Wuppenhas, the Third!

Death sits on a tree stump, listening intently. Next to him, Cheese stands miserably, idly swatting a bush with what looks like a small wooden spoon.
'This is no fun', says Cheese, morosely. 'How will I send souls to the Other Place when all I've got is a spoon?'
'You can have a scythe again', says Death evenly, 'when Lady Luck has recovered and when you've shown that you can be trusted'.
'All I had was some port', says Cheese defensively. 'A small port'.
'A small barrel of port' replies Death.
'It was the celery that tipped me over the edge'. Cheese continues swatting. 'Anyway', he continues, 'I don't think I said anything especially rude and upsetting. Isn't she just being a bit precious?'
'Perhaps it wasn't what you said, my strange apprentice, but rather how you said it?'
'Oh. Did I try my Welsh accent?'
'No.' Death stands slowly. 'No, what you said, you said whilst being stark buttocked naked'.
Cheese looks alarmed. 'Oh dear'.
Death nods. 'Yes, it wouldn't have been quite so bad if you had been standing still'.
'I was running?'
'No - you were jumping up and down in front of Lady Luck, inviting her to touch the shaft of your scythe'.
Cheese winces. 'Oh dear. That really isn't good'.
'Indeed, because you weren't actually carrying a scythe at the time. Then, you told her that, since she was such a cracker, perhaps she'd like some cheese on top of .....
'Stop! Stop!' says Cheese. 'Fine, fine. No scythe, yet. I'll apologise. But it does all seem to have been blown out of proportion. I've done worse'.
'Really?' asks Death raising an eyebrow sceptically. This would a lot to the untrained observer like him not raising an eyebrow, given that he has no actual eyebrows.
Cheese pauses, before exhaling. 'No. Probably not'.

On the topic of 'being blown out of proportion', the battle of Wuppenhas finally commences, and it begins with a preliminary imperial artillery bombardment. All of their batteries target the Bachscuttel Milchfrau Lieb-Garde, large numbers of whom are reduced in proportion by being blown out of their boots. In accordance with Marshal Cavandish's plan, the bombardment continues until his army has acquired, with the passage of time, a number of useful stratagems. Helped by their excellent training, the Fenwickian crews are exceedingly accurate. General Barry-Eylund is forced immediately to spend his time rallying.

The imperial bombardment continues until suddenly, but entirely predictably, the Fenwickians discover something that wasn't on their map (above): a squishy, watery marsh that sits in the line of fire. This reduces the effects of the Imperial bombardment by ruining the bounce in the Fenwickian balls: but no one in Fenwick, of course, could actually say that.

Now that the Imperial Chief of Staff, Giovanni di Tripodi, has a splendid collection of tactics and jolly wheezes up his elaborately laced Italian sleeves, he sends off a courier, ordering Sir Thomas Burgess to advance the cavalry. Needing to ensure that the cavalry maintain adequate contact with headquarters, this means that General Cavandish's bed must be moved into the marsh. Tripodi gives the orders and then watches some Fenwickian soldiers trying to move the bed without waking the general. As the men make a giant potato and cabbage hash of things, jostling Cavandish and terrifying some local frogs, the Chief of Staff briefly considers trying to help. But he then comes to his senses. He has been in Mittelheim long enough to know that merely trying to help will probably be pointless. Give a Mittelheimer a fish and he'll feed himself for a day, before drinking heavily in the evening and depositing the fish on the steps of the local tavern. Give him a rod, and he'll poke his eye out with it; blame his neighbour; start a fight; burn his house down; invent a new form of pie; lose the pie; get invaded; and give up fishing. In short, don't give a Mittelhemer a fish or a rod. Tie him to a chair with the string from the rod and then hit him with the fish. That'll learn him. With a sigh, Tripodi calls Burgess, dismisses the men, and the two move the bed themselves.

Burgess helps move the bed and then climbs back onto his horse (above). He then surveys the state of his force. Incredibly, his cavalry regiments are still in perfect order, despite the difficult terrain. Burgess' mastery of botanical obstacles derives from his previous career in England as a landscape gardener. Fleeing England in the wake of a scandal, Burgess travelled to the Leech Coast which he had heard to be a land of opportunity. His experiences there illustrated that these were opportunities primarily to sweat a great deal into his wig, and to acquire some or all of a wide selection of unpleasant medical conditions. Employed by the Sultan of the Loofah Caliphate in his wars against local tribes, Burgess didn't shine, combat gardening being something of a niche activity. The Sultan and Burgess agreed to part company by mutual consent, an agreement manifested mainly in the Sultan's attempts to have Burgess hunted down, captured, and then drowned in hippo dung. Burgess escaped and fled to Mittelheim, a place in which he has certainly sweated less, but in which the selection of possible medical emergencies is equally expansive.

(Above) The Imperial cavalry have been advanced, but Tripodi is careful not to commit them too early, so they remain halted for the moment in the cover of the trees and marsh. Now, the infantry advances and the right-most of his columns is redeployed. Whilst the mercenaries remain in front of the marsh, the other two regiments are moved in order to join the rear of the remaining columns, making them four deep.

(Below, top left) Barry-Eylund begins to refuse his right flank in the face of possible envelopment by the enemy cavalry. The general surveys through his telescope the advance of the enemy cavalry. He begins to consider moving his own horsed regiments in order to seal off this side of the battlefield.
'We must block up Burgess' passage, Bohner' says the general..
Bohner nods. 'A good sized cork should do the trick, my lord'.
'No - his movements; we need to block his movements', says the general.
Bohner shrugs. 'With a cork in his passage, I think we can assume there will be no movements'.
The general frowns. 'Does everything with you have to be scatological, major?'
'I couldn't say, sir' says Bohner, apologetically. 'I know nothing about the science of cats'.

Death listens intently, as the sounds of crashing flora and panicked fauna signal the close presence of the Imperial cavalry under Burgess.
Cheese looks at Death, and then says slyly, 'Have you lost a bit of weight?'
Death looks surprised but then pleased. 'Well, yes: I've been trying to work out a little: you know, a bit of floor work with my scythe'.
'Well', says Cheese, 'you are looking trim. They'll have to start calling you the Slim Reaper'.
'Hmm', says Death, and then, metaphysically narrows his eyes. Sockets. Whatever. 'Such compliments still won't get you a scythe, my strange smelling apprentice. Still, I suppose it would be fair to let you know that your antics with Lady Luck weren't quite as bad as you might think'.
'Really? I was completely naked'.
'Yes, but being lady Luck, fortuitously, pieces of dried fruit kept getting in the way of her direct view of your ... scythe'.

'Dried fruit?' says Cheese, impressed. 'And what about nuts?'

Death nods. 'Fortuitously covered by some celery'.

Wuppenhas, the Second!

'What', says General Redmond Barry-Eylund, commander of the forces of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, 'is this?' He waves a sheet of paper at his aide, Major Bohner.
'Well, sir,' says Bohner apologetically, 'it's Imperial propaganda. The Fenwickians seem to have employed the services of that Oskar Siber fellow in order to produce a scurrilous publication designed to undermine your reputation. Copies have been blown all over the camp, sir'.
The general frowns. 'But I don't understand, Bohner. There's just a picture here of a fellow in a night gown with a hat on'.
'Ah no, sir', replies the major. 'The point of this Siber attack, I think, is that the fellow here in the picture is you: and that is a lady's dress, sir, that you're wearing; and it's not a hat - that's a turtle'.
'So, I'm a big girl's blouse, and I'm a turtle?' Barry-Eylund peers more closely at the piece of paper. 'It could be a tortoise'.
Bohner looks more closely. 'No, sir, I think its a turtle'.
'I'd lay money on it being tortoise', says the general. 'In a hat'.
'My lord', says Bohner in an obsequious tone, 'I really think that it is a turtle'.
'But why am I portrayed as a turtle here, major? Why?'
'It is your reputation as a general, sir', says Bohner delicately. 'You are widely known as "Der Turtle Koenig": by far the best commander in all of Mittelheim in the fine art of  turtling - that is, of deploying your forces in awkwardly strong defensive positions and then ... and then ... I'm trying to find a way of saying "doing bugger all" without actually saying that, sir'.
'I can take a hint, Bohner', says the general glumly. 'But, I feel that's surely not how I should be characterised in Mittelheim at large. I am a military genius'.
Bohner nods. 'Yes sir, a genius at jamming your army into tiny, difficult places'.
'No, I mean I'm a genius in the the way of Caesar and Alexander. Not even if, at some implausible point in the future, a tubby Corsican short-arse were to emerge as a great commander, would I be surpassed in my military capabilities. I am bold, decisive, and cunning!'
Bohner nods. 'You are certainly bald, sir, there's no doubt about it'. He notices the general's growing despondence. 'But one out of three isn't so bad, my lord'.
'But you have seen me exercising command, major. Are my attributes not those of a genius?'
Bohner chews his lip. 'It really depends, my lord, upon the characteristics that one might commonly attribute to the notion of "genius", sir. If it was a list that included such things as, "alienatingly passive" or "annoyingly skilled at manipulating the technicalities of the rules of war", qualities like that, then the label "genius" might certainly apply'.
'Do I have no positive qualities at all?'
'You're quite tall, sir'.
'That's it?'
'Your wigs are nice'.
'But the men - they surely love me!'
'Of course they do, sir - our casualties are so low because there's so little real fighting to do. We just deploy in the smallest, most difficult to get to place on the battlefield; and then we watch our adversaries trying to advance through the copious quantities of local flora that you have cunningly engineered to be in their path. Then they get tired. Then something that wasn't on their maps appears in front of them, and they give up. It's war approached as a form of gardening'.

There is an awkward silence. Suddenly, Barry-Eylund stiffens and then holds himself erect in his saddle.*

'No longer, Bohner!' says the general, a glint in his eye. 'No longer! Today, we shall deploy like men! In the open! Well forward! With easily compromised flanks!'

'But, sir', interjects Bohner, 'isn't it possible that the purpose of the Fenwickian Siber attack was to goad you into ...'

'Flanks wide open, do you hear, Bohner!' roars Barry-Eylund, 'Everything hanging out!'

(Above) And so it comes to pass. The defending Bachscuttlers deploy well forwards. The first line comprises of  the elite and guard regiments. Behind, the two trained units are held in march column, ready to respond as the need dictates. The three regiments of cavalry are also placed into march columns. On the extreme left, the two regiments of irregulars are deployed in front of a wood, ostensibly in order to secure the flank but also because it might force the Fenwickians to use the word "wood".

(Above) Barry-Eylund intersperses his infantry with his three batteries of artillery. Looking at the enemy line, however, it is evident that Bachscuttel infantry may well have a hot time of it. The gap between the hills provides an excellent clear field of fire for the four Imperial artillery batteries (above, top left), and their gunners are trained at Grand Fenwick's excellent artillery academy.

Cavandish has ordered his forces to deploy. Even for the army of Fenwick, however, these orders are executed with a celerity that is as surprising as it is commendable. The reasons for this sudden efficiency quickly become clear: they are the result of nothing less than a revolution in Mittelheim staff systems. In the past, Grand Fenwick's approach to military staffs and such complex, demanding challenges as command and control, logistics, intelligence, and signals, have relied upon the usual Mittelheim staples of wilful ignorance, blind luck, and alcoholic beverages. But Cavandish has been able to leverage the possibilities created by the arrival in his army of one Thomas Burgess, Esq. Burgess is of a social standing that means that he can be given command of the cavalry. And this means, in its turn, that the existing cavalry commander, the Florentine mercenary Giovanni di Tripodi, can be reassigned. Tripodi is famous for his social graces and his excellent table; the latter to be fair, is quite impressive, with a sturdy oak legs and an intricate Gothic styling. Tripodi has now been appointed the first Chief of Staff in any Mittelheim army, ever. Tripodi brings to the job of Chief of Staff all of the finest attributes of the enlightenment: literacy; enquiry; punctuality; and punctuation. Moreover, level-headed fellow that he is, with him as Chief of Staff the army of Fenwick is immune to bouts of confusion.

(Above) With Tripodi in charge of sending the orders, the Imperial army deploys rapidly. In the centre, Cavandish has placed nine of his ten infantry regiments. They are deployed in three lines of three. The purpose of this deployment isn't difficult to surmise - it is likely that the Imperial infantry will be thrown forwards in the the hope that the mass of this force, combined with the Imperial's Lethal Volleys doctrine, will rupture the defending line. 

On the Fenwickian left, Thomas Burgess is deployed in command of the three cavalry regiments. The cavalry seem to be placed in a terrible position, facing as they are woods and swamps. Indeed, one of the cavalry regiments is actually deployed in  a swamp. This is surely madness - pure, frothy-mouthed madness. Or is it? For Burgess, veteran of campaigns in the Leech Coast, is apparently a master of fighting in harsh terrain. Troops under his command can march and fall back through difficult terrain without being disrupted.

(Below) On the Fenwickian right, Cavandish has deployed his artillery and his remaining infantry regiment. To the left of the artillery can be seen the gaily coloured banners of a unit of Wurstburpian mercenaries. Tired of being thrashed all the time, these fine men have changed sides. Since they are still in the field, and also still alive, we can assume that these are troops of better than average Wurstburp quality.

Cavandish gives the signal to commence his attack: which is to say, he gets into bed and pulls the covers over his eyes. With a deafening roar, the Imperial artillery commence a preparatory bombardment ...

*In Fenwick, of course, such activities would carry the death penalty.

Wuppenhas, the First!

Wherein the army of the Empire of Fenwick, commanded by Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish, encounters the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, commanded by General Redmond Barry-Eylund.

Near the village of Wuppenhas, the Fenwickian army moves into position. En route to relieve the siege of Fort Pippin, Marshal Cavandish has found his march blocked by the troops of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel. Clearly, a battle is in the offing! The marshal surveys the terrain. It is a mark of the seriousness with which he takes this coming encounter that Cavandish is still not abed. He's never literally been a bed, of course: rather, we mean that, surprisingly, we find that he is not actually snuggled under his coverlets dreaming about hot chocolate and even hotter actresses. (Below) As his staff officers converse amongst themselves in hushed tones, the marshal exhibits the loneliness of command: upon his head rests the responsibility for the Fenwickian plan. Also upon his head rests a night cap. Indeed, the loneliness of his position is only partly due to his responsibilities. The rest is a result of the unwillingness of his staff officers to stand near him when the marshal is in his night attire. Whilst a light muslin fabric might indeed be, as Cavandish swears, marvellously comfortable, it isn't quite so easy on the eyes of those that have to behold the marshal at close quarters on a bright and breezy day.

As Cavandish calls over Captain Fabius Nitzwitz, his staff officer, the captain himself can attest to this. Looking at his commander in his nightgown is rather like squinting at a butcher's shop through a net curtain. There is certainly very little entendre, double or otherwise, in the poorly obscured movement taking place under Cavandish's nightgown. It is all as obvious as Prussian joke about sausages.
'Now then, Nitzwitz', says the marshal jovially, 'are those pamphlets distributed as I asked?'
'Yes, my lord', replies the captain. 'Yes, indeed. We had some of the men throw them up into the air, and the wind carried many of them into the Bachscuttel lines'. Nitzwitz pauses. 'But ... sir, can I ask - what was on those sheets of paper; and why is it so important that they should be seen by the enemy?'
'All will be revealed!' chuckles Cavandish; ironically, as it turns out, since he then bends over to tuck in some of his covers.
'Gark!' utters Nitzwitz.
'Yes!' says Cavandish, 'Brilliant isn't it!'
'I was going to use the words "hairy" and "long"', chokes Nitzwitz.
'I think, captain, that when you see the enemy deploy, you will soon also see the excellence of my stratagem!'
'I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to see again' croaks Nitzwitz. 'Or unsee!' He rubs his eyes. As a loyal staff officer, however, he struggles manfully to regain his composure. 'My lord ... what, then, is so cunning about the pamphlets that you have delivered upon the enemy?'

The marshal nods knowingly. 'Nitzwitz - who are we to fight today?'
'Well, sir', replies the captain slowly, 'that would be the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel'.
'Exactly. Commanded by General Redmond Barry-Eylund. And what is he famous for doing as a general?'
Nitzwitz nods. 'For turtling, sir.'
'Exactly!' says Cavandish, snapping his fingers. 'Turtling. He is "Der Turtle Koenig". There are ancient obese turtles with shells five sizes too small that would look at one of Barry-Eylund's deployments and say "Oooh, that's a bit tight, that is". Not even with five hundred weight of fruit preserves would it be possible to jam a force in tighter than he can.  So I have devised a ruse that will solve that little problem, and open up his position in some very interesting ways!' Again, ironically, as he says this, he throws up his arms in a manner that opens his nightgown in ways that could also be construed as "interesting"; if, that is, definitions of the word "interesting" included "frightening", "nauseous", and "certainly illegal".

It would no doubt warm the marshal's heart to know that, at this very moment, ructions are emerging in the headquarters of General Redmond Barry-Eylund as the general and his staff peruse some of the Fenwickian pamphlets ...

Wuppenhas!

'Damn and blast, von Fecklenburg, why am I disturbed?' Rupprecht Von Saponatheim, Prince-Palatine of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, waves irritably as he enters the council room.
Fecklenburg nods, sagely. 'A question many, surely, have asked, my lord', he says with  a knowing wink to his compatriot Count Geyr von Voeltickler, Minister for Finance and Other Tedious Things. 'But', continues the chamberlain, 'your presence is required, sire!'
'Bah!' says the Prince shutting the door behind him; shutting it, in fact, in the face of an elaborately dressed lady. 'Who the devil is that woman who keeps following me around, Fecklenburg?'
'As I've said several times before, my lord',  replies the chamberlain, 'that is your wife, the Princess Caroline'.
Rupprecht pulls a face. 'Why did she marry me?'
Voeltickler interjects. 'She is a perceptive, educated, intelligent woman. So I really have no idea, sire'.
'Did I agree to marry her?' says the Prince.
Fecklenburg nods. 'You did, my lord. You seemed quite enthusiastic about it at the time'.
'Was she enthusiastic?'
'As enthusiastic as could be expected, my lord. It was thought best not to tell her that she was marrying you until the actual wedding itself. She thought she was going on holiday to Rome'.
'But she went through with it'.
'Yes, my lord. She had a commendable sense of duty. And also, of course, a blindfold'.
'Did I find her attractive?'
'I think at the time, my lord, you commented unfavourably on how skinny she was'.
The prince nods vigorously. 'Well, it's true: you've just seen her - if she turned sideways she 'd be invisible'.
'Actually, my lord', says Voeltickler, 'she's rather plumper now than she was then'.
'Really?' scoffs Rupprecht incredulously. 'I find that hard to believe. Putting on a pound or two really hasn't made much difference at all!'
'It's eighteen stone, my lord' replies the chamberlain. 'She has put on eighteen stones'.
Voeltickler nods. 'She has, I believe, tripled her weight'.
Rupprecht snorts. 'Well, I still think she'd be improved with a bit more on her'.
'And also a little curly pink tail, no doubt', says Fecklenburg under his breath. More loudly, the chamberlain says: 'It is time, sire, to inspect the new grenadier companies! They are waiting for you in the town square!'

'The Prince is always keen to improve himself by inviting
guests that will stretch his intellect'.

'But why must I do this? I have a busy afternoon!' whines the Prince.
'My lord', replies Fecklenburg, a little sharply, 'events in the wider world are moving on! Our allies are in disarray. Having suffered so recently yet another defeat, the army of Wurstburp has withdrawn from the war! The forces of Nabstria, too, have quit the field and sustain forces only in the ongoing siege of Fenwick's Fort Pippin!'

'Converged grenadiers'.

'Ours are the only forces of the Spasmodic Sanction still ready to fight' Voeltickler adds. 'And thanks to the lamentable military farce that has been the Wurstburp campaign, we are losing the war!'
Rupprecht scowls. Fecklenburg continues to hammer the point home. 'So we must reinforce General Barry-Eylund's troops, and commit him to lightning attacks upon the armies of Fenwick and Rotenburg! Only through immediate action can we change our fortunes! Even now, the general plans to bring the Fenwickians to battle. He has chosen a position near the small village of Wuppenhas at which to concentrate his forces.'

'The grenadiers parade with their regiments'.

Rupprecht sighs. 'Very well, very well. I'll go down and take the salute, and wave off these new troops. Barry-Eylund had better win after my heroic efforts'.
'Victory, surely, is inevitable!' Fecklenburg says stoutly. 'Surely no country in Europe is led so wisely; nor has such an effective army; nor is blessed with such a weighty queen!'
Rupprecht nods vigorously. 'Yes, Fecklenburg, you're right! Call my sedan chair! Make ready my pigs! It is time to mix with my people in a regally distant way!'

'The troops march off to join the main army'.

Later that morning, the three meet again in the council chambers.
'It's done!' says Rupprecht. 'Now, can I go? I've got another afternoon of peasant shoots planned'.
Voeltickler frowns. 'Surely, sir, it's a "pheasant shoot"'?
Rupprecht shakes his head. 'No, no. I'm sure it's a "peasant shoot". The Bishop of Schrote is a great enthusiast and he told me just how relaxing it was. And, you know, he wasn't wrong'.
Fecklenburg looks in alarm at the prince. 'The Bishop shoots pheasants, sir. Pheasants. The game birds. Game. Birds'.
Rupprecht looks like he is about to remonstrate, but then stops himself. His brow furrows; then, he breaks into a beaming smile. 'Well, well, well. You know - on reflection, that might indeed be what he said. Pheasants. Game birds. Not peasants. Well, that would explain a few of the difficulties that I've experienced on my shoots here'.
His two advisers look at one another, concerned. 'Difficulties? Will we need to visit the village and ... smooth things over?' enquires Fecklenburg.
Rupprecht nods, looking a little sheepish. 'Yes. Smooth things over. But, before you smooth the things over, you'll probably have to bury them first'.
Fecklenburg nods wearily. 'So I'm going to need to mend some fences?'
'Yes, mend some fences'.
'I'll talk to the locals', says the councillor.
'No', replies the prince. 'I mean literally, there are fences that will need mending - some of the peasants tried really hard to escape'.
'Very well'.
'And also, there might be some houses that need mending'.
'I'll send some carpenters'.
'By "mending", really I mean "unburning"'.
Fecklenburg gulps. 'But you didn't hurt anyone else, sir - no old folk, women or children?'
Rupprecht looks insulted. 'God's freshly laundered underwear, Fecklenburg, no - I'm not a monster - I didn't hurt any of them'.
Fecklenburg considers this for a moment, beginning to get the feeling that a definite specificity in language might be required to untangle this incident. 'So you didn't "hurt" them, sir. But are there any other things that you might have done to them?'
'No, no, no, no, no!' says the prince. He then pauses, and fishes a large key out of his pocket. 'But you might send someone to the palace cellars and unlock the door. It's not impossible that some locals might have become ... lost ... and wandered in there'.
'Lost?' says the chamberlain.
'Yes', says Rupprecht. 'Oh, you'd better have these as well', he says fishing out a collection of smaller keys, 'in case anyone happened to have mistakenly chained or shackled themselves'.
'Chained ... or shackled?' says Fecklenburg, exchanging worried glances with Voeltickler, who begins to move discreetly towards the door.
'Yes, you know, just to be on the safe side'.
'But',  says the chamberlain, 'broadly, if there were old people, women and children in the cellars, nothing would have been done to them?'
'Oh no, no, no. They are with my pigs. There's nothing my pigs like better than some company: some bedtime songs and nursery rhymes'.
'So, to be clear, the children are unhurt?'
'Absolutely. Some of the smaller, tenderer ones I might have ... encouraged into the pig pens, of course'.
'Tenderer? Pig pens? Voeltickler, you need to get to the cellars  quickly - take a horse!'
The prince continues. 'It's not ... it's not impossible that some of those children might have come to be covered in garlic butter'.
'Voeltickler!' shouts Fecklenburg, 'you're going to need a faster horse!'