Glashoffel, the Final!

'Also', says Robert de Casside, further enumerating the reasons for his suspicion that he has not joined the army of Rotenburg, 'I was expecting an army composed of men that were taller. And cleaner. And more manly'. Casside's fears regarding the lower levels of testosterone, and higher than expected levels of baked-in grime, in the Wurstburp army might have been allayed if he could have seen the performance of the Margravate's cavalry. Though as a cavalryman, one wouldn't normally expect the key dynamics of combat in mounted warfare to compromise of being shot in the face at close quarters by enemy infantry, this is the situation that continues to confront Unpronunski's horsed arm. And they seem surprisingly robust in the face of this challenge. Though another of the cavalry regiments finally break and rout, (below) Baggin's Horse continues to block the advance of the Imperial flank march. The hairy-toed rascals seem to shrug off repeated enemy volleys, buying more time for Unpronunski's infantry assault.

To add to Cavandish's woes (if, of course, he was aware of them through the veil of sleep) his line is subjected to a sudden confusion in orders. On his extreme left, at the critical point of Wurstburp's attack, the Imperial army is suddenly afflicted by the manifestation of a highly undesirable military phenomenon: an attempt by an officer to display initiative. Commanding the supporting regiment behind the critical left-most front-line unit, the regimental colonel looks at the developing situation worriedly.
'See, major', he says to his subordinate. 'See how the enemy attack columns advance again with the bayonet! Look at that - they are assaulting our artillery battery! Oooh, that's got to sting! Observe how our brave artillerymen throw aside their weapons and attempt to halt the enemy advance by throwing themselves on the ground in front them, grabbing at their legs, weeping, and begging for mercy!'
'Yes, sir' says the major, unperturbed. 'Very moving. That's artillery for you'.
'We must advance and save them!' says the colonel.
The major tilts his head and raises an eyebrow in a way that seems to desire to communicate in a respectful and non-judgemental way that his superior has gone mad in the fashion of the droppings of bats.
'But, sir' he says reasonably. 'That would involve advancing our regiment through the regiment in front of us, thus disordering both and putting us at a disadvantage in the face of the heavy enemy attack that will no doubt follow'.
'Yes - give the orders!' says the colonel robustly.
'But, sir - those orders are ...', he cycles through his vocabulary, cursing his limited education, searching for a word he can say that has the same meaning as a mixture of dog flop and and the testicles of an especially large bullock, but that won't carry with it the same disciplinary consequences, 'um ... unwise'.

'I care not what you think, major! Order the advance!'

(Above, top right) And so, at a critical moment, the reserves blunder through the front line and end up directly in front of Wurstburp assault columns. To compound the situation, these crucial Imperial regiments are now far enough away from the rest of the infantry line that they are now a separate group for the purposes of what is termed loosely in the armies of Mittelheim 'command and control'. Surely sensing clearly that something now is badly amiss, Cavandish shifts in his sleep, murmuring 'This corset is surprisingly itchy.'

However, Lady Luck, if she does not actually smile upon Cavandish, at least doesn't smack him across his chops and call a lawyer. In the ensuing musketry duel, the massed Wurstburp columns do not fare well, and any immediate thought of a bayonet attack upon the Imperials must give way to a determined attempt at rallying. One of the Fenwickian infantry regiments is able to retire slightly to restore the cohesion of the line. Moreover,  the Margravial cavalry finally quit the field, allowing Cavandish's flank force to move up. All three Margravial regiments of horse have been cut down, and also both of Unpronunski's artillery batteries. (Above, at the bottom) Having finished their three horse meal, the Fenwickian flank force begins to bear down upon the remainder of the Wurstburp troops. (Above, at the top) Realising that the game is almost up, Unpronunski throws his assault columns forward in a desperate attempt to break Cavandish's line.

(Above) Alas, the attack makes no headway and is driven back. (Below) The Wurstburp army seems now to have run out of options. Set up to deliver bayonet charges, the prospect of an extended musketry duel with the well-positioned Imperial forces is as distasteful a prospect as a sardine and custard sandwich. Recognising that his largely conscript army is likely to be cut to pieces if the battle continues, Unpronunski gives the order for his force to retire. The Empire of Fenwick has triumphed once again!

Marshal Cavandish is victorious, and is able now to saviour the sweet fruits of victory. What these actually are isn't clear. Pineapples, probably. Hopefully not the boring ones, like apples, at least. Or, given that this is Fenwick, plums.* General Unpronunski and Prince Karl, however, must sip once again from the bitter cup of defeat, filled no doubt with English wine. Given the quantity of sips that they have taken from this cup recently, it is seems likely that they will also have to soon partake in a disappointing piddle of failure as well.







*As any competent Fenwickian lawyer knows,  savouring plums in Fenwick is a bit of a legal grey area. Technically, in Fenwick plums aren't forbidden - however, getting one's plums out and/or showing them to people, certainly is. On balance, it is best in Fenwick when savouring the fruits of victory to ditch plums in place of less controversial fruit, such as strawberries.

Glashoffel, the Third!

'It would seem, Prince Karl’, says General Unpronunski, looking through his telescope, 'that our cavalry are rather keener than you might think on sustaining the existing balance of social order!' The right wing of the imperial army continues to push forwards, firing volley after volley at the Wurstburp cavalry. Yet the cavalryman, presumably keen to avoid opening up opportunities for the social advancement of their inferiors, seem reluctant to die. No doubt their chins are too small to provide good aiming points for their adversaries.

Despite the delay, the atmosphere in Marshal Cavandish's headquarters remains tranquil: the marshal, of course, is fast asleep; and Keith, his horse, has not been tempted to tamper with the marshal's existing plan: largely because he is eating some carrots; and also because he is a horse, and so is less likely than Cavandish might think to apply military intuition and judgement to an evolving tactical situation. Captain Nitwitz, too, has made a valuable contribution to the steady prevailing calm by vetoing any attempts to issue orders to the Fenwickian troops. Issuing orders opens up the possibility of making mistaken decisions, and/or of issuing orders that might contain nightmarishly damaging double entendres: orders that might contain such words as 'rear', for example; or 'wood', 'penetrate', 'grope', 'melons', or 'topless trampolining'.

Finally, one regiment of Wurstburp horse routs in the face of the Fenwickian musketry. (Above) Thanks, however, to some generally risible accuracy, the remaining two regiments continue to hold their ground resolutely in the face of the attack, slowing down the rate of the Fenwickian advance on this part of the line. If the Wurstburp infantry can exploit this time in order to overwhelm the enemy to their front, Unpronunski's army will be able to win the day!

(Below) Girding their loins, the Wurstburp columns push forwards against the extreme left of Cavandish's line. Here, the margravial troops have a key advantage: no Fenwickian could themselves ever "gird their loins". "Girding", of course, sounds suspiciously fruity to anyone from Grand Fenwick, and something very likely to transgress one of the Empire's many laws against double entendre. "Loins", it goes without saying, is right out; along with a variety of other similar words such as "rump". Not for nothing does Grand Fenwick have Europe's highest incarceration rates for butchers. This would also explain why, when eating roast chicken in Fenwick, one is likely to be offered a choice "Leg, or ... ah ... the other leg?'

The isolated Fenwickian flank unit fires ineffectually, despite the massed target to its front. The Wurstburp reply inflicts some disorder on their opponents, but no decisive results.

(Above, right) the imperial artillery contributes moral support to the defence, but, naturally for Mittelheim cannons, no actual help: the angles are such that the enemy are not in canister range. Led by the red-coated mercenary unit, two margavial battalions hurl themselves into the defending Fenwickians. Thanks to the benefit of their massed formation and their "a la bayonette" training, the margravial troops break the defenders! (Below) This being Mittelheim, the next defensive position in the Fenwickian line is not a reserve force of fresh grenadiers, but rather a badly positioned artillery battery. The battery is well-placed to deliver some devastating cannon fire: if, that is, this was a naval battle. Sadly, it isn't; and so showing one's side to the enemy is not an opportunity to deliver a raking broadside but is instead an invitation to have one's flanks badly spanked.

In some consolation for Cavandish, however, it turns out that the turnip field, which was a right royal pain in the behind for the marshal's defensive deployment, is also a bit of an attack of piles for Unpronunski's assault. 'Bah!' says Unpronunski angrily, 'that field of turnips is really buggering up our assault. I always knew that vegetables were bad for me'. (Below) The field limits the general's ability to sustain the weight and cohesion of his attack. Advancing units into the field, of course, would just precipitate an apocalypse of turnip-related disorder.* Moreover, to the right of the field, his troops can attack only on a two battalion frontage. Then again, advancing more troops to the left of the field risks breaking the infantry into two separate groups, ruining Wurstburp's command and control, such as it is.

To add to Wurstburp's woes, the general has also had to contend with the constant questions from the latest notable to join his army, Robert de Casside. Casside, of course, made the fatal mistake of assuming that, in Mittelheim, the normal conventions of gentlemanly behaviour were adhered to. In this case, gentlemanly behaviour would dictate that, when one asks, like Casside, if the army that one is joining is the army of the Landgravate of Rotenburg when, in fact, it is that of the Margravate of Wurstburp, the answer should be "By no means, sir: I think that you have made a terrible mistake". Whereas, sadly, the answer that he actually received was "Why not? This might be fun". And when one then later asks "Are you sure that this is the Rotenburg army? The men say that they are in the army of Wurstburp", gentlemanly etiquette would also suggest that the answer shouldn't be "The cheeky rascals, always pulling your leg! Now, head off like a good lad and lead that very dangerous infantry assault!"

Desperate to sustain the momentum of his attack, Unpronunski throws his disorganised mercenaries against the artillery to their front.  Thanks to the protective gabions, the mercenaries are thrown back and disintegrate, routing from the field. (Above, right) As optimistic as they are incompetent, the imperial gunners ignore the nearest remaining plethora of gleaming enemy bayonets pointed in their direction, and lay some fire upon the packed ranks of Wurstburp troops further away. Naturally, though, their main contribution to the battle is to block the arc of fire of their own troops behind.

The key dynamic in this battle is now clear - can the right-most columns of Wurstburp troops burst through the two imperial battalions to their front before the imperial troops dispatch the margravial cavalry and bear down on the flanks of the Wurstburp columns?






* Which, as any veteran knows, is second as a cause of disorder only to leeks.

Glashoffel, the Second!

There is the sound of cannon fire as the Wurstburp artillery begins a short preparatory barrage. As an instrument in this great orchestra of battle, their contribution is less bass drum in nature and rather more triangle solo. The casualties are minimal and, as an opening to this encounter, they don't really merit the term 'prelude'; they are more, perhaps, the gentle rustling of coats as the audience sits down.

Neveretheless, for General Unpronunski and Prince Karl, the opening manoeuvres of the Wurstburp army have been, in many respects, extremely successful. (Below) A dense horde of Wurstburp attack columns bears down on the left wing of the Fenwickian army. Thanks to their wide route of attack, they have suffered no artillery losses whatsoever, and they outnumber heavily the imperial troops to their immediate front.

In the Fenwickian headquarters, Marshal Cavandish has sized up the situation and poses to Captain Fabius Nitzwitz, his staff officer, a key question:
'Is it time for bed?' asks the marshal, yawning.
Nitwitz looks alarmed and points to the left. 'My lord, the enemy infantry have commenced their advance! They will soon be upon our wing!'
'Hmmm', replies Cavandish. 'Then it sounds a bit past my bed time. You already know our plan'. He points to his horse, Keith, held by his orderly Captain Felix Baumgartner. 'Keith can mop up any residual concerns'.
'Sir, it is wise to leave Keith in charge?' asks Nitwitz, worriedly.
Cavandish frowns. 'You mean because he's not staff trained?'
'I mean because he's a horse', replies the captain.
Cavandish shrugs. 'I like to think that it gives him a different perspective on things - you know, thinking outside of the box'.
'Outside of the box, sir, but inside of his nose bag' says Nitwitz. 'His main concern seems to be oats, sir, which isn't always of immediate relevance to the complex tactical problems that we often face on the battlefield'.

Cavandish sighs. 'I think, Nitwitz, that you credit me with too much influence on the course of events. War is chaos, Nitwitz; war is Hell: I mean, look at the way it interrupts my sleep. Still, my warm milk isn't here yet, so I suppose I could usefully fill the time with some orders. First, let's wheel our left a bit!' (Above, right) The very left-most musketeers are ordered to refuse their flank. Cavandish is a commander sensitive to the feelings of his troops, and so doesn't generally like using in his written orders such words as 'doomed' and 'useful enemy speed-bump'. However, it's clear that this regiment, along with the accompanying battery of artillery, probably aren't likely to survive for very long. The remaining troops on the left are also wheeled to form a new line. The field creates some awkward difficulties for the defenders; but it might also pose a challenge for the advancing Wurstburp troops.

Second, since the margravial centre is weak, Cavandish orders forwards his right wing infantry. Essentially, the Fenwickian army begins to swing perpendicular to its original position. (Above) As the imperial troops advance upon the Wurstburp cavalry, the cavalry begin to retire.
'Curses!' expectorates General Unpronunski. 'If we keep retiring our cavalry in the face of his infantry then we risk losing the initiative! We will not be able to advance our infantry!'
"Bunnie" Prince Karlie observes the situation and reaches a hard-nosed conclusion. 'General, we must let the cavalry fend for themselves. Indeed, if they must perish, then so be it! Our prime concern is our infantry assault!'
Unpronunski doesn't seem keen. 'But the loss to the morale of our army might be severe!'
Prince Karl waves dismissively. 'If our cavalry are destroyed, then so be it! I like to think of it less as losing our cavalry, and more as opening up within our army increased opportunities for social mobility'.
The general nods sadly. 'So be it! Now, let us then leave our cavalry, and order forwards our infantry for the decisive assault!'