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'.