Happy Christmas!

Christmas, they say, is "the most wonderful time of the year". But that probably depends upon exactly where one is celebrating it. In Prussia, for example, or other areas in the civilised parts of Europe, there is no doubt some truth to this adage. Christmas in such places probably has more of the sorts of things usually associated with having a good time: mulled wine, potato dumplings, stollen, and red cabbage for those interested in some family feasting; or heavy battle, bayonet charges, and cruelty to captured Russian prisoners for those interested in a more active festive period.

'Foreigners: Coming Over Here at Christmas, Stealing Our Chairs' 

In Mittelheim, on the other hand, Christmas could truthfully only be described as "relatively speaking, the least violent time of the year". Overall, most times in Mittelheim for ordinary folk vary from the deeply unpleasant and usually quite painful, to the mediocre and probably quite damp. Christmas is thus "most wonderful" only because even the most venal and arbitrary of aristocrats tend to take the day off. In a Mittelheim Christmas, 'tis the season to be less miserable than usual. Surprisingly, this sentiment hasn't been turned into a jolly festive song. And so, if Christmas in Mittelheim is a time for good cheer, it is a good cheer from the locals when doing terrible things to any foreigners that they can find.

As this year winds slowly to an end, have a happy Christmas; and we hope that the coming year brings you more in the way of joy and less in the way of enemy siege parallels.

Warning, Not to Scale!

The purposes of a siege are manifold - the seizing of a point of strategic importance, for example; the chance to tie down a portion of the enemy army; the opportunity to force the enemy to march to the relief of said position and so wrest the initiative. But in Mittelheim, one of the other advantages, theoretically, of a siege, would be the opportunity to procure some really big pieces of artillery and to make some really very loud explosions without being shouted at, or having one's stuff confiscated. Indeed, the luxuriant heft of the Nabstrian siege park has already been alluded to in previous editions of this publication: such a collection of heavy metal has surely not been seen since Princess Caroline of Bachscuttel's corsets were last laid out for cleaning.

On the other hand, there has been rather less said on the subject of the contribution made to this siege by the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel . For this omission there is a reason. Envious of the size of Burgrave Falco of Nabstria's ordnance (not a phrase that could ever be said in polite Fenwickian society), the prince had perused the catalogues of several manufacturers of heavy artillery and mortars. One, in particular, took his eye -  described as a 32lb siege mortar, this weapon seemed just the ticket. 32lb sounded quite big: easily as much, for example, as one of King Wilhelm's buttocks.

Alas, (above) the piece delivered was less impressive than hoped for. It was either quite small, or else permanently quite far away, and looked less like a siege mortar than it did a chocolate log with a vase stuck on the end. For Prince Rupprecht, this disappointment chafed. It was not the chafing of the intensity, say, of putting on a fur hat and discovering that it was in fact a small and angry honey badger; but it was not far from being comparable to going for a long gallop on one's horse before discovering that one had earlier inadvertently tipped iron filings into one's underbritches.

Nevertheless, since it was the only Bachscuttel contribution to the siege force of the Spasmodic Sanction, there was nothing for it but to crack on. And so, for day after day, the crew of the mortar have been firing it at the enemy, more from a sense of duty than any real belief that it will do any damage. Lobbing munitions into the fortress from this mortar seems rather like presenting facts or objective evidence to Prince Rupprecht - ultimately pointless, but one feels the need to go through the motions. The crewmen have taken to coughing loudly as each round is fired, in order to make the explosion seem more impressive.

Whilst the Bachscuttel bombardment might be, metaphorically, administering to their Fenwickian enemies merely some minor tweaks to their noses, the weight of the Nabstrian attack is much more serious, comprising, as it were, a persistent and heavy flicking of the Fenwickian genitals with a quite substantial ruler. These eye-watering consequences are likely to become even more serious as work continues apace on the third siege parallel ...

Mine! All Mine!

'I'm just saying', says Colonel Niall Pointe to the Gelderland pioneers that stand in front of him, 'that this operation would proceed wi' more urgency if ye did more digging and less weeding'.
One of the pioneers, a subaltern, nods. 'Indeed, sir. But the lord Horace de Saxe was most insistent that the foundation of success in such enterprises was preparation - in this case, weeding and mulching'.
The colonel sighs and shakes his head. 'So, how then is the tunnel progressing?' The soldiers in front of him pause. The pause gives Pointe additional intimations of concern. Reassuring answers to his question might include such responses as 'Very well, sir'; or 'Generally, excellent'; or 'Solid progress sir, but we've had a few problems with some troublesome moles'. The subaltern's actual answer to his question, if it doesn't actually set the alarm ringing in Pointe's mind, certainly conjures, metaphorically, the strong smell of smoke and a desire to determine the whereabouts of a really loud bell.
'What tunnelling?' the subaltern replies.

'So', says Colonel Pointe, 'Ye haven't been digging a tunnel at all?'
The pioneers look uncomfortable. 'There was all the mulching to do' says one. 'And the broad beans'.
'And also', says the subaltern, 'we were all a bit run down'.
'You were ill?' asks Pointe.
'No, sir: I mean that we got run down. By Lord Saxe's carriage. He sits in it, but there's actually no one driving the horses in front'.
(Below) One of the miners points at the head of the mine itself.
'And even the digging has been difficult, sir. There is this large structure in the way'.

Pointe crosses his arms truculently. 'That', says Pointe slowly, 'is a mine'.
The soldier looks impressed. 'It's yours?'
'No, it's a mine', replies Pointe slowly.
The soldier looks confused. 'But you own it?'
'No one owns it', says the colonel scowling.
The soldier furrows his brows. 'So we stole it, then?'
'No', says Pointe firmly. 'Look, laddie. Previous miners dug this mine; but they dug it in the wrong direction. They went', he turns, pointing back through the siege lines, 'that way, instead of', he turns and points to the fortress, 'that way'.
The soldier looks philosophical. 'Well, sir, it's an easy mistake to make'.
'No. No.' says the colonel, 'It really isnae, laddie. Of all the problems that might occur in siege mining, digging it under one's own siege lines and blowing up a local tavern isnae high on the list. A shortage of timber to shore up the roof - that would be a reasonable problem; or excessive rain; or, running into an enemy counter mine. But digging in the entirely opposite direction to that required - that is not a reasonable problem. Ye just take a compass and dig in the direction that heads towards the enemy walls. Then, once ye reach the walls, ye put barrels of gunpowder in it'.
'Whoa, whoa!' says the subaltern.  'Gunpowder? That sounds really dangerous! I mean, one spark and the whole lot could go off, sir!'
The colonel gestures incredulously. 'That's the point! The whole point is that the gunpowder goes off! Then the wall comes down; and we go through the gap! So, laddie, ye need to go into the mine-head and down the ladder. Then ye dig that way!'
'But what about the hole we've already been digging?' pipes up one of the pioneers.
The colonel looks less horrified. 'A hole? Where? Is it under the enemy wall?'
The subaltern points towards the fortress. 'Not exactly'.

The pioneer's use of the term 'not exactly' is, ironically, itself inexact. The actual geographical relationship between the Gelderland hole and the Fenwickian fortress wall is one that would place the phrase 'not exactly' more accurately in the category of 'not at all'. Pointe stares out into the no-man's land between the two armies. He can just see a green-coated Gelderland pioneer standing amidst a pile of earth. Though he can't be certain, it appears that the soldier might be unpotting a shrub.
'How', says Pointe, trying to control his temper, 'is that hole going to help bring down the enemy wall?'
'Well, sir, I suppose that it won't. But, return here in spring and I think that you might be delighted by the marvellous blend of colours and textures that we will have created'.
'Tell that man to get out of the hole and then fill it in', orders Pointe.
'Yes sir!' comes the sad reply from the pioneers.
The colonel pauses. 'Actually', he continues, 'cancel that.'
'Yes sir!' comes the enthusiastic reply.
'Instead', says the colonel, 'tell that man to stay in the hole, and then fill it in'.

Some People They Call Me Horrees!

From a position in the first parallel of the siege works, the commander of the attacking force, Brevet Brigadier General Ernst Leopold von Rheinfunkt, surveys the progress thus far. In general, (or rather, brevet general), he is not displeased with the situation. The Nabstro-Gelderland army is continuing to develop the third parallel of trenches; he has ordered a second attempt to mine the enemy walls; and there is, as yet, no immediate rumour of the arrival of a Fenwickian relief army. 

Rheinfunkt removes his hat and carefully mops his brow. This involves him wiping a point slightly to the right of his ear. The general, in an earlier battle of the Wars of the Gelderland Succession, was in receipt of a terrible head wound from enemy musket fire. This wound has given those features above his neck a rather more random relationship to one another than is usual. It also carried away a fair helping of those parts of his mind concerned with self-doubt, rational calculus, and the dislike of vegetables.

As the general watches another volley from a nearby artillery position, the cannonballs reassuringly sailing towards the enemy fortress, there comes from behind him a loud, though polite, cough. Rheinfunkt looks behind him; an action that requires rather less in the way of the turning of his head than is usual for most.

'Sir', says a staff officer, bowing. 'You have a visitor from Nabstrian headquarters. It is none other, sir, than the famed military commentator Horace de ...'

'What! What!' interrupts Rheinfunkt, looking alarmed. 'No! No! Tell him I'm indisposed! Tell him I'm dead! Tell him I'm indisposed because I'm dead! Tell him ...'

'Well, hello, my good sir!' says an approaching voice.

Rheinfunkt sighs. Attempting to make the best of things, he tries to hide his disappointment and, for political reasons, put on his face an expression somewhat happier than he feels. This produces an arrangement of his features that, to a stranger, would look like those of someone who, after finding that he has been hit by a cannonball, also discovers that his wife has attached to it a request for divorce.
'De Saxe!' says the general. 'Words can't describe how I feel to see you!' This isn't quite true: there are certain arrangements of the words "carriage" "shove your" and "up your arse" that might communicate well enough Rheinfunkt's feelings. But, in a coalition operation, one must put petty dislikes to one side and grease the wheels of inter-allied diplomacy.

In Horace de Saxe's case, some literal greasing of the wheels might be in order, given the poor state of his wicker carriage. Brother of the more famous Maurice, Horace has inherited some fraternal features - four limbs. for example, and a nose with the regular number of holes in it - but none of the ones that would be really useful for a soldier; like courage, intellect, or a willingness to buy a round. Horace's reputation as a military theorist is built upon his slim volume Mes Gueules de Bois ('My Hangovers'), a tome with the same relationship to insightful military philosophy as a ham sandwich might have to Leonardo da Vinci's homework.
'Well this is splendid!' says de Saxe, cheerfully. 'A proper siege - how exciting!'
'You haven't touched anything have you?' says Rheinfunkt suspiciously.
De Saxe looks hurt. 'I have my trousers on!' he replies huffily.
'No', replies the general. 'I mean here - at my siege. You haven't fiddled with anything; or moved anything around; or loosened something'.
'I have touched nothing' replies de Saxe. 'I have simply been dispensing some of my wisdom'.
'Wisdom?' says Rheinfunkt, looking worried. 'Dispensing?'
'Indeed, sir. I have been conversing with your miners'.

'You have been advising my engineers on mining operations?' asks the general suspiciously. 'Are you an expert on such activities?'
'I have some knowledge of the relevant skills' replies de Saxe.
'You mean that you have been trained as an engineer, and have perhaps observed siege mining work in other contexts?'
'I mean that I have done quite a bit of gardening in my time'.
'Well', says the general, trying to make the best of things, 'well, I suppose that both do require a certain quantity of digging'.
'Yes', replies Horace. 'And also there's the bulbs. And the ornamental ponds'.
The brigadier chokes. 'Hold on a second de Saxe: there's something at the back of my mind'.
'Another musket ball, perhaps?' inquires Horace solicitously.
'No, no. I've just remembered that I need to send my Chief Engineer, Colonel Niall Pointe, to inspect the progress of my miners...'
'Excellent!' says de Saxe. 'He can help with the carrots'.

The Fortress!

As we leave, dear reader, the violent and morally questionable activities of the Mittelheim forces in America, we return our gaze to the events at Fort Pippin. More specifically, we cast our eyes upon the ongoing siege taking place there. Much to the chagrin of the besieging forces of the Spasmodic Sanction, the Fenwickian defenders are exhibiting a rather unMittelheim-like determination to defend their positions; if not to the last man, then at least to the last of the really unpopular men.

A previous report in this publication has noted the history of Fort pippin. Suffice it to say that this fortress is the chief stronghold of the Empire of Grand Fenwick, and its fate is of considerable signifiance to the course of the war. (Below) The fortress features some of the very latest fashions in modern fortifications: an outer glacis; intermediate ravelins; and a main wall featuring artillery bastions. At least, that is what any respectable European officer might call them. Here, the technicalities of military engineering have been reduced to a series of such observations as 'Crikey, those outside things are really zig-zaggy'; and 'so, are these things hexagons, or polygons, or .. uh ... mostly-gons'.

That the fort itself is defended by Fenwickians, the Spartans of Mittelheim, should also be an advantage; although recent history suggests that, whilst they are splendid soldiers in open field battles, their performance in other circumstances has, like Scottish lasagne, tended to disappoint. 

(Below) The main approach to Fort Pippin is also heavily defended. Any attempt to take the position by direct assault would surely be doomed to failure. This isn't, intrinsically of course, a reason why a Mittelheim army wouldn't try it anyway, but in this case even such forces as those of the Spasmodic Sanction have taken cause to think twice. Neither of these thoughts took very long, it is fair to say, and both were mainly concerned with cake and wenches in cakes. But even in such circumstances it was evident to the besiegers that there might be more effective, and much less terminal, ways of taking the fort than a mad rush towards the main entrance. Once the obvious plans had been considered (firing a cannon into the fort and then knocking on the gate to ask for their ball back; or dressing in women's clothing and pretending to be late for a party), the only option seemed to be a regular military operation.

(Below) Early attempts scored highly on imagination, if rather lower on military practicality. Artillery positions, it turned out, really needed to face the enemy if they were to be fully effective - who knew? And wooden horses needed to somewhat larger than life size. Finally, the Spasmodic Sanction army recognised that siege operations might require a proper military professional. In consequence, they have hired another mercenary French-Scottish engineer - in this case one Colonel Niall Pointe. For this reason, across the field, the Gelderland-Nabstrian siege has finally been proceeding apace. With the Fenwickian victory at Wuppenhas, the chances of the arrival of a Fenwickian relief force has greatly increased, so the siege must be actively prosecuted if it is to stand any chance of success.

(Above, right) Under the watchful eye of Colonel Pointe, the first parallel and accompanying batteries have been established. From this positon, a sap has been pushed forward and the second parallel, too, has been contructed. These have been built quite speedily: if there is one thing that Mittelheim soldiers are keen on, it's creating conditions that reduce the likelihood of being shot. The beginnings of the third parallel can now be seen. From this position, the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction are within measurable distance of the enemy's defensive glacis. One more sap will allow the attackers to 'crown' the glacis and bring forward another battery to pound the main walls and prepare for the final assault.

(Above) Troops man the first and second parallels. The Fenwickian defensive fire has been curiously ineffective. In the the far distance can be seen the head of a mine that Pointe has ordered to be dug. The success of this mining operation is likely to hinge on a combination of hard work and a strong grasp of geometry: neither of which is the strong suit of Mittelheim troops. Actually, only those mining operations that hinge on obesity and guesswork could normally be considered their strong suit. And even then, it would less of a "suit", and more a pair of heavily patched under-britches.

An Audience With the Prince!

Barry-Eylund's meeting with the prince does not seem to begin especially well.
'Incompetent nincompoop!' expectorates Rupprecht. 'Foolish lackwit! Reckless half-witted donkey-brain!'
The general nods sagely. 'You do me too great an honour, my lord'.
'I do?' says Rupprecht, looking confused.
'Why yes, sire.'
'Bone-headed untalented amateur!' Rupprecht continues, looking unsure.
'I am embarrassed by your effusive praise, my prince' says Barry-Eylund, bowing low.
'But ... but I think I'm insulting you', replies Rupprecht. 'I think. I'm almost sure that I was going to remove you from command of my ... oooh, what's that that's just fallen out of your pocket?'

The general looks around with exaggerated care. 'Fallen out of my pocket? I don't think that ... but here!' he says, picking something up and brandishing it. 'Why, it seems to be a plump and tasty bratwurst sausage of the very best quality!'
'I command you to give it here!' orders Rupprecht, looking for a short moment like a proper prince, and exercising a measure of sausage-related gravitas and authority. As Rupprecht then begins to gobble down the bratwurst, he says around mouthfuls of protuberant pork produce 'What were we talking about?'
'I think', says the general, 'that you were about to promote me'.
'Was I?' says Rupprecht with a look of gluttonous, not to say glutinous, confusion. 'Was I? But our plans involving herr Agorn are in ruins; and I've lost half of my new navy; and you suffered an appalling defeat at the battle of Wuppenhas!'
Barry-Eylund nods sagely. 'All of which my lord, leads us to a conversation regarding the ways in which you will be able to buy more pigs because I have been able to economise substantially on our military spending'.
Fecklenburg rolls his eyes.

'Fecklenburg!' says Rupprecht, 'what say you. For you are my right hand'.
'Thank you, sir' replies the chamberlain.
'Of course, you’re quite a grubby right hand', continues the prince, 'with poorly manicured nails and suspicious calluses. But you're all I've got'.
'You are too kind, my lord', says Fecklenburg. 'My advice is that we should buy off our adversaries and end this war'.
Barry-Eylund shakes his head. 'No, sir!' he says decisively. 'You should allow me to fight them again, and kill them all!'
Rupprecht considers this. 'Let's compromise', he replies finally.
'Compromise is good', says the chamberlain.
Rupprecht nods. 'Yes, we'll give them the money and then kill them'.
'Or', says the general. 'let's save ourselves the money and just do the latter?'
'Yes, yes', says Rupprecht, 'that sounds wise'.
Before Fecklenburg can say anything, Barry-Eylund reverses from the chamber, bowing obseqiously. With a surreptitious sly wink to the chamberlain, the general exits before what passes for Rupprecht's intellect can reveiw the outcome of their conversation.

Later, with the audience over and General Barry-Eylund now hurrying with all haste again to join his army, Rupprecht is able to consider turning his attention to some other, more pleasurable, diversions. Steffi, his mistress, awaits him in one of the smaller, and more out of the way, bedrooms of the schloss.

'Well, my dear', says a clearly exhausted prince, 'thank goodness that that unpleasant business is over. What a shock to my system'.
'You mean sacking Barry-Eylund?' asks Steffi, clearly impressed at this sudden and quite surprising bout of manly decisiveness on the part of her princely paramour.
'No', replies Rupprecht, shaking his head. 'I mean having to work. Almost four minutes of hard thinking and decisioning. I most certainly need a lie down'.
'But I thought that you were going to sack Barry-Eylund. I'm quite sure that you said that that was what you intended to do'.
The prince nods. 'I suppose it was my original intention', he admits. 'But then, who would lead my army? I'm a lover not a fighter'.
'You're really more of a sleeper than a lover', says Steffi. 'And a snorer'.
Rupprecht shrugs. 'Anyway, I'm here now. No more work; and I managed to dodge that old woman that keeps trying to follow me'.
'Your wife, my lord', says Steffi. 'That is your wife'.

Schloss Tanvaund!

Schloss Tanvaund: hunting lodge of the Prince of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, Rupprecht. Built in the mists of time - so, about 12 years ago - the lodge was originally constructed by Rupprecht's predecessor as Prince Palatine, his brother Heinrich ('The Wise and Able'). Rupprecht, 'The One in the Attic', doesn't generally spend much time here, the hunting of animals being for him, like most things, rather too much effort. Rupprecht's philosophy, which to be fair is one shared by many members of the aristocracy, is that it doesn't make sense to go through all of the exertions of doing or getting something, especially animals, when there are plenty of people around him that can be ordered to do it on his behalf and that have to pretend to enjoy it.

Rupprecht's presence here is an enforced one, his palace having been damaged by fire. How it got damaged began with the arrival in Pfeildorf of a box of strange fruit sent by Rupprecht's notional ally, the Burgrave of Nabstria, and a conversation between Rupprecht and his Grand Chamberlain, Leopold Von Fecklenburg, that went something like this:

'Fecklenburg - what are these objects?'
'I think, sir, that the note said that they are exotic produce - mangoes to be precise'.
'What's a mango, Fecklenburg - should I be insulted?'
'I don't know what they are, my lord. They are from overseas, like tobacco. So, perhaps one should smoke them?'
'Yes, Fecklenburg: that sounds like fun. I mean, what could go wrong?'

This being Mittelheim, the answer to this question of course, is 'more than one might think'. Difficulties in lighting the mangoes led to some unwise experimentation with accelerents, experiments that resulted in getting the mangoes lit only because they were in a building that was also on fire. Rupprecht was surprisngly philosophical, always having been told that smoking was bad for him.

Rupprecht has been here for a week. Not much hunting or riding actually goes on. The only hunting is the prince's hunt for his slippers and for accomodating chamber maids. The only riding here happens when he's managed to find both of the aforementioned.

In the hallway to Rupprecht's chambers stands Fecklenburg himself, along with the commander of the Palatinate's army, General Graf Redmond von Barry-Eylund. The latter has been summoned here for an interview with the prince. It is likely to be an uncomfortable one, something that Fecklenburg clearly doesn't mind at all.

'The prince is very angry', says the chamberlain with some relish.
'That must make a nice change', replies Barry-Eylund.
'What?' says Fecklenburg, surprised.
'Well', continues the general, 'the only two expressions I've ever previously seen him have were the floppy, corpse like look when he's sleeping or trying to think; or the look of gluttonous lust on his face when he sees a sausage or a shapely pig. Or, especially, a pig shaped like a sausage. So anger must be a nice bit of variety'.
Fecklenburg seems annoyed at the general's lack of concern. 'The prince intends to take you to task for the immoderate evisceration of our army!'
'So, he used the words "evisceration" and "immoderate", did he?'
'Well, no - not exactly. I think his actual words were something like "buggered up"'
The general nods. 'I thought so. Anyway, Fecklenburg, I have devised a sure way to avoid any princely sanctions. Look at this ...'

'Look at what?' says the chamberlain, mystified.
'The sausage, here in my trousers - look at it'.
'General, I ... I'm not sure that I ...'
'No, look, Fecklenburg. I have an actual sausage in my breeches'.
'I don't doubt it, general, but I don't think I need to see any of that sort of thing ...'
'What, no - look. for Beelzebub's sake - feel the weight: it's a quality bratwurst'.
'I .. uh ... I have no reason to doubt the quality, sir but I'm still not ...'
'Look. Forget it. Just wait until we get to the prince, and then you can see what I'm going to do with it'.
Fecklenburg stands back, his eyes narrowing. 'This isn't some obscene Fenwickian thing is it?'

Cowering Inferno!

Finally, the battle reaches its denouement. This isn't somethng that would be recognised in Mittelheim, the low understanding of foreign languages meaning that most would think that a denouement was probably some kind of French cake or pastry; possibly one with patisserie cream and some glace fruit. The phrase 'reaches its climax' would no doubt be more easily comprehended; but of course it would be impossible to say this in circumstances, like this one, where many of the participants were from Grand Fenwick and in which the uttering of such a phrase would inevitably lead to some combination of arrest, imprsionment, and a beating with a rudely shaped butternut squash. Besides which, the notion of this encounter having reached some kind of peak would also imply some sense of accompanying excitement or interest. But this is a Mittelheim battle: so it would be better to say that, overall, this encounter has dragged on for a sufficiently long time that its termination is surely due.

(Above) The Vulgarian native allies realise that they are in danger of being caught between a hammer and an anvil: or at least, a hot, flamey warehouse and dour, red-coated Gelderland infantrymen. Rushing from the warehouse, they attempt to fight their way through the Nabstrian rangers. Alas for them, the fight goes badly and they are soon sent to the Great Hunting Ground in the sky - or somewhere that sports a similar line of ancestral gods and small, easily obtainable wildlife.

(Below, bottom left). As one of the Gelderland civilians menacingly waves his rake, the one remaining group of Vulgarian allied Indians has crept to the back of the house. Faced with a range of possible follow-on activities, such as cleaning the windows, repairing some of the woodwork, or beginning to lay out a small but attractive ornamental garden, the Indians decide to stick with what they know best, and instead set it on fire.

(Below) In a vain attempt to save themselves, the remaining civilians try and escape the house. Alas, their slow movement, and the complex intellectual challenges posed by the doorhandle, mean that only one additional worker, a middle-aged matron named Wanda, manages to exit the house. In the nearby wood, the noble Fenwickian trappers, firm believers in the principle of "women and children first" begin to take pot shots at her.

(Above) The fire takes hold on the house, and it begins to collapse! The remainder of the civilians are unable to escape and conclude the battle, as it were, as potatoes in the great baking oven of fate.

(Below) Lustily cheering themselves, the brave Fenwickian irregulars gun down the fleeing Wanda. They congratulate themselves on having dealt with a dangerous looking enemy fighter, whose mop might have posed a serious threat to the integrity of the Nabstrian forces. This discussion is notable for its reference to the concept of integrity, something that rarely challenges the vocabulary of Fenwickian soldiers.

Continuing the heroics, (below) the remaining allied Indian force leaps from behind onto the rake wielding civilian . This seems to the natives to be the safest bet. A rake doean't really seem to them to be the most effective piece of military equipment to wield in a fight - but you've got to respect the kind of loon who thinks that it is. Using the old 'tap on the shoulder, tomahawk in the face' routine, the Wappesdoo braves despatch the worker, dodging in the meantime stray rounds from the Fenwickian trappers who are really beginning to get into the swing of things.

With the death of this worker, the thirtieth out of the thirty two that were employed at the trading post, the forces of the Vulgarian Convention decide to call it a day. Out of time, and also running out of men, the troops begin to retire from the flaming remains of the buildings here.

(Above) With the advantage of a really good telescope, it is just possible to continue to watch Freud und Slepp's advance, which has taken himself and his provincial troops relentlessly further away from the fighting. The colonel watches with interest as the smoke from the blazing remains of the trading post rises lazily into the afternoon sky.
'Well', he says to no one in particular, 'that really looked quite a dangerous enterprise. Thank goodness I have the professional military training and experience to let someone else do all the work ... I mean,' he says hastily, correcting himself, 'I mean, to maintain an effective reserve'.

As the forces of the Vulgarian Convention fall back to lick their wounds, and whatever else takes their fancy, thoughts turn to the task of assessing who has won and who has lost; or, as is more likely here, who has lost the least. (Above) Herr Plugholl, standing at the foot of the stairs, certainly, is philosophical about the results. On the one hand, his trading post is now almost entirely burnt to the ground, and all but one of his employees has been killed. But on the other hand, he is still alive. So, 'Yay'. Overall, it turns out that the Nabtsrians under Major Schwim und der Vasser are the winners: the Vulgarian Convention failed to kill all of the civilians, and his personal goal was also to avoid having them all killed. Colonel Freud und Slepp comes second - though he has failed in his main task to kill all of the civilians, he has achieved his secondary goal of surviving the battle. For Captain Blofeldt and Colonel Fuhrporer, their early exit from the battle leaves them as losers, with an extra helping of being bottom of the whole world.

As the houses continue to burn merrily, the forces of the Vulgarian Convention halt their withdrawal for a rest and to assess their pillage and their prisoners. The latter includes none other than Colonel Richter Furpohrer:  knocked unconscious early in the battle, his supine body was dragged to the rear by some enterprising Wappesdoo indians who recognised the prospect of a profitable prisoner swap. The colonel sits morosely with another prisoner - a Nabstrian ranger. They are guarded by a fierce looking Wappesdoo brave. The native then says something.

'What?' replies Fuhrporer suspicously. 'Speak German, you uncivilised savage!'
The native repeats himself.
The colonel waves dismissively. 'No. Speako. Nativo.' he says loudly and slowly.
The ranger sighs. 'He says, sir, that he is very pleased to see us'.
'I don't care what he thinks', replies Fuhrporer.
The native says something else. The colonel blows his cheeks loudly. 'What did he say now? This just can't get any worse'.
'He says', translates the ranger, 'that you have a pretty mouth'.

Northwest Ravage!

The Gelderland civilians in the remaining, and suprisingly unlit, building of the ravaged trading post are, it is fair to say, not quite as confident as to the safety of their position as they were at the beginning of this military fracas (or brouhaha). The battle, for example, has featured rather more screaming than any of them had imagined that a military encounter would involve; and also a lot more hacking, cutting, severing, and arterially spurting. All in all, warfare seems to the Gelderland workers like something that is really quite dangerous and, all things taken into account, quite a significant undertaking - an apt conclusion given the numbers of bodies that will have to be buried.

Never let it be said, however, that a Gelderlander isn't willing in extremis to do the right thing by his king and his country. Of course, such a thing often is said and usually with good reason; the difference in Gelderland between loyalty and disloyalty being related, unsurprisingly, to the difference between the chances of being caught and not caught. Still, one has to admire the bravery of the last group of civilians as they decide, manfully, that it is time to take the fight to the enemy. (Below) With a loud shout they begin to exit the building.

An indication of the likely military utility of this act can perhaps be judged by the fact that the lead civilian is armed with a rake (above). There are reasons why most infantry of the Age of Enlightenment are armed with muskets and not rakes, whisks, mangles, or broad beans; and the reasons for this are likely to be taught to the Gelderlanders repeatedly and terminally, by the Fenwickian trappers that line the edge of a nearby small wood, and the Vulgarian natives that are rushing forwards, tomahawks and torches in hand.

As this is happening, other events of a violent nature are elsewhere also taking place. (Above) The remains of the Vulgarian marines decide to test their mettle against the remnants of Glosgau's Rangers. Their mettle, as it turns out, is really quite bendy, and after the rangers give it a further pull, it snaps. Reduced to a single survivor, this man, faced with the choice of either death or dishonour, makes the choice to act like a man: a Mittelheim man;  which is more or less like a rabbit or small vole in any other country. Before one can say "Flee! Flee! Run for your life!", he flees and runs for his life.

(Above) Major Schwim und der Vasser reforms the rangers and they turn to face the Vulgarian natives that still stand in the burning warehouse admiring their sooty handiwork. He prepares to get them to charge the natives, but notices an air of reluctance around them; the faint of whiff of disinclination leavened with the distinct smell of vacillation and a noseful of "bugger right off". The major stands at the head of his men and berates them.
'Come on, my fellows - just one more push and we'll drive these heathens from the battlefield!'
'But sir', pipes up one of the rangers, 'there aren't many of us left! Can't we leave the remains of the fighting to those approaching red-coated Gelderland provincials over there, and instead remain here, in safety, at the back, undertaking a more, ah, supervisory function?'
The major scowls and then gesticulates. 'No! No! No! We're all men here! We've all faced death, or worse! We've all fought on this frontier! We've all massacred women and children with a blunt hatchet and a billiard cue after drinking heavily and mistaking them for beavers; and then ended up confused when no one would buy the pelts! And after that we've all descended into a drink and opiate-related nightmare, the worst of which wasn't the time we sold ourselves to bearded sailors on the docks of New York; in the process contracting painful afflications that could only be cured by burning our dangley bits with lighted tar!'
The rangers stare at him.
'Hmm', says the major philosophically. 'So - only me then'.

As the horrified rangers content themselves with loosing a volley into the native indians, the Gelderland troops begin to make their presence felt. (Above) on the hill, the platoon of light infantry test their bravery by shooting some fleeing Vulagarians in the back. The provincials themselves approach in two columns, bayonets fixed. They then ready themselves to attack the Indians. By the steps to the warehouse, Herr Plugholl can be seen. With the collapse of the warehouse surely imminent, he has taken it upon himself to exit the building first to ensure that the way is clear for his employees to follow. He seeks to sustain the morale of his civilians with a hearty "Thank God I'm out of that warehouse - everyone behind me is surely going to die'.

(Above) Some way from the trading post and also, not really coincidentally, the fighting, Colonel Freud und Slepp continues to hold his platoon of troops in reserve.
'Have I told you how much I hate New Mittelheim' he says to his subaltern.
'Yes sir', the Lieutenant replies. 'A lot'.
'The cold, and then the heat', continues the colonel, 'The dirt; the danger; the lack of glory; the low pay; the pancakes'.
'So,' replies the subaltern cheerlily, 'the pancakes!'
'I hate this place'.
'Sir - might it be better for your equilibrium if you took a more positive atttitude?'
The colonel nods. 'Well, how about this - I'm positive that I hate this place'.
Taking his telescope, Freud und Slepp then peers towards the sounds of the battle. 'Oooh,' he comments, 'that's not good ...'

Northwest Damage!

Trapped in the buildings that make up the Gelderland trading post, the civilian employees of the Gelderland New Mittelheim Trading Company huddle in the gloomy interiors listening to the sounds of battle. If they feel regret now at taking up employment in such a wild land, then this regret is hardly new. The particular regret that they might feel at being embroiled in the immediate danger of an enemy raid is, as it were, merely the first story of a whole house of regret, this story of which is built above a very roomy ground floor of dismay and disenchantment, the foundations being laid as soon as they stepped onto the shores of New Mittelheim and discovered what passed here as indoor plumbing. All had been promised that employment in New Mittleheim's American colonies would open new doors; but this was a lie - it involved opening only one door: the one that led outside to back breaking work; which, coincidently, was exactly the same door through which in the evening they were then chased back through and then locked up.

In the first floor of the warehouse, Herr Plugholl and his fellow civilians can agree that they now more fully appreciate the horrors of warfare on this uncivilised and barbaric frontier. These horrors include the prospect of death, scalping, and and the flatulent consequences of having to subsist for the whole morning on nothing more than beer and leather loincloths. As they contemplate even more ways in which to make themselves the smallest possible target, one of Plugholl's subordinates then makes this already quite trying morning even less enjoyable by uttering words guaranteed to cause concern to even the bravest occupant of a structure composed predominantly of wood: 'Can anyone else smell burning?'

One of the key reasons why he can smell burning is, of course, because the warehouse is on fire (above). In the storage area of the ground floor, Vulgarian allied natives look with a measure of pride upon the really quite impressive conflagration that they have managed to start. Not well acquainted with such European concepts as 'health and safety', however, they have been rather lax in their risk assessment: an assessment of the risk, for example, associated with setting light to a building that they are standing in.  As they hang around on the ground floor, congratulating themselves on a job well done and complaining to one another that the smoke and heat seems to be getting worse, (above, right) a second band of native pyromaniacs approaches a nearby building with a gleam in their eyes and several torches in their hands.

This new group of Indians also gets into the swing of this exercise in thermal remodelling. As the Vulgarian native auxiliaries stand back and admire the growing damage caused by their handiwork, manifest in the lovely glow of a real fire, Major Schwim und der Vasser realises that he needs to take some dramatic action before the twisted Vulgarian firestarters succeed in burning everything down. (Above) The remains of both ranger platoons sprint from their forest hideaway and head around the back of smouldering building, intent on instilling into the Indians some painful lessons in fire safety.

(Above) With a roar, if that is the right way to describe a barrage of high pitch squealing, the lead elements of Glosgau's Rangers hurl themselves at the natives. The latter are up for it, fired by blood lust and a very long and detailed list  of grudges (with footnotes and appendices) against their colonial oppressors. (Below) The ensuing fight is savage, and initially very balanced; but a sudden rain of lucky blows dispatches the indians, wiping them out entirely.

(Below, centre) With only a slight pause to admire the consequences of another productive exercise in settler/native interactions, the rangers regroup to face the indian war party that is still admiring its work in the warehouse. (Below, right) Sadly for the trading post, though the rangers may have killed the indians, their legacy lives on, not least in the form of orangey flames that begin to billow from the house. Life, of course, poses many questions of significance for a man. But for the civilians cowering in this building, none is more significant than a question that seems to be on many people's lips this morning: 'Can anyone else smell something burning?'

(Above, bottom) As the alfresco barbeque that is this battle really begins to get underway, the Gelderland regular troops, following the Vulgarian Indians, have started to arrive at the trading post itself. (Above, left) Discretion being the better part of not being burnt alive, Herr Plugholl leads his employees in the fine art of fleeing the warehouse. Sadly for Plugholl, one of his subordinates then makes the fatal mistake of uttering the words: 'Surely, this just can't get any worse.'

Northwest Cabbage!

For Colonel Richter Fuhrporer, events in this battle take a turn for the worse: indeed, not just a turn, but something approximating a vigorous double twist with a passable tuck and pike. His platoon of light troops are suddenly submerged by a mass of hacking, whooping natives. There is nothing the natives like more than a chance to give sallow-faced Europeans some well-deserved payback for all of the diseased blankets, 'unbreakable' treaties, and poorly manufactured glass baubles. The European troops evince no such enthusiasm. Indeed, the performance of the colonel's troops might be described as 'mediocre' except that, really, there is no 'medi' about it: the light troops are lamentably 'fullyocre', inflicting no casualties at all upon the Indians. The morale of the light troops is tested by this situation and naturally is found wanting. With all of the enthusiastic energy of a family-sized basket of leafy green winter vegetables, they fall back further into the woods. However, this leaves Colonel Fuhrpurer not just as the point-man in the Gelderland fighting line, but actually the only man (below).

Heavily outnumbered, success in such circumstances  would require the efforts of a man of the heroic stamp. Fuhrpurer, however, has more of the character of an actual stamp - small, thin, and odd-tasting when licked. He has barely enough time to finish his warcry of "Ah, I'm sure we could just sit down and talk this through: I've got a nice blanket and some beads in my baggage", before he is struck unconscious by the butt of an enemy musket (below). Carried of as a prisoner of the Vulgarians, he surely faces a fate worse than death.*

Seeing the success of his native auxiliaries, Sea Captain Blofeldt, grizzled and hard-bitten (a result, amongst other things of having been in his early career bitten hard by a grizzly) is quick to understand the need to sustain the momentum of his attack. Or, he is just very, very angry. Either way, his marines are ordered to advance from their cover, the captain shouting wildly from behind. Or about behinds. In truth it is difficult to discern his actual meaning, what with all the roaring, spitting, and eye-watering maritime-themed swearing (the latter featuring imaginative combinations of mermaids, pilchards, and whale blubber). (Below) His marines, considerably more frightened of Blofeldt than they are of the enemy, advance towards the Gelderland trading post. Sadly, no matter how fast they move, Blofeldt remains right behind them, gesticulating and gurgling like a drunkard drowning in treacle.

(Above) The marines begin trading volleys with Major Schwim und der Vasser's small Nabstrian force of natives indians and rangers. With the Nabstrians safely ensconced in cover, it turns out to be a poor trade: like, say, trading beads for large chunks of eastern continental America. Several of the marines become casualties. Then, siezing their moment, one of the ranger platoons gives a blood-curdling cry and charges Blofeldt's marines (below).

(Above) There is a bloody melee, with much cutting, thrusting, and flicking of tender bits. Within a little time, however, the rangers are driven off and run back into the woods. However, as the marines redeploy, someone notices that Captain Blofeldt has disappeared!

Further across the battlefield, a Vulgarian messenger soon rushes into the presence of Colonel Freud und Slepp, commander of the Fenwickian allied contingent.
'Sir! Sir!' cries the messenger, 'calamitous news!'
'What is it?' says the colonel, adjusting the position of his provincial troops to provide himself with even more effective cover from enemy fire. 'What is the matter?'
'Sir, Captain Blofeldt has been involved in a melee and is now missing! Possibly dead, even!'
'Missing?' muses the colonel. 'Dead? Well, did it look like a dangerous melee? Or was it just, say, something of a disagreement?'
The messenger for a moment considers this. 'It was definitely a melee, sir, with weapons, shouting,  upsetting altercations and such.'
'Are you sure?' says the colonel, looking sternly at the messenger. 'because you know how things can get exaggerated in military reports. Perhaps it wasn't actually a melee. It might just have been a  fracas. Or a brouhaha. Either of which, I have to say, are eminently survivable.'
The messenger frowns in confusion. 'I'm not entirely certain of the difference, sir'.
'A fracas is like a melee, but with more Italians'.
'And a brouhaha, sir?'
'Fewer Italians and more soft furnishings'.
'No sir!' says the messenger determinedly, 'it was a properly dangerous melee, sir! The captain was in the thick of it: his blood was up and, dare I say it, the red mist had descended! He was uncontrollable.!' He pauses. 'More uncontrollable, that is!'
Colonel Freud und Slepp, whose nearest encounter with a red mist is having once fallen unconscious face first into a bowl of tomato soup, looks on with alarm.
'Blofeldt had his blood up!' the colonel notes disapprovingly. 'Hmmm, this is all beginning to look rather risky!' With that, his gives orders to deploy his provincial troops 'even more firmly in support' of his Vulgarian ally, an action that seems to involve them retreating again and placing themselves even more resolutely between Freud und Slepp and the enemy.

Though Blofeldt is missing, presumed mad, his troops continue with their attack. (Above) The remaining marines are now covering the advance of another of the groups of Vulgarian allied natives. The Indians have got hold hold of some flints and tinder, and are now moving purposely towards the delightfully ignitable Gelderland trading post. Excited natives, a source of fire, and a proliferation of flammable material - what could possibly go wrong?


* Actually, though, Death would admit to really rather enjoying is lot in unlife, so perhaps that sort of fate isn't so bad. Cheese, on the other hand, is really very disatisfied with things. So perhaps the fate worse than the fate worse than Death would be a fate worse than Cheese.

Northwest Passive!

Colonel Jorg Walter von Freud und Slepp looks on from the safety of his infantry line as his native allies advance cautiously to the edge of the small wood in which they are deployed. As it turns out, in the "bold move versus military nincompoopery" debate regarding Freud und Slepp's orders, events provide fairly definitive evidence for the latter. The small party of Fenwickian natives are left isolated and out on a limb like, well, a small party of indians deployed isolated, out on a limb, and far too close to an overwhelming enemy force. Glosgau's Rangers aren't men to look a gift-horse in the mouth, especially a horse that looks, metaphorically, like quite a small one with teeny tiny teeth. (Below) The rangers fire one loud and inevitably wholly ineffectual volley. They then follow up with a barrage of tomahawks, knives, loose change, army biscuits and other sharp impedimentae that are close to hand. Finally, unable to put it off any longer, the Nabstrians charge from the woods!

(Below) Luckily for the natives, the actual odds are well beyond their capacity to calculate. The Wappesdoo have a system for counting that goes 'One', 'Somewhat More Than One', 'A Lot More Than One, But Not Surpringly So', and then 'More Than One Could Comfortably Stuff into One's Breech-Cloth And Still Ride at the Gallop'. Being unable accurately to calculate the odds, there is little reason for them to feel worried about the large enemy numbers: consequently, they are finished off before they have time to actually register fear, merely feeling slight alarm and then a terminal whack on the head.

The Fenwickian native allies are entirely wiped out. One of the ranger platoons then withdraws back to their original position. The second hangs arounds to bother the corpses of their adversaries. There are some half-hearted attempts to scalp their dead opponents, but the Wappesdoo tend to be close-cropped, with pony tails that aren't much fun to remove and which are only good for turning into disappointingly silly goatees.

A panicked messenger arrives to tell Freud und Slepp the doleful news of the defeat of his native vanguard. 'Defeat! The enemy are without number!' cries the messenger.
Freud und Slepp sighs. 'So what - five? Six?'
'No sir, a multitude more!'
'Eight? Nine?'
'No sir, I mean, there is a horde of them! Our attack has been thrown back! We need reinforcements!'
Freud und Slepp pulls an unhappy face. 'Cobblers! This is really undermining my chances of survival'. He catches himself.  'I mean, "our chances of success in this battle", of course'.
'Shall I order our provincials to advance, sir, and throw back the enemy?' asks the messenger.
'Why yes' replies the colonel. 'Order them to advance to that position over there', he points.
The messenger pauses. 'Given, sir, that that point is actually further behind the hill and that it increases the distance between ourselves and the enemy, isn't that position actually', he pauses, considering his words carefully ', a retreat?'
'Only in a physical sense', says Freud und Slepp. 'Now be a good fellow and deliver my orders'.

(Above) To worsen the situation for the attackers, finally the two remaining platoons of Gelderland regulars arrive back at the trading post ready to boost the defences. But where to send them? Forwards, to reinforce Colonel Richter Fuhrporer and the light infantry platoon in the wood to their front? Or perhaps they should turn left and reinforce the defences of the trading station itself? Whatever choice is made,  at the moment the Spasmodic Sanction position looks secure, and the chances of the enemy breaking through to the civilians in the buildings seems smaller than something that was already quite small but that then, for a variety of reasons, suddenly shrank considerably.

(Below, left) Having expended his natives, Freud und Slepp redeploys his remaining troops. There is, it has to be said, a strange passivity surrounding the Fenwickian approach to this battle. The Fenwickian trappers deploy at a safe distance from the enemy rangers and begin to take some pot-shots at those that they can see. The colonel's platoon of provincial infantry (top left) continue to advance in a way that somehow leaves them further away from the enemy.

Sea Captain Viktor von Blofeldt, commander of the Vulgarian troops, is beginning to detect a certain lack of commitment on the part of his Fenwickian ally: a definable lack of willingness by the Fenwickians to engage in the sorts of activities usually associated with a battle - such as advancing, or fighting. At least, that is what his subalterns can surmise of the captain's views. His precise comments are difficult to discern, since they comprise mainly of baffled snarls, angry roars, and great quantities of phlegm. (Above right) The captain moves forward his blue-coated marines but orders them to hold their fire so that they do not give away their position.

(Below) Blofeldt decides now is the time to commit his native allies. The Wappesdoo have been saving themselves for a quick burst of activity. The captain orders them to commence a rapid attack against Colonel Fuhrporer's light platoon in the woods far to their front.

With a whoop, the natives sprint forwards, weapons dangling dangerously and tomahawks at the ready. They rush again.

'Someone should fire at those attacking Indians', says Colonel Fuhrporer, reasonably.

The Wappesdoo advance again.
'I mean that: really, someone should fire', says the colonel, more emphatically. 'No need to wait for the "whites of the eyes" and all that. Shooting 'em at a nice, safe distance might be best.'
'Any time now would be spendid', he continues, as the enemy begin to close. 'Yes, any time now before they get close enough to AAAAAAAAAARGH!'

Northwest Crappage!

'Where is my damned hat?' cries Colonel Richter Fuhrporer to his subaltern. 'Go and find it!'

'Righto, sir', says the fellow.

'And also', adds the colonel, 'make sure that the civilians are safely locked in their rooms!'

'At once, sir' replies the subaltern, trotting off.

Civilians? What sorts of fellows volunteer to move to a new life in New Mittelheim? Those moving to America necessarily are probably those with adventure in their blood; or at least quite a lot of schnapps. There are three groups of civilian workers at this Gelderland trading post, each of which is currently hiding in one of the buildings. They are led by one Herr Rudolph Plugholl. These civilians are mainly indentured workers: workers whose costs of travelling to New Mittelheim are paid by their employers but who must then work for seven years for them in order to pay off their debt. The more suspicious might, of course, argue that this is simply a form of slavery; but this isn't true - slaves are beaten slightly less often. Nevertheless, such are the opportunities provided by the New World that peasants constantly are willing to take the risks and travel here. These opportunities include the opportunity to run off when no one is looking. 

(Below) In the meantime, the raiding force begins to advance. (Below, top left) Blofeldt's Indian allies begin to move across the hill to their front. Native Americans often form a significant contingent in the forces of New Mittelheim. Most Mittelheimers view their relationshsip with the local tribes as paternalistic in nature: they are the fathers to the innocent native children - violent, alcholic ones, to be accurate. For the Europeans, there is a strong sense that they have a duty to civilise the locals and to bring them into the presence of God. The latter seems to the local tribes to have quite a steep entrance fee, not least because the former seems to comprise of being forced to wear wigs and then dying of disease at some later date. To the right of the natives, the blue coated Vulagarian marines stalk menacingly towards the cover of a wood.

(Above, middle) Freud und Slepp's small party of Fenwickian hunters line one copse. To their right, the Indian war party hangs around uncomfortably behind a wood. Out of the woodcut, the provincial troops hang back, with Freud und Slepp safely ensconced behind them. This reticence soon develops form a temporary feature into a condition; then a theme; before becoming a full blown set of subtitles for the battle.

Suddenly, and randomly, a strange development occurs. The group of civilians occupying the first floor of the warehouse panics. In their terror, they start to leave the safety of the building and head for somewhere safer - Canada, possibly. Luckily for Gelderland, the general slowness of their running and the challenge of operating the door handle mean that the fleeing civilians don't get far. (Above) Herr Plugholl makes it to the top of the stairs before the civilians begin to rally and then head back inside.

It doesn't take a hot air balloon scientist to work out why Freud und Slepp's Indian troops are playing things safe. (Above) The Nabstrian troops, that is, the war party of Indians and two platoons of rangers, have deployed into the nearest wood to the trading post. It's all  a rather tight fit, but the troops gain adiditional benefit from the cover. They hunker down, waiting for their Fenwickian enemy to expose themselves: in normal circumstances, this would happen after a few pints of ale.  (Above, top left), Freud und Slepp's provincials, with the colonel himself, can just be seen, having taken up a position so far from any actual likely fighting that it would not be possible to be further from the battle, short of taking a long sea voyage to another continent.

(Below) Freud und Slepp tentatively orders his Indian allies forwards into the copse, placing them opposite the rangers. This is a bold move. A move is "bold", of course, if it turns out to work. If it leads to disaster, then it becomes transformed instantly into an insane act of "military nincompoopery".

(Below) As this woodcut indicates, the early stages of this encounter are marked by an unusual sophistication in approach by both sides. Circumspection, concern for exploiting the advantages of the terrain, and a careful consideration of possible second and third-order effects mark the manoeuvres of all the protagonists. This could be down to an outbreak of tactical subtlety. Or it could just be an unmanly reluctance to get to grips with one another. Given that the word "Tactical" doesn't appear in the Mittelheim military lexicon (which generally skips straight from "Tacky" to "Tactless"), and that the word "Subtle" doesn't appear at all (the nearest applicable word is "Cheat"), unmanliness seems to be the most likely expanation.

'Thank goodness!' says Colonel Fuhrporer, taking his hat from the subaltern, who has just returned.
'But sir, the Nabstrian rangers stole it ...'
'An officer isn't properly dressed for battle without his hat!' says the colonel, plopping it onto his head.
'But sir ...'
'Hats maketh the man ...' continues Fuhrporer, turning to inspect the light platoon in front of him.
'But sir ...'
The colonel stops suddenly. He then wrinkles his nose, and, finally, sighs sadly.
'They crapped in my tricorne, didn't they', he says wearily.
The subaltern nods apologetically. 'It's in their nature'.