Glashoffel, the First!

Wherein the army of the the Margravate of Badwurst-Wurstburp, under the command of General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski, encounters the army of the Empire of Fenwick, commanded by Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish. 

Marshal Cavandish yawns, an act which almost causes him to swallow his own telescope. He is about to turn to his aide-de-camp, Captain Fabius Nitzwitz, and tell him this, before realising, of course, that this is the army of Fenwick; and hence, "swallowing one's own telescope", like "holding a lovely pair of melons" or "buttering one's own parsnips", is not something that can be uttered out loud unless (a) one also wants to cause all in the vicinity to start 'fnarring' and 'snurking' themselves into a sweaty heap, and (b) one has a good lawyer. Cavandish sighs - as a man who genuinely likes butter on his parsnips, his sojourn in the Empire of Grand Fenwick has been a continuous cavalcade of frustrating double entendre.

Nitzwitz, also, is looking through his own telescope (this is also probably yet another activity that in Fenwick would come bracketed with speech marks and six months in prison). 'It would seem, my lord, that the enemy army has been reinforced by even more of those villainous ex-Jacobites: damn those syphilitic porridge gobblers!'

Cavandish considers this for a moment. 'I don't think that porridge gives one syphilis, captain'.
'I don't know, sir - my old uncle ate porridge once, and he died of syphilis'.
'Wasn't he the uncle that spent fourteen years living in a brothel?'
'Correlation, I'd say sir; not causation. My old uncle swore by the health benefits of living in brothels. Plenty of exercise, and regular changes of bedding'.
'I'll bear that in mind for my retirement', says the marshal. 'In the interim, let us consider how we shall deploy our troops ...'

Having won, as any right-minded person could have guessed, the scouting contest, Cavandish has elected to go on the defensive. (Above) The Fenwickian army has been arrayed for combat. Unpronunski's choice of battlefield, however, appears to have been successful in at least one key way. The Fenwickians find themselves defending a position obscured by a pair of low hills. These hills restrict significantly the ability of the imperials to use the advantages of their artillery. Because of this, Cavandish has elected to distribute his guns amongst the first line of infantry: that way, whichever section of the line the enemy attack, at least a portion of his artillery will be able to fire. Or so one might think. His right flank is anchored on a stream. His left flank abuts a field. On the extreme left, the marshal has refused his flank slightly, in case the enemy attempt to move around this position. For reasons that will become more obvious than Landgrave Choldwig's belly button, this is probably a fair assessment of the likely shape of the coming encounter.

(Above) On the extreme right, beyond the stream, Marshal Cavandish deploys all three regiments of his cavalry. It keeps them out the way; and, who knows, it might be possible to bring them usefully into the fray at some point. Stranger things have happened. Especially in Mittelheim; where, to be fair, the benchmark for "strange" is set quite low. The notable officer, Giovanni de Tripodi, commands one of the cavalry regiments. Though Cavandish would much rather that he was deployed with the infantry, Tripodi believes that only the cavalry have the status, style, and prestige that befit a true gentleman - which shows how much he knows. Better at producing manure than they are a decisive battlefield effect, the landgravate's cavalry settle in for what will probably be another day featuring the dangerous consumption of beverages and a fearsome quantity of just sitting around a bit.

On the other side of the battlefield, and guided by Prince Karl, Unpronunski elects for a risky deployment. (Below) The entire centre and left wing of the Wurstburp deployment is comprised of nothing but the margravial cavalry - three regiments. On the right of the woodcut can be seen a new Jacobite addition to Unpronunski's horsed arm - formed from survivor's of Baggot's Hussar's, these have now a different colonel, and are named Baggin's Hussars.

(Below) For the rest, to say that Wurstburp has placed the weight of its forces on its right, would be like stating that King Wilhelm of Gelderland's underpants are a little snug. All ten infantry regiments have been massed there in three consecutive lines. It really doesn't require a session with Madam Zelda "Fortune Teller to the Rich and Gullible" to predict what the Wurstburp plan is going to be. On the other hand, Madam Zelda is quite reasonably priced, and has an admirable stock of amusing tales about the French: so having her come and predict the Wurstburp plan wouldn't be such a terrible waste of time.

As Madam Zelda herself might note perceptively, it seems likely that the Wurstburp infantry "will be going on a long journey", probably around the small wood in front of them and then towards the Fenwickian flank; after which they will "meet a tall dark stranger", or rather, a battalion of them, this being the Fenwickian unit at the very end of Cavandish's line. No doubt, soon after "something that was lost will then be found" - Wurstburp courage, probably: but we can assume that it will then be lost again quite quickly.

'You don't think that this plan is too obvious, do you?' asks General Unpronunski, tentatively.
'It's brilliance', replies Prince Karl firmly, 'lies in its simplicity'.
'Hmmm', says the general dubiously, 'if simplicity were brilliance, then wouldn't King Wilhelm have a doctorate in moral philosophy?'
'You accord the enemy too much regard. "Spartans of Mittelheim"? When we've finished them they will no longer be the "Spartans of Mittelheim:" instead, they'll be the "Donkeys of  ... Donkeyland".
'But isn't it highly likely that the enemy will see us coming? Not least because we are in full view of them and the only direction that we can reasonably move in is towards their left flank?'
'We shall distract them elsewhere: we shall fire our cannons'.
Unpronunski blows a raspberry. 'If I wanted more smoke, I'd just light a pipe', replies the general testily.

Some moments pass. Unpronunski seems strangely reluctant to commence the attack.
'It is time, general', says the prince, 'time to order the advance. We must defeat the enemy before night falls, and also before ...' he rummages around in the vicinity of his sporran, wincing '... this chafing becomes unbearable'. Orders are issued, and with a weak "Huzzah!" the Wurstburp assault columns step off!

Glashoffel!

'What', exclaims Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski, aghast, 'are you wearing?'
Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen, heir to the Margravate of Badwurst-Wurstburp, strikes a pose. He is wearing strange and garish apparel: part tartan; part draped curtain; part rummage through a children's clothes box. 'Since my ex-Jacobite soon-to-be-subjects seem to be a growing element of our army, I thought it politic to make a gesture towards them'.

"From the Wurstburp Spring Collection"

Unpronunski winces. 'What gesture were you seeking to make, my prince? Two fingers? Or were you going, metaphorically, for a crude humping motion with the hips? You've got ... you've got no britches on! I can see ... see your knees, and  ... and such'.
'Come now, general: don't you think that you should try and be more open-minded? This is a suit of clothing that is both modern and practical. I have followed the Scottish fashion and have nothing on underneath, which makes this an ensemble that is pleasantly ... roomy'.
'Nothing on ... underneath? The general takes a small step backwards. 'Then I enjoin you, dear prince, to avoid any activities of an acrobatic nature whilst in my vicinity!' The general stares at the prince. 'What ... what's that? Why is that animal clinging to the front'.
'I believe that it is called a sporran', says Prince Karl.
'It is clinging, though?' continues Unpronunski. 'You aren't holding it up ... in other ways'.
'It is not a creature', says the prince testily. 'It is a fashionable Scottish accoutrement'.
'Fashionable!' retorts the general. 'What other animals do they hang from their clothing? Badgers? Elephants?' Trying to shake off his post traumatic dress disorder, Unpronunski turns from the prince. He gestures to his map table. 'If it is possible, God help us, for us to try and forget your clothes for a minute, there are important military matters that we must consider, Prince Karl, that my relative military inexperience render problematic'.

Few things, one might think, can outpace a Mittelheim army on the retreat. A Mittelheim army en route to a house of ill-repute that was running an offer of "buy one, get one free" might be one rare example; as might King Wilhelm of Gelderland's speed in putting distance between himself and the opportunity to take a responsible decision. However, sadly for general Unpronunski, it turns out that there is a third case: the army of imperial Fenwick chasing that of the Margravate of Wurstburp. Having suffered in succession two heavy defeats, the Wurstburp army has been streaming back to their own borders, on the basis that the best support that they can give to their allies in helping to win the War of the Spasmodic Sanction would be to stop giving their adversaries the opportunity to fight them and to win easy victories. However scouts have brought in some unwelcome news - the Fenwickian field army is close by, and a battle seems inevitable!

General Unpronunski is now in his tent, and has called his companion, Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen to discuss their options. Notionally, the prince is merely an observer to the campaigns of the margravate's army. However Karl, being heir to the margravial throne, and also being annoyingly persistent, necessarily exerts more influence than his observer status might imply. Unpronunski stares at his maps, searching for inspiration.
Prince Karl snorts. 'We simply have to determine where lies the relative balance of advantage - and then focus on that!'
The general considers the prince's words. 'Well, my prince, the army of Fenwick would seem to have two key advantages. First, they are, by reputation, excellent at ranged combat'.
'Why is that?' asks Karl. He produces a carrot from his sporran, a movement that makes the general wince. Since the prince has very pronounced front teeth, the carrot merely reinforces his resemblance to a rabbit. Indeed, he is widely known behind his back as "Bunnie Prince Karlie"'.
'They have an artillery academy that ensures that their four field batteries are exceptionally well trained. Moreover, they also have the "lethal volleys" tactical doctrine'.
The prince scowls. 'And their second advantage, general?'
'Second, they are also good at everything else. Thanks to their long run of victories, the "Spartans of Mittelheim" are mainly troops of elite quality'.
Prince Karl nods. 'But they must have disadvantages'.
Unpronunski nods. 'Well, we're going to lose; so they might well be overconfident'.
'Hmmm. And our disadvantages?'
'Well, we're going to lose'.
'And our advantages?'
'Well, we're going to lose; so our bar for effective performance in the coming battle has been set quite low'.
'There must be something more positive - something around which we might frame a plan of action for the coming encounter?'
'We are skilled in mass and bayonets, prince. So we need to close with them before we lose. We need a battlefield that will screen us from their fire, and allow us to reach close quarters unmolested. So we're looking for ...'
'A battlefield with a large and high wall right down the middle? Where's Ranald Drumpf when you need him'.
'An unlikely find, Prince Karl. But here ...', he says pointing at the map, 'What about this? ... The village of Glashoffel - this is where we should meet the enemy in combat! I shall give orders immediately!'
'Splendid!' replies Karl. 'What shall I do?'
'Anything', replies the general, 'that doesn't involve you bending over'.

Dash and Flab!

As several groups of Burberry pirates skirmish with Baron Hunchmausen's main line of troops, others turn their attention to their next target: 'a barn, the burning of'. Sadly for the barn, these fellows turn out to have a not inconsiderable skill in starting fires, having spent quite a lot time on their forays ashore practising upon those who showed a reluctance to 'turn Turk'. (Below) Before one can say 'Recant infidel, or it's curtains for you: curtains that we shall roll around you and set on fire', the pirate lads have soon got a cheery blaze underway.

On the other side of the field of battle, near the bridge, the musketry duel between the Rotenburg light troops and their Burberry adversaries descends into a desultory exchange of long-range fire, with no great advantage to either side. As casualties mount, the light troops' conversation turns to topics of a reflective and philosophical nature.
'What about Captain Kidd? He must surely have been a terrifying paragon of pirateness', says one.
'What's frightening about a pirate who's a toddler? How small would his wooden leg have to be?', replies another.

'His name was "Kidd": I don't think that he was actually a child. I don't think that he was all "yo-ho-ho and bottle of warm milk". In any case, even if he were - do you have a toddler?'

'No. I have not yet been blessed with legitimate progeny'.

'Then believe me when I say that a toddler, pirate or otherwise, is a terrifying experience - sleeplessness; poverty; projectile explosions of bodily matter from both ends. If one of them had indeed put on a hat and eye-patch, and commenced to sail the Seven Seas, I for one would move very far inland'.

The main battlefield clash continues to develop. Sniping from the the cover of the hedgerows, the Burberry fire begins to take a toll upon their adversaries. Gaps appear in the baron's infantry line, and the Rotenburg troops are forced to retire a short distance in order to rally and re-group. (Below) Hunchmausen takes the opportunity to push his third company into the fray, adding it to the left of his formation.

(Above) More volleys are exchanged. Alas, the skirmishing pirates are able to derive considerable protection from their dispersed formation and their ability to utilise both the vagaries of the terrain and of Hunchmausen himself. 

Emir Rhoddri Pasha nods with satisfaction as the combat begins to turn his way. Binky, his monkey, begins to chatter vigorously and to hop up and down. He seems to be pointing. Rhoddri considers this, and then turns to his second in command, Kuchuk Huseyin.
'Hmm - I think I'm beginning to get the hang of Binky's speech. I suspect now that he is advising us to maintain the initiative by pushing forward our reserves against the enemy's centre of gravity'.
'No, my lord', replies Huseyin, 'I think that this time he just wants a banana'.

(Below) The Rotenburg centre company, having lost half its number, and having accumulated considerable shock and disruption, retires. This breaks the line, and the Rotenberg musketeers must now fight as three separate clumps; a "clump" being an arrangement not actually found in Mittelheim drill-books but to which their soldiery have a curious affinity. 

(Below) The baron tries vainly to rally his men, but to no avail. He has with him only a single lieutenant to help in his efforts to restore order.
'Dammit, sir!' cries the baron to the subaltern, 'my staff is far too small!'
The lieutenant nods. 'I had heard as much, my lord: but I'm not sure that such revelations are strictly relevant in this moment of crisis'.
What?' cries Hunchmausen, momentarily confused. 'Oh, damn your eyes, sir - I do not mean my staff; I mean my staff!' He gestures at the subaltern. 'Anyway' he adds later in a moment of fluster, 'what have you heard about my ... staff'.
'Oooh ... nothing , sir. Nothing of any importance. Nothing provable, or that involved a reliable sense of scale. After all, the phrase "piddlingly small" is such a vague term'.
More enemy fire is laid against the left-most Rotenburg company. The effect is telling. Like seeing Landgrave Choldwig without his clothes on, it's not the physical damage which is so bad, but rather the resultant psychological blow, reflected in shock, disorder, and disorientation. The Rotenburg battle line can take no more.

With much wailing, many desperate cries, and also some enthusiastic cheers, the Rotenburg troops fall back from the field of battle. (Above, right) Three local peasants look on from a point near the crossroads. They regard the fleeing soldiers with equanimity. They don't seem as terrified of the approaching pirates as perhaps the landgrave of Rotenburg might hope loyal subjects should be. Their lack of fear is further indicated by the small valise and other luggage that they seem to have with them, and their cries to the pirates of 'Cooeee! Over her! We're over here!'

As he watches the frenetic dash from the field by his Rotenburg adversaries, emir Rhoddri grunts with satisfaction. 'Excellent, Huseyin, my superbly organised subordinate. Victory is hours! We can sweep up our plunder at our leisure, and still have time for a leisurely dinner'. The emir looks down at his waist and then frowns. 'But do you think I'm putting on weight?'
Huseyin, avoiding Binky's rhubarb, considers this question. 'Only in a good way, my lord', he replies after a moment.  'You aren't so much getting fatter as simply becoming more noticeably successful'.
Rhoddri nods. 'Excellent, excellent. I'm a bit peckish - break out the cakes, and bring me another large slice of success!'

As events on the coast of Rotenburg begin to resolve themselves, we must now turn, dear reader, to weighty considerations relating to major field battles. On this subject, the armies of Wurstburp and Fenwick are about to provide us with yet another lesson in the considerable difference between military theory and military practice ....

Crash and Stab!

(Below) Burberry pirates man-handle the fluffy goats and, in a few moments, the livestock are robustly whisked off. This is, uncharacteristically, not quite as rude as it might sound, and simply involves the men leading their four-legged charges to the rear of the field. Soon Kucuk Huseyin is able to tick off the first item on his plundering shopping list. 

(Below) The baron has ordered his infantry into line. Not for the first time, though, Hunchmausen struggles to fit everything in. There is not space for his whole line to deploy, so only two companies can make up the firing line. The third company begins a wider movement around the flank.

'Excellent!' exclaims the baron out loud, 'confronting enemy irregular skirmishers in cover with a close line of my own troops in the open: I can't see any problem with that approach at all. We shall soon crash through their line, and then, perhaps set about them with the stab of bayonet!'

'There are, sir, some issues that do leap to my mind', says one of his officers. 'I look at our situation and words such as "Braddock" and "Monongahela" spring to the fore'.

'"Haddock"? "Prolonged Inhaler"? What the devil sort of advice is that?' retorts the baron angrily.

'No, my lord', replies the officer hastily, 'I was merely drawing the sorts of parallels that a casual observer might also draw, between our own situation and that that led to the crushing defeat inflicted by some very angry locals a few years ago upon an English general named Braddock, at a place named Monongahela in North America. It is that that leapt to my mind, and makes me wonder: is there perhaps an alternative plan that might make our troops less vulnerable?'

'Certainly not"' says Hunchmausen. 'Stop your mental leaps, young sir. Take your imagination, give it a soothing beverage, and send it straight to bed. We shall fight this battle in the proper way: lines; geometry; the mindless performance of drill. This is the eighteenth century, sir - not the Dark Ages'.

The baron pauses, before continuing, cautiously: 'I'm right in my history, though, aren't I - this isn't the Dark Ages?'
The officer raises one eyebrow. 'No sir - at least, not in the proper sense. The Dark Ages would be that period of the early middle ages; we, on the other hand, live the period of the Enlightenment'.
The baron nods. 'Excellent!'
'Although', continues the officer, 'I can''t help feeling that Mittelheim, if it isn't strictly in the Dark Ages, is certainly somewhere quite shady; and also, that if this is the Enlightenment, then in Rotenburg someone has probably drawn some very heavy curtains'.

(Below) In the meantime, the Rotenburg light troops off-road and head briskly towards the bridge over the River Zwei. But there is now something of a race on: in the distance, we can see more pirates heading towards this flank of the battle. This being Mittelheim, though, it's not a very good or exciting race. It's certainly not analogous to any remotely engrossing horse race; instead, one should perhaps imagine the competitive struggle for ground exhibited by elderly, arthritic hedgehogs, half-blind and fully off their heads on egg nog.

The Rotenburg light troops spot their advancing pirate adversaries!
'Pirates', cries one, 'I can see pirates!'
'Oooh!' says a second, 'Perhaps it would be correct to add an "ahoy" - you know, to get the right atmosphere'.
'Pirates ahoy!' says the first, delightedly. 'I must say - they don't look very dangerous'.
The second considers this. 'They must surely be quite dangerous. Pirates have a reputation. I mean - Blackbeard, he was reputedly quite tough'.
'What's frightening about having a black beard? Was it terrifyingly curly? Perhaps it looked like something frightening - like a dire-wolf; or a hamster'.
'Hmmm, I think that his black beard was just an obvious identifying feature - to distinguish himself from other terrifying pirates who - you know, didn't have a beard that was black. I'm sure that he actually did a lot things that were frightening - er, plundering, killing, cutting off limbs, not using cutlery, that sort of thing'.
'He doesn't sound so bad. Now, Daniel Montbars - there was a fellow: "Montbars the Exterminator" he was called'.
'Perhaps it was ironic'.
'Ironic?'
'Yes - you know, like "Little John", who was actually very big. Perhaps Montbars the Exterminator was actually an excessively jovial pacifist. Who collected soft toys'.
'I'm not convinced. By all accounts he tortured one Spanish prisoner by gutting him, tying one end of his intestines to a log, and then forcing him to dance'.
'So he liked dancing?'
'He forced the man to dance by beating him on his arse with a burning log'.

'Well, you have to admire the man's motivational skills'.

(Above) The light troops line the wall adjacent to the merchant's house. But the position is an awkward one for delivering fire against the advancing enemy pirates. Whilst the Rotenburg troops have the benefit of cover, their adversaries are largely obscured by a small orchard. To the left, and just out of shot of this woodcut, another group of pirates is firing at longer range against the light troops. Thanks to the angles, they are able to mass more fire against the Rotenburgers than the Rotenburgers effectively can reply with. Of course, there are quite a lot of other things that Rotenburg troops cannot effectively reply to: questions about who their fathers are, for example; or any tricky questions that require working with numbers higher than the count of their fingers. But still: as long as the baron's line of regulars can quickly dispatch their skirmishing adversaries, things should be fine. Oh dear ...