wurstburpian musketeers crawl  hither and thither, moaning and wriggling like English Members of Parliament after a little lunch-time drink.
Death sighs. 'This just can't get any worse', he says, fairly sure as to the source of this necrotic naughtiness.

'Wheeeeee! Look at me! Look at me!', says Cheese, bottle in hand.

Death turns to look at him.

'I've got no clothes on! I've got no clothes on!' shouts Cheese, waggling his scythe with one hand.

'Look at that', says Death ruefully. 'I was wrong.' He gestures admonishingly at Cheese. 'Nakedness and playing with scythes don't mix well. Stop this!'

Giggling, Cheese hares off across the battlefield. 'Chase me! Chase me!' he shouts.
Death stares at his scythe for a moment, and then rather awkwardly, tries to sweep the blade through his own neck. The weapon passes through him as if he were incorporeal.
Death sighs. 'It was worth a try, I suppose.'

(Above) The Vulgarian charge ends with the rout of the Wurstburpian musketeers. With their collapse, the Margravial morale also breaks, and their army begins to stream from the field!
Rentall slaps his thigh.
'Dish ish a most convinshing victory! Da field of battle ish littered with da enemy dead! Order da purshuit!'
'Huzzah!' cries Cameron von Muller.
'Pip pip!' adds Duke Neucheim.
'Gottle a geer!' notes baron Tostov, reflectively.
Meanwhile, general Unpronunski looks on in despair.
'I am in Hell.' He looks around the battlefield and then sighs. 'No, actually Hell I suspect has better views.'

Hurrah for general Rentall! A convincing victory for Vulgaria and for the forces of the Vulgarian Convention!