Chaptliptz, the Final!

Major Nicklaus-Maria von Richter-Mortis of the Rotenburg army gestures to the company of regular troops in front of him.
'Fix bayonets!' he orders.
There is a rippling clatter as the steel accouterments are appended to the ends of muskets, along with several exclamations of 'Ow!', 'Ooh, that stings!', and 'What's a bayonet?'
'Men!' shouts Richter-Mortis. 'Men (though I use the term rather loosely and in that general sense that would encompass all in humanity not explicitly dressed in skirts, and also some of the more intelligent of the great apes)! There is the hill upon which stands our objective! There at the foot of it are those enemy who would stand in the way of our glory!'
The men peer at the hill.
'Sir, I can't see our objective', says one firmly. 'I can't see that fellow anywhere'.
'Look', replies the major, waving his sword, 'you'll just have to trust me. He's up there in the largest of the bushes. Just head in the direction of the least convincing-sounding bird'.
'But if he's hiding, sir, how will we find him?' says another musketeer.
'It's not that large a hill top', says Richter-Mortis with exasperation. 'It really isn't. Just search the bushes until you find a bird that's about five feet seven inches tall and wears a wig and a pair of boots. It's not that challenging - you won't need to look hard and I guarantee there will be no need for a line-up of suspects'.

(Above) Seemingly satisfied, with a whoop one of the Rotenburg platoons charges forwards. Outnumbered, and roughly handled in all the wrong places, the defenders are driven backwards to the foot of the hill (below) The Bachscuttelers do not rout, however, and the attacking troops are now locked in combat. There is a cacophony of urgent shouts and despairing screams; bayonets flash; and the fight descends into a free-for-all redolent with all of the usual themes associated with war in Mittelheim: violence; tragedy; painful self-inflicted wounds; the particular persecution of any who seem different (smaller, for example; or foreign; or who seem better at using cutlery); a preference for attacking the already wounded; and a morally questionable use of sausages.

(Above) The second platoon of Bachscuttel musketeers can lend no aid. To their front (though out of shot of this wood cut), the remaining two platoons of Rotenburg regulars prepare themselves to attack.

Richter-Mortis stands ready to order them to advance. The courier is with him again, having brought more unsurprising news regarding the performance of the remains of the major's force of jagers.

'All dead, you say?' says the major.

'No, sir; not all' replies the messenger. 'Some are merely badly wounded; and many others have simply run off. Others, it seems are cowering in a small copse to the south and are awaiting the arrival of a sedan chair that will allow them to flee the battlefield in more comfort'.

Richter-Mortis expectorates a stream of curses that even a Fenwickian could not mistake for mere double-entendre - these are ripe, full-frontal, metal-bar-to-the-shinbone sorts of oaths, fully indicating that the major is firmly of the opinion that the jager are a gaggle of miserable individuals with a lower than usual chance of having an identifiable father; but who also have a higher than one might expect likelihood of engaging in unusual, and physically as well as morally risky, physical activities with livestock. 

(Below, at the bottom) Major Richer-Mortis gives the orders and, in an effort to break the enemy, the two Rotenburg platoons charge the remaining unengaged unit of Bachscuttel musketeers. The initial charge causes casualties, but doesn't break the defending troops.

(Above, at the top) Worse for the landgravate, the first Rotenburg platoon, temporarily successful, has no time to recover before it is charged by two platoons of Bachscuttelers: one of regulars and the other of irregulars. In the ensuing hand-to-hand combat, several of the Rotenburg troops are killed or wounded. (Below) The battle reaches what in Grand Fenwick couldn't be called its climax. The two Rotenburg platoons overrun their adversaries and then hurl themselves into the remaining fight in order to save their comrades!

(Above) As the melee continues, the platoon of Bachscuttel grenadiers fixes bayonets and prepares to charge.
'Hold, men!' urges Richter-Mortis

Having regained his vantage point upon the hill, Colonel Nockenshoppes prepares to order the grenadiers into the fray.

'Our men will never hold!' pipes up Herr Agorn from behind his bush.

Nockenshoppes seems more optimistic. 'Sometimes people can surprise you', he replies.

'Well yes', says Agorn, reflectively. 'I suppose they can. For example, they can hide in cupboards and then jump out into the room when you don't expect it'.

'No', replies the colonel. 'I mean that they do things that are unexpected'.

Agorn nods. 'Yes, like being married to the woman you're in bed with when they jump out of the cupboard'.

The colonel pulls a face and then turns to the officer commanding the grenadiers.

'Herr lieutenant, are your men up to this?'

'Yes sir; they know their onions'.

'Good, because this needs to be an effective assault'.
'No, sir - I mean that they know about onions. Mostly, they're farmers'.
Nockenshoppes gestures to the melee at the bottom of the hill. 'I am sure, my fellow, that it will be fine: after all, you have grenades'.
'You'd think so, wouldn't you?' answers the officer miserably before giving the order to advance.

(Above) The grenadiers charge into the combat. Though the Rotenburgers still have the numbers, their troops are heavily fatigued.
'They’re throwing cakes at us', they shout. 'The currants hurt!'
'They might have marzipan!' shout others. 'Spare us! Flee! Flee! Call some sedan chairs!'
After the shortest of resistance, the Rotenburgers break and quit the field!
At the same time, to the north sails appear upon the horizon - the navy is here!
'Hurrah!' shouts Nockenshoppes. 'Herr Agorn, the navy is here! We can cease this military pantomime - with our maritime forces present, we shall see some proper discipline, professionalism, and amusingly bandy lower limbs!'
'Hang on', says Agorn, reaching for his telescope (something else that probably couldn't done in Grand Fenwick). 'There are other sails behind them! Enemy ships in sight!'