Jangthof, the Final!

General Unpronunski shakes his head. 'No Prince Karl, we are not exchanging clothes with local peasants, slipping away from the battlefield, and then joining a circus'.

Karl shrugs. 'It is by far the best option'.

'It is morally wrong', replies the general. 'It is cowardly and unprofessional. Also, look at those peasants - I am not wearing that skirt'. 

Prince Karl scowls. 'Well then general, the most immediate threat is that of further enemy musketry applied to our massed attack columns. We must commit our infantry now before they are destroyed by the enemy's lethal volleys'.

'Very well', nods Unpronunski. 'Adjutant, issue the orders. Prepare the men for the advance - or at least those few of our musketeers that are indeed real men: the rest will just have to follow'.

Looking on, general Unpronunski realises that this is the decisive combat of this battle and that he must make use of every advantage available to him. Calling forwards adjutant von Hardtpumping, the general instructs him to find the last of the Wurstburp clerics and to send him in support of this attack.

'Herr cleric!' says Hardtpumping, reining in his horse. 'You are commanded to advance in support of this attack! Go hence! Inspire our men to prodigies!'
'Uhhhh', says the startled cleric uncertainly, hurriedly pulling on his vestments. 'Uhhhh, but I'm rather new at this! I've never done this sort of thing before. Actually, I haven't even finished reading the manual', he says, pointing at his copy of the bible. 'I really haven't got much beyond chapter two. You know, the, uh, creating and resting bits; and then the bits with the garden, and the nakedness, and the, uh, fruit'.
'Forwards, sir!' shouts the adjutant urgently. 'No shilly-shallying! Our need is both pressing and immediate!'
Hurrying towards the sounds of battle, the cleric prepares himself for this make or break Wurstburp combat ....

(Above) Three Wurstburp battalions advance forward into the assault. One confronts the Rotenburg Legion Britannique; two others are thrown against a unit to its flank. Though the situation is serious for the Rotenburg troops, their position improves when their grenadiers are called forwards, tipping the balance of the combat in their favour. In the distance, however, the Rotenburgers espy the Wurstburp cleric. Fearing that a wrathful God might turn them into pillars of salt, or peanut butter, or some other unwelcome condiment, there are cries of fear from the Rotenburg troops, and a great wailing, and the uttering of a very great quantity of colourful metaphors.

'Just to clarify, sir', says one of the Wurstburp subalterns to the cleric whilst simultaneously pushing some of his soldiers back into line. 'Just to clarify - so, Cain was in a forest on the way to see his grandmother and he was wearing a red hooded cloak?'
'Oh yes' says the cleric, hunched slightly to make the smallest possible target for musket balls. 'And then Cain says "But what big eyes you've got grandmother ..."'
'Um', says the officer. 'I'm not entirely sure that that is a story from the bible ...'
'Who's the cleric here?' says the cleric, loudly. 'Who's the expert?'
'And the trail of breadcrumbs and the gingerbread house?'
'It's all in there, soldier', says the cleric, tapping his bible.' Perhaps,' says the cleric pointedly, 'you aren't a real Catholic.'
'But I am sir; I promise you ...'
'Perhaps, you're a Lutheran ...'
The subaltern blanches. 'No, no, sir ...'
'Or ... a Calvinist ...'
'Upon my honour, sir ...' splutters the officer in rising panic.
'Or English ...'
'No, no, no - I just didn't know that the story of Cain and Abel had three little pigs and a fairy godmother ...'
'Burn the witch!' howls the cleric.

Inspired by the cleric, perhaps, and certainly aided by the fact that they outnumber their adversaries two-to-one, the right-most Wurstburp attack is successful, the Rotenburg regiment being driven from the field in rout. Alas for Unpronunski, the other combat is less successful. The Legion Britannique put up a great fight.
'Steady, men!' shouts their commanding officer, Colonel 'Kevin', as the Wurstburp regiment advances towards them.
'Righto, sir!' shout the men. 'You know', adds one, 'your voice is quite high for an infantry officer, sir'.
'Is it?' replies the colonel, suddenly lowering his voice three octaves. 'Is it?'
'Also, sir, is that ... mascara you're wearing?'
'No, no, no' replies the colonel, his voice lowering a further two octaves and sounding now like a Yorkshireman with a sore throat gargling with some particularly husky gravel.
Already somewhat disordered before the assault, the Wurstburp attackers are driven back and break. (Below) With losses equal, this is not the success that Unpronunski hoped for or needs. The margravial infantry are now in an even more weakened state, and are lashed again by lethal Rotenburg volleys.

The remaining Wurstburp infantry begin to buckle. With the officers and NCO's dead or wounded, the rank and file begin to contemplate a speedy exit.
'I'm off', says one musketeer.
'What about the rest of us?' says a second.
'Yes', says a third. 'We're comrades - you can't leave us behind. There's no "I" in rout.'
'There could be', says a fourth. 'I mean, we're all illiterate. So there could be an "I" in it.'
'That's right', says the second. 'And a "D" and a "T" and a.. a.. "£"'.
'A "£"'? Now you're just showing off'.
'Look', says the first. 'Look around us. We're finished. It's time to go - none of us asked for this; none of us are volunteers. We've all been conscripted unwillingly'.
Another nods. 'I'd just nipped out for a quick piglet'.
'I'm Vulgarian', says another.
'I'm a barmaid', says a third.
'Actually, I volunteered', says a fourth.
'Volunteered?' say the others. 'Are you an idiot?'
'In a literal sense - yes. For I am the village idiot of the small hamlet of Kleine Popthardt'.
'Well', says the first, 'you've certainly confirmed your cretinous credentials'.
'Written them in big letters', says the second. 'A "D" ... a "T" ... and a "£"'.

(Above, right) The Rotenburg infantry quickly storms Jangthoff hill. The only defenders are a weakened battery of Wurstburp artillery.
'Drive off the enemy!' shouts adjutant Hardtpumping to the battery.
'Drive off the ... ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh - you're being serious', say the artillerymen.
Whilst it might well be that it takes two years of serious technical study to become an artillery officer, it's clear that these fellows skipped the classes on physics, mathematics, geometry, and firing cannons; and majored instead on falling over, sprinting, and learning how to surrender in eight different languages. They prove to be about as much inconvenience to the attacking infantry as a heavy lunch.

(Above) Though his losses are not great, Unpronunski fears that victory is now beyond his grasp and that further fighting will merely see his remaining infantry slaughtered by superior Rotenburg musketry. Sadly, he orders a withdrawal. Furst Augustus, pleased simply to have achieved a success, is happy to allow his adversary to retire unmolested.

As they watch Prince Karl gallop furiously from the field, Unpronunski and adjutant von Hardtpumping seem surprisingly philosophical about things. Although they have lost two regiments of conscripts, three others seem to have learnt enough from this battle to have been raised to the status of 'trained'. Indeed, one of the regular regiments seems now to have put on sufficient weight that one might consider them to be of 'elite' quality. There is also another, unexpected, benefit from this battle. As the general watches his troops retire, a horseman suddenly gallops into his headquarters, his horse all a-lather.
'I am Robert de Casside' says the notable. 'And I have come to join the victorious Rotenburg army!'

Hardtpumping pulls a face. 'Yes, but you've made a terrible mistake this isn't ... ooof!' he says as Unpronunski digs him painfully in the ribs.

'Welcome, my lord Robert', says Unpronunski. 'Welcome to the Rotenburg army! I think you'll enjoy yourself here tremendously!'

Jangthof, the Third!

'Damn the artillery!' cries Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste. 'To blazes with them, Wankrat! What contribution have the cannon ever made to my army except, perhaps, as unusually large and not very practical paperweights! Let the enemy hack down our guns - it will slow down their cavalry, speed up our rate of march, and also give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside! Continue the advance!'

(Below) The furst pushes forward his infantry again, ignoring the threat to his artillery. This time, however, he does order two regiments to turn to face the cavalry. The front ranks of his infantry are now within volley range of the enemy.

In the Wurstburp headquarters, Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen, known unpopularly as 'Bunnie Prince Karlie' because of his pronounced front teeth, turns in his saddle and gesticulates towards General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski.
'We must advance with our cavalry! Throw them into the attack!'
The general shakes his head. 'I fear that the close presence of our opponent's infantry means that there is too much else to do. Our first task is to fire our volleys against the advancing enemy musketeers, and then  ...' But before the general can finish his sentence, the attacking Rotenburgers fire first!
'What! What!' says Prince Karl. 'How have they fired first?'
'An enemy stratagem has afflicted us', says a breathless Adjutant von Hardtpumping.
'Gah!' expectorates the prince. 'An enemy stratagem. Let me guess - something has been discovered that wasn't on our map?'
'No, no, my lord, not that. Though it usually is, of course', Hardtpumping adds.
'Oh - it's worse is it!' curses Prince Karl. 'Of course it is. Has one of our heroes died? Or have we been struck by confusion! Or the sudden and unexpected advance without orders of one of our regiments in the heat of the battle! No, no! It couldn't be anything as simple as that! Let me guess, adjutant: there's been a "Death of a That's Not on the Heat of the Confusion" has there?'

'Calm yourself, prince', says the general. 'So they have stolen first fire. See - their volley is as ineffectual as the enforcement of Italian tax legislation. Only against our artillery have they had any success. And there, our cannon are surely protected by their gabions'.

'Gabions', says the prince, as if testing the word for the first time. 'Ah'.

(Above) 'No gabions!' says Unpronunski incredulously. 'But even in the armies of Mittelheim, isn't placing defensive bastions for our guns practically an unwritten rule - so, don't talk to strangers; never trust a Sicilian; always dig your guns in'.
'I thought that it was important to maintain the mobility of our guns' replies Karl defensively.
'Mobility?' says the general aghast. 'But I don't understand - why do the guns need to be mobile? What did you intend that the artillery would do? Cross country rallying? Three point reversing? Handbrake turns?'
Bereft of defensive protection, one of the Wurstburp batteries suffers heavy casualties to its crew. Many lie on the ground, or are draped over their pieces, moaning. This is not in itself unusual, of course, but in this case it is indicative of a variety of unpleasant and mortal wounds, not all of them self-inflicted.

The Wurstburp infantry return fire, but it is a weak volley with all the destructive power of a suggestive wink. Perhaps the margravial artillery can disrupt the enemy assault, instead?
The Wurstburp artillerymen look on in some surprise as orders are delivered to load with canister.
'What with what?' asks a cannoneer.
'Load. With canister,' replies Hardtpumping.
'But adjutant', says one fellow. 'Can I recommend that instead of canister, we employ the most modern scientific knowledge to pummel the enemy with our guns?'
'What would that be', asks Hardtpumping suspiciously.
'Phlogisticated gunpowder. I have read the latest works of the noted scientist Faltaire. We must heavily dilute our gunpowder with sand. Lots and lots of sand'.
'And that will crush the enemy infantry, will it?' asks the adjutant
'Scientifically proven', promises the gunner.
'But canister surely will crack their lines', replies Hardtpumping.
'And sand will surely line their cracks', replies the artilleryman. 'It will chafe them terribly. Manoeuvre will be impossible!'
Whilst his intuition screams "No, no, no, no, no - crapness occurring!", Hardtpumping likes to think of himself as a man of the Enlightenment, and so he says instead 'Well, why not?'
The answer to that question is provided by the volley of canister fire propelled by Faltaire's homeopathic gunpowder recipe, which results in a explosion comparable to the sound emitted from a small rabbit breaking wind. The canister itself never sees fit to leave the comforting confines of the gun barrels.

Following the mutual exchange of volley-fire, efforts on both sides are made to rally the troops, using the usual array of carrots and sticks: that is, threats are made to stick carrots in places that one wouldn't normally store them for the winter.

(Above) However, the Wurstburp discomfort gets progressively more intense. More Rotenburg musketry rolls along the line. The crew of one Wurstburp battery are cut to pieces and flee. The conscript battalions, formed in mass, are especially vulnerable to the lethal volleys of their enemy and take heavy casualties. When the Wurstburp infantry returns the volley fire, the results are limper than a one-legged triple-jumper.

To try and rectify matters, a Wurstburp cleric is called forward and deployed.
'Have another go, my fine fellows!' cries the cleric. 'For did not David, when confronted by the Philistine Goliath, launch an initial volley of sling stones; but then cry "Dammit, snakes eyes: I've missed them all". And did not Goliath then laugh and say unto David: "Verily, you have missed with some quite dismal hit rolls, and now I shall leap upon you and tear off your ears and shove them up your bottom; so that you will no longer here the sounds of birds, or music, but will instead hear only the sounds of your rear end". And did not David then fall to his knees and pray really hard to God, saying something like: "Dear God - please do not let my initial missed attacks stand; let me have another go". And God, surveying the combat looked upon David; and then he sayeth, or did sayeth, or whatever worked grammatically in those days: "David, verily, I have considered your request; and I have seen your ears; and I consider them good; and do not wish them to be pushed up your bottom; for then you will hear only your backside and not the words of God. Have another goeth at your attack".
'And then Goliath did wail, and gnash his teeth, and sayeth or whatever, rude things about God; saying that God was a false god, and not a true god; and that besides, God was much too fat to be the proper object of a monotheistic religion. And God then pointed out to Goliath that he might regretteth those badly chosen insults; and that he was the One True God; and that he was in any case considering going on a diet; and he blessed David's sling.'
'And David did pick up his sling and launched another volley; and all of these hit; and Goliath was slain. And David then did say in joy "Yay!" and he praised the name of God; and then asked, since God was here, if he would give him a better looking wife.'
Inspired by this rather loose interpretation of events in the bible, the Wurstburp musketeers launch another fusillade at their enemy. When the smoke clears, however, the results, if anything, are worse than their original attack. The cleric pulls a face and then tip-toes off quietly.

'We must advance the cavalry!' says Karl urgently, surveying the situation through his telescope.
'There is no time, my lord. There are other things to do!' says Hardtpumping.
'But the battle hangs in the balance!' replies Karl. 'I can see the enemy infantry preparing to ... oooh, those are nice uniforms', he says, his attention alighting upon the Rotenburg Legion Britannique. 'Yes, a lovely shade of ... teal, I think. Very fetching. And I can see their commanding officer. What a splendid looking fellow. What a fetching moustache, and tiny button nose. How shapely his legs are. How well he fills out the top half of his coat. What an usually seductive way of marching ...'. The prince suddenly turns to Unpronunski. 'My, er, my spyglass is dirty. I need, er, I need to go to my tent and polish my telescope'. But before Karl can turn his horse, the general grabs his reins.
'No, no, Prince Karl! You cannot leave again at the critical point of a battle! Our choices are to advance with our cavalry, or to launch a bayonet charge with our infantry! What do you advise?'
Karl says hastily, 'General, there is only one sensible option ...'

Jangthoff, the Second!

Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen and General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski watch from their headquarters the progression of the Rotenburg infantry. The advance of the enemy musketeers is well-organised, precise, determined, and also, therefore, rather surprising.

'They won't just keep coming straight on like that, will they?' asks the general.

'No, no general', replies the prince, surveying the attack. 'I cannot believe that the Rotenburg plan would simply entail just marching straight up to us and firing. I should imagine at some stage that there will be some attempt at a clever manoeuvre - perhaps they will suddenly wheel, or, their cavalry perhaps will quickly dash up and threaten us with combined arms'.

'Possibly', answers the general, clearly sceptical, 'Although they seem usually to struggle with using just one arm'.

Adjutant von Hardtpumping then adds, 'Or, perhaps this infantry advance is just a feint before their artillery begins to fire for effect'.

There is a round of dismissive noises from the headquarters staff.

'Artillery - really?' chuckles the general. 

'What, you mean turning on their smoke machines?' chortles Prince Karl. 'I've never quite understood the purpose of artillery'.

'Well', says Unpronunski, 'Where would one put those intelligent, educated, non-noble officers?'

'We could incorporate them into our officer corps and so increase its professionalism and technical expertise' replies the adjutant.

There is much laughter.

'War isn't won by professionalism and expertise, adjutant', scoffs the prince.

'Although in our case', adds the general sadly, 'it really doesn't seem to be won at all.'

(Above) 'Well, well', concludes Prince Karl after a further examination of the Rotenburg lines. 'It really does look as if the Rotenburgers are engaged in executing a crude frontal assault. Probably, it's their failed attempt at a clever flank attack.'
'That's probably it', says the general, unconvinced.
Karl nods: 'Yes, thank goodness that they didn't actually plan a frontal assault, because no doubt that would have appeared on our flanks in no time at all. Surely a frontal assault plays to out strengths.'
'Our entire battle line is comprised of conscripts, Prince Karl', says Unpronunski wearily. 'I'm not sure that they really have any strengths to play to'.
Karl snorts. 'Give them time, general: give them a little time to get used to the sight of the enemy and I guarantee that they will become more composed'.
'More composted is more likely' whispers the general under his breath.

Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste nods grimly as he watches his infantry advance. The resonant sound of flutes and drums wafts back to his position. To his left, however, the reassuring din of the movement of his infantry is suddenly drowned out by the thunder of massed "clippety clops". Is his cavalry now going forwards?
 'Beelzebub's barnacled bottom!' cries the Furst in ire. 'Wankrat - is that the sound of my cavalry advancing? I expressly ordered them not to advance; not, in fact, to do anything at all!'.
'I think, my lord, that your officers of horse have been innovating in order to overcome the inexperience of your conscript cavalrymen and their problems in controlling their mounts'.
The furst peers through his spyglass into the distant mass of his cavalry from which the clamorous noise emanates. 'What?' he shouts. The furst slumps. 'Bloody hell, Wankrat - please tell me that those aren't coconut shells'.

Prince Karl turns to General Unpronunski. 'Now is the time, general. I advised you to deploy our cavalry aggressively so that we might remove the pressure from our weak infantry with a carefully timed counter-blow. The enemy have kept their foot in close formation, but that leaves their sides exposed; especially that to our left, which is covered only by artillery. Launch a frontal assault with our cavalry. We'll soon be upon their vulnerable flank!'
Unpronunski nods in assent.

(Above)  'Forwards!' cries Prince Karl.
'By which', adds the adjutant to the courier, 'Our dear prince means wheel to the left, then go forwards, then wheel to the right and prepare to charge!'
Prince Karl scowls. 'I think that that was implicit in my order'.
'This is Mittelheim, my lord', replies the adjutant evenly. 'Nothing is implicit - except perhaps for the poverty in the quality of government, the unhappiness of the peasantry, and the gluttony of King Wilhelm of Gelderland'.
'Well', replies Karl, 'There you are wrong, my man. I also have some quite implicit French illustrated pamphlets in my tent'.
'I expect that you mean, sir, that they are "explicit"'.
'No, no. I still think that behind the obvious messages explored by the heaving plumpies and dimpled buttocks of the undressed actresses, there are in fact some quite weighty subtexts'.
'You mean, sir, that the actresses are fat?'
'No. No. No. Well, yes they are. But what I mean - or what I think that I'm implying that I mean, is that these pictures of French actresses artistically undressing say something quite profound about the condition of man'.
'You mean your condition?' says the general.
'No, no, no. Well, yes. But beyond my obvious sans britches condition in the presence of these pamphlets, I feel that the dear French ladies disrobing says something about, well, freedom'.
The general nods. 'The freedom that comes with not having one's britches on?'
'No, no, no. Actually,' ponders Karl, 'Yes - you might be right. Well, well, well. So that's what radical philosophers are talking about when they bang on about freedom and the rights of man'.
'Exactly sir', says Hardtpumping, 'It's all about one's rights as a man to be free of one's trousers'.
The prince nods. 'Well. What a surprising morning. It turns out that I am a philosopher as well as a general'.
'Steady on, sir' says the adjutant.
'Your're right, it's too early to say I'm a philosopher ...'
'I think', says Unpronunski, 'That he meant the element relevant to the general ...'
'I think therefore I am', declaims Prince Karl.
'You are what, sir?' asks the adjutant.
'Well', says Karl, reflecting philosophically as hard as he can, 'I would say at the moment that I am mostly hungry. Well, there I go again. I am, it seems, a philosopher'.
'Or are you?' replies the general archly.
Karl is about to answer before he cottons on. 'Ah, clever, clever. Excellent. What better thing is there on a bright morning than some learned philosophical discourse'.
'Issuing orders', says the general, 'And directing the battle?'
The prince blows a raspberry. 'You know what, Unpronunski, you're always spoiling my fun'.

Through his telescope, Saxe-Peste sees the enemy cavalry, all three regiments of it, ride swiflty across the face of his infantry line heading for his right flank. A choice now faces the furst - he can halt the advance of his infantry and wheel his troops to face the cavalry; or he can damn their eyes, curse them to do their worst and push on regardless. The furst, however, is a learner. A slow one, to be sure, but nevertheless, here he is able to draw upon his previous experiences at the battle of  Nottelbad. There, faced with the threat of a cavalry envelopment, he halted his infantry and turned to face them, an action which effectively ended his attack and handed the initiative to his adversary. The furst is not a man to be caught out twice - except of course, when he is. (Above) he chooses his second option and ignores the cavalry. Using the advantages of oblique manoeuvre, he shifts his infantry so that they can pass the enemy horse.

(Below) The Wurstburp cavalry continue their frontal assault around the flank of the Rotenburg infantry line.
'Excellent!' says Furst Augustus to Captain Wankrat, 'Our advancing infantry have avoided becoming entangled in the enemy cavalry and are pushing on towards Jangthof hill. Hah! The feeble enemy horsed regiments have been left in the air with nothing to attack but our flanks and rear'. The furst pauses. 'Hmmm, hang on ...'

(Above) The margravate's cavalry are now in a position to, as it were, 'do their wurst'. The Rotenburg artillery have prepared well for their allocated role in the battle. That is, they have arranged some chairs from which they can watch the battle and broached a barrel of fermented leech ale. As they watch from their repose the progress of the Wurstburp horseman, a small niggle begins to develop in their minds; a niggle that, as the enemy cavalry continue their manoeuvre, expands first to a concern; and then to a major consideration; before escalating into a condition that might legitimately require the wetting of their underpants.
Furst Augustus looks on through his telescope. 'Oh dear', he says quietly.
Wankrat nods. 'Shall I get your spoons ready, my lord?'