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.