Merry Christmas!

As Sebastien Le Prestre, Marquise de Vauban, once noted, no Christmas is complete without a poorly conducted siege operation. By that standard, this is surely a bumper festive period. (Below) The northern suburbs of the Wurstburp capital, Munchausen. The south of the town abuts the river Procksi, giving the capital its full name of Munchausen-By-Procksi. 

This woodcut gives a reasonable indication of the defences: four bastions; two ravelins; and a defensive glacis. Two regiments of Wurstburp infantry are deployed forwards in the covered way.

(Above) An alternative perspective on the town; but changing the angle doesn't make it look any better. Each bastion contains a battery of garrison artillery. Two more regiments of infantry man the main defences; if 'man' is the right word for anything occupied by troops of the Wurstburp army.

(Above) A view from Munchausen towards the Vulgarian first parallel. At this distance, the Vulgarian siege works could be mistaken for a properly coordinated engineering exercise. 

(Above) The Vulgarian first parallel. Five batteries of heavy siege artillery are positioned in redoubts. Anybody arguing that the redoubts are just large squares of felt is clearly just an engineering amateur.

(Above) The first parallel; and also, quite a lot of sheep; and also, a pen. 

It is surely obvious to any gentleman of quality that  a siege operation bears a remarkable similarity to the process of having survived this past year: slow, desperate, filthy digging through dirt; marginal advances; poor events rolls; dysentery; rain; more digging; latrines; rainy digging; marginal dirt; desperate latrines; poor event rolls and then back to the start; rinse and repeat.

Here in Mittelheim, we wish all of the readers of this modest publication, both of you, a restful festive break and a sincere hope that this next year gives more of what you want and a lot less of what you don't. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!      

The Red Badge of Porridge!

In the town of Munchhausen, capital of the Margravate of Badwurst-Wurstburp, the residents have woken up to dire news: the Vulgarians are here! Following up the retreat of the remnants of the Wurstburp army after their defeat at the Battle of Groeninghumpe, the Vulgarians seem intent on forcing a siege and knocking Wurstburp out of the war! With the Vulgarian siege train trundling into position, it is at a moment like this that the defenders of the capital could most benefit from the impact of some wise and inspirational leadership. Alas, the margrave, Kasper Johan von Porckenstauffen, is in the north at his hunting lodge; and also, of course, he isn't wise or inspirational. This leaves as the senior officer present in the capital the recently re-discovered King-Not-Over-The-Water-But-In-Fact-Quite-Close-By Wilhelm Penwick-Fuppet. Or it would if he could actually be found. Three figures are present in Wilhelm's Court in Exile. They look despondently at an empty throne.

'I'm sure that our king will be with us shortly', says Wilhelm's companion Lady Flora Spreadswell, sounding more hopeful than certain.

'I doubt it', says General Unpronunski. 'Have there been any sightings Lord Duncan?'

Lord Duncan De Sordelay shakes his head sadly. 'Alas, we have not seen him for many days. Rumour says that he has lost himself in the infernal depths of subscription-based bakery services'.

'Subscription-based bakery services?' asks the general.

'Indeed', replies Lord Duncan. 'OnlyFlans: perverse patisserie antics in which backstreet bakers flaunt their buns in members-only clubs'.

'Why would the consumption of buns be an illicit activity?'

'You haven't seen the size of them, madame. Wilhelm has lost himself entirely in this wanton world of pastry promiscuity. And now, in this hour of need, there is no one to lead us'.

'Perhaps all is not lost', says Lady Flora. 'For yesterday, an individual with some very specific and relevant expertise found his way to our town; and now, cut off by Vulgarian forces though we are, it may be that his leadership and expertise will provide us with a decisive advantage in the coming battle'.

'It's Horace de Saxe, isn't it', replies the general, in the same tone that one might say that one had been visited by the fourth Ghost of Christmas, the "Ghost of Christmas In-Laws". It's Horace and that means that we're all going to die; by some means that is slightly worse and a lot longer than if he wasn't here to give us bad advice'.

'Indeed not, sir' replies Flora. 'It is this gentleman'. A figure wanders into the chamber (below).

'Fear not', says the interloper. 'It is I, Carl von Lackwitz'.

'Your problems are over, for I am experienced in matters relating to fortifications, revetments, and whatnot. Why, I was present at the assault upon the great city of Grosschnitzelring'.

'Well, that sounds hopeful', replies Lord Duncan. 'And you were instrumental in bringing about a successful defence of the city?'

'No, not so much', admits Lackwitz.  

The general considers this. 'So, sir, you claim to be an expert in sieges but this knowledge has not actually improved your chances of bringing success?'

Lackwitz nods. 'Yes, it's pair of ducks'.

'You mean a paradox?' asks Duncan.

'Sorry, yes, a pair of dogs' says Lackwitz. 'But I should imagine that by the power of the law of averages I might help to bring about success this time around'.

'The law of averages isn't perhaps something that we should rely on in the first instance', says Unpronunski dubiously. 'It hasn't helped me thus far'.

'But Lackwitz has so much more to give!' says Lady Flora earnestly. 'A man of his evident charisma and forceful personality will surely be able to inspire the troops!'

'A good speech might help', admits Unpronunski. 'The ex-Jacobites are courageous troops with a fondness for lost causes. Which is lucky given their recent performance on the battlefield'.

'I shall speak to the men and provide them with the benefits of my philosophical thoughts on the nature of war. I will need to sound sensitive and intelligent but also, I think, threatening in a psychotic manner'.

'Then you should use a Scottish accent', says the general.

Lackwitz nods. 'And what does that sound like?'

'Fill your mouth with porridge and then speak Norwegian'.

'What does Norwegian sound like?'

'Like Danish, but you have to speak through a pillow'.

'Languages are so complex!' says Lackwitz in exasperation. 'Why can’t everyone speak German like me? It’s easy - I picked it up as a child'.

Some discussion then ensues on the best way of defending the town against the Vulgarians. Lackwitz becomes bored and then wanders off.

 

Lord Duncan sighs. 'Is there any chance that we might defeat the Vulgarians?'

'Oh no, it’ll be fine' says Unpronunski.

'Really?'

'Oh, yes'.

'Great!'

'Yes, what I find more worrying is that Wilhelm's throne seems to have a pentacle in front of it'.

'Surely not ... oh, actually ....'

Outside, there is the ominous detonation of heavy cannons that signals the start of the investment of the town ...

Policy and Strategy!

In Grand Fenwick, events are afoot that are likely to reduce a tad the house prices in the Margravate of Wurstburp.

'You wanted to see me?' asks Lady Timsbury of Somerton. She stands in a chamber of King and Emperor George's palace in Gelderland. Though George has not yet been formally crowned as ruler of Gelderland, it is surely only a technicality, and nothing whatsoever could now go wrong that would prevent his coronation. Not ever.

George's chief councillor Minister Werner von Wormer bows to Lady Timsbury. 'Yes, my lady. I have brought a message: and yet another present from your admirer'.

Lady Timsbury sighs. 'It's not that wearisome painter fellow Heironyonous Tosch is it?'

'The very same, madame'.

'What has he sent me this time?'

'It's another painting of Richard III'.
Lady Timsbury snorts. 'For goodness sake - not another Dick pic!'
She looks at the picture and frowns. 'This one seems strangely painted'.
Wormer looks at the message he is holding. 'Tosch claims that it's been digitally re-mastered'.
'Digitally re-mastered?'
'Yes, he's used his fingers to move the paint around'.

Wormer hands Lady Timsbury the message. 'Why does he  pursue you so, my lady? Did you have a relationship with him?'

'Goodness no! I mean, yes I went to the opera a couple of times with him; and then out to a dining establishment on a few dozen occasions; and then, of course, I lived with him for three years. For goodness sake, I barely know the man, and yet he keeps harassing me!'

Wormer gestures to the message. 'Also, he would like some access to your children'.

Lady Timsbury shrugs. 'Well, yes, obviously I had children with him. But what else was I supposed to do? We were in Wales at the time: there was nothing else to do. And now he won't leave me alone!'

Wormer nods slowly. 'So, the living in Wales with him; and the, ah, children: was that the time before or after the unfortunate, ah, accident involving your husband?'

'Pffft', says Lady Timsbury airily. 'Time: it's such a relative concept'.

'Anyway, Lord Wormer, I have more important issues that I wish to discuss with you. Matters both of policy and strategy'.

'Really, madame? Is there a difference between the two?'

Lady Timsbury rolls her eyes. She points to a large pile of folios on a nearby chair. 'Module 1, Unit 2 of King's College's marvellous programme of professional military education!' Give me some money and I shall enrol you!'

'So is that a yes or a no?' enquires Wormer.

'No freebies!' says Lady Timsbury tartly. 'The important point that I wish to press upon you is the need to exploit the success won by your alliance over the Margravate of Wurstburp'.

'I quite agree, madame'.

'Really?'

'Yes - I thought a small party would be in order: nothing too much, of course - it's only Zenta. Maybe some cheese and wine, a bit of bunting'.

'No! No! No! The principles of strategy demand that we fully exploit this success through follow-on activity! Why it is one of the many important principles contained in Module 2; Unit 3. 'Kicking an Adversary When They are Down'.

Wormer considers this. 'Well, I could add a hot fork buffet I suppose: and more bunting'.

'No - for goodness sake, man! The army of Wurstburp has been roundly defeated: so their lands are wide open to further operations. Strike straight for their centre of gravity!'

'Their what of what?'

'Without an army, there is nothing to prevent a direct attack upon their capital city!'

Wormer nods. 'Why ... yes, madame: on reflection, you are correct. And this is ... from the material contained within your course on professional military education?'

'Indeed, Wormer: delivered by a world-renowned institution that isn't Hull University!'

'And I am sure it is competitively priced and comes with excellent academic support from enthusiastic tutors?'

'World renowned, I tell you!' says Lady Timsbury firmly. 'And one clear lesson is the need to exploit success! March upon the Wurstburp capital!'

'That sounds quite dangerous, my lady: it's a long way. And also, I've already ordered the bunting'.

Lady Timsbury sighs in exasperation. 'But this is the advantage of being in an alliance - just get someone else to do it and take all the risks'.

Wormer considers this revelation. 'Madam, this is sage advice! Why, we could ask the Vulgarians to do it! They're nearer, and also, we hate them, so we don't care if they fail'.

'Indeed sir! If there is one thing I've learnt in Mittelheim, it's that allies are only enemies that haven't read between the lines properly'.

'Why, this is marvellous. Professional military education really seems to be worth investing in - if I sign up, can I have a discount?'

'No. World renowned! If it's not expensive, how could it be any good? I shall draft you a message to the Vulgarians: take the idea to the King!'

Wormer bows. 'I shall do so immediately, madame ...'

It Was the Best of Times, it Was the Wurst of Times!

'Greetings, my princess of pulchritude', says Hospodar Casimir guardedly.
'Husband', replies his wife, the Hospodina Eudokia Asanina. Her tone makes it difficult to determine whether the she is using the title as a greeting or as an accusation.

That there should be certain tensions evidenced in Casimir's relationship with Eudokia was probably inevitable given the circumstances of their co-joining. It wasn't the best start to a marriage. Her family was small; and they got quite a lot smaller after Casimir has most of them beheaded. They were also poor; or at least, they were after Casimir also then stole their fortune, which he used as part of the bribes to have himself elevated to hospodar by the Ottoman grand vizier.

Nevertheless, the relationship seemed to work; largely because of its strong foundations in honesty and commitment - Eudokia honestly didn't want to spend any time with her husband, which was probably good because Casimir was a committed psychopath. Still, Radu Pasha had noted that Casimir accorded his wife a great measure of respect and seemed to take pains to hide from her the worst of his excesses. This wasn't easy given how excessive his excesses were. Eudokia, in turn, evinced no fear of her husband, and whatever she actually said it always sounded like she was telling him to go and tidy his bedroom.

'And Husrev Pasha', says Casimir, turning to the fellow accompanying the Hospodina. 'What brings you here as well?'

'Dread lord', replies Husrev bowing. 'I am Chief of the White Eunuchs; and so I am chancellor for the august Hospodina'.

'Chief of the White Eunuchs?' replies Casimir frowning. 'But weren't you Chief of the Kitchens?'

'There was an incident, my lord', interjects Radu Pasha. 'The cheese thing'.

'Oh, oh yes, the thing with the cheese' says the Hospodar nodding slowly. 'And I banished you to the eunuchs. Well, how are you finding things in the ...ah ... eunuch ... work space'.

'Well, you know, sire. It's on and off. When they need a eunuch that's specifically white, well, it's hurry hurry hurry. But if they don't need a eunuch; or they need a eunuch but the colour isn't a priority, then things are much quieter'.

'I can imagine that would be the case. Did you need much training?'

'No, no, lord. There were just some, ah ... preliminary adjustments that I had to make'.

'Adjustments?'

'There was an operation', my lord interjects Radu Pasha. 'The sausage thing'.

'The sausage ... oh, I see. Well, 'says Casimir turning again to Eudokia, 'you have arrived at a moment, my turtle dove, of important discussion of matters of state'.

Eudokia tilts her head. 'I would swear, husband, that I heard the word "debauchery" mentioned'.

'Oh, no, no, no, no, no', says Radu Pasha. 'You probably misheard me, my lady, when I was talking about the balloon. "Balloon", "debauchery:" they can sound quite similar when pronounced by someone as worthless as myself'. 

'Exactly' hurries on Casimir. 'So, back to the debauchery: what might this new technology be used for?'

'Well - silly things, sire', says Radu. 'Floating in; kidnapping people; floating out. It seems dangerous, costly, largely futile; and also potentially very embarrassing. Rather like ruling Wurstburp'.

'Well, let's not keep these plans then. We should send them on to someone else. Any ideas, slave?' 

'Well, my lord husband' interrupts the Hospdina. 'There might be someone that you can send the plans to. Send them to the Vulgarians, husband. They have an appetite for madcap adventure. And also, you hate them: so it doesn't matter if they use this technology and fail laughably'.

'Why yes, madame: that is sage advice indeed', nods Casimir. 'What a marvellous and serendipitous tide of fate it was that washed you up upon the shores of my life, my dear'. 

'Tide of fate?' replies the Lady Eudokia. 'Yes. Of course, there's also the fact that you had me kidnapped; killed most of my family, and then threatened to kill the rest if I didn't agree to marry you'.

'Well yes', replies Casimir evenly. 'There was that as well'.

Meanwhile, thoughts of Vulgaria are brewing in the minds of other important Mittelheim personages ...

Victory!

'Well, slave - this is indeed most excellent news. And the Wurstburpers were completely routed?'
Radu Pasha nods. He has just informed Hospodar Casimir of the great Zentan victory at the the Battle of Groeninghumpe. 'Yes, dread lord. We sniped at them for a while; then they chased us for a while; then we charged them for a while; and then they ran off'.
'It's not quite as epic an account of the battle as I might wish for; but never mind - we can elaborate upon it for the official history', replies the Hospodar. 'I'd like less kilts, bagpipes, and timorous skirmishing, and more dashing charges, skilful generalship, and roguish indifference to death'.

'Your will, my hands', replies Radu bowing. 'I shall get our best writers of romantic fiction right on it'.

'And what were our casualties like?' Casimir enquires.
'Very heavy, my lord',  says Radu brightly, 'especially amongst the irregular cavalry'.
'Well, this is better and better!' beams Casimir. 'Maintaining our forces will now cost us much less. And having to recruit more irregulars will also remove even more of the undesirable elements from the Borat and Giezza communities: which is almost all of them'.
Radu pauses and then changes tack. 'There is ... ah ... one fly in the ointment, my lord. There is a ... ah ... degree of unhappiness, my lord, amongst the Borat and Giezza tribes given that they have lost so heavily. Some dark mutterings, given that the scale of their losses means that their funeral pyres aren't readily distinguishable from major forest fires'.  
Casimir waggles an admonishing finger. 'Then, slave Radu, we need to turn those frowns upside down! You can't say "funeral" without saying "fun": so let's encourage the people to look at the sunnier side of things by telling them that if they continue to mutter darkly, I shall have them all burnt as well'.

'A wise and sagacious decision, great lord. I shall send the good news to them immediately'.

Hospodar Casimir nods and then seems to remember something. 'Now, Radu: this leads me to that pamphlet on balloons that you recommended for me'.

'Indeed, sir. One of the interesting fruits of my visit to Sirhirbaz Pasha's laboratories. And by "one", lord, I probably really mean "only". Except for those interesting things that were literally fruits - I had never seen a guava before'.

'It does sound like he needs to be incentivised', says Casimir ruefully.

'Alas, sire, the incentivisor is broken: the ropes snapped while we were applying some encouragement to Ambassador von Dweeb'.

'How long will it take to fix?'

'The Equality and Diversity Officer has taken a look, sire. He declares it to be quite damaged: "proper knackered" I think was the technical term that he used. It seems that the Bachscuttel ambassador's moral flexibility is accompanied by an equivalent degree of physical flexibility as well: even after we pinged his cuirass off'.

'Well, we should make some decisions about what to do with the pamphlet. Although, before that we have a few other issues that probably need resolving. Isn't my wife visiting soon?'
'Yes, my lord, she ...'
'Hmmm, but don't I have debauchery at three?'
'That's at two my lord: it's torture at three, and then tea at four, but ...'
'Well, perhaps we should bring the torture and debauchery forward. I want the place cleared up before my wife arrives'.
'Yes, sire, she ...'
'In fact, let's combine the torture and debauchery to move things along'.
'Ah, ah', says Radu with a rising note of panic in his voice.
'Actually, let's combine all three: but make sure the tea isn't too hot in case of spillages'.
'Ah, ah ... your wife, lord ...' protests Radu.
The hospodar stops and looks at Radu's face. He sighs. 'She's behind me isn't she'.

 

Groeninghumpe, the Final!

Nothing makes a Zentan braver than attacking an enemy's flank when they also outnumber them two to one. (Below) Advancing with an unusual show of swagger and aggression, Bulbous' irregulars hurl themselves into the fray!

(Above, right) On the hill, the FitzInisholl Horse look down upon the developing melee. They pray earnestly for the success of their compatriots; not least because they are, as it would be termed in Zentan military vocabulary, the FitzInisholl's 'meat shield'; or McMeat shield; or, whatever.

(Below) Alas, taken in both front and flank by the Zentans, the Wurstburpers are ridden down, trampled, frisked, rummaged, stroked disconcertingly, and then dispersed. Thanks to the small print in his life insurance, Robert de Casside survives and transfers his command to the FitzInnisholl Horse: the last remaining Wurstburp cavalry regiment. Still, at least they are on a hill.

(Below) Unpronunski decides that being on a hill is for girls. Running out of options, and with his army's morale teetering on the edge, Unpronunski concludes that only aggressive action will suffice. He orders Casside to advance to his front and ride down the enemy. Laughing in the face of death, or at least tittering a little (something that also can't be done in Fenwick), the FitzInnisholl Horse ride down the hill to death or glory. Robert de Casside rides behind them, furiously trying to scribble an addendum to his life insurance.

(Above, right) The reason for Unpronunski's decision is evident: his cavalry are being sniped at by the Zentan infantry. If they remain where they are, they will no doubt simply be whittled away, like little horsey sticks.

(Below) A triumph for Casside! One enemy regiment scarpers, having remembered that they have an urgent appointment to rub some badgers; the other stand there in disorder. Or more disorder.

(Below) Showing the callous disregard for the butchering of innocent lives that makes him such a hit at Zentan parties, Bulbous orders the remains of the defeated Zentan irregulars to attack! It's a tad risky since, if they are defeated and have to withdraw, then they will back into another Zentan unit causing all kinds of unpleasant consequences. But Bulbous is unconcerned with this kind of nit-picking tactical detail. 

What! Unfeasible! General Bulbous stares in incredulity! (Below) By some miracle, the Zentans win the cavalry encounter! Perhaps the Wurstburpers were tired; or asleep; or already dead? Robert de Casside succeeds in passing himself off as a wandering insurance salesman, and manages to evade capture. He heads across the battlefield and takes command of some artillery, which is a less exciting, but also less life-threatening, activity.

For the margravial army, this final loss of troops is too much: as the cavalry rout, the army's morale breaks and the battle is over!

(Below) The Wurstburp right is still in good shape, although the wood to their front has prevented them from exploiting the passivity of their out of command adversaries. Alas, though, the centre has worn away; and the left has disappeared entirely, now consisting only of General Unpronunski and his headquarters, perched on the lower slope of Little Groeninghumpe. Best for the general and his entourage to slip away quietly before the Zentan cavalry find and ravage them in unseemly ways. To the sad skirl of mournful German bagpipes, the remaining elements of the Wurstburp army run from the field.

It is a major victory for Zenta! In addition, they have inflicted carnage upon their adversary, and are able to pursue, adding to the success! Three Zentan irregular cavalry units have been routed; and two irregular infantry units as well. But no one really cares. One of the palace sipahi horsed regiments has watched enough of the rest of their army die that they are elevated to elite status. Wurstburp has lost all three of its cavalry regiments, which is a nice change. Three regiments of ex-Jacobite highlanders have also been lost. Thanks to their training depots (or 'taverns' as they are more widely known) the replacements for these troops will be just as *cough* effective, as their predecessors.

Groeninghumpe, the Ninth!

One the Wurstburp right, the process of attrition continues. (Below) Volley fire routs another unit of Zentan irregulars; but the Djivileks also manage to shoot into rout the unit of ex-Jacobites that are hanging around in front of the woods. There is now quite a gap in the Zentan line. (Below, right) The Albanians are now out of command, and more-or-less useless. So, no change there, then.

On the other side of the battle, Bulbous has been closing in with his irregular cavalry. The Zentan infantry have also been taking pot-shots at the Wurstburp horse. 

General Unpronunski realises that unless he takes some decisive action, his mounted troops will simply be skirmished to death. 'Death by Zentan' is a slow and ignominious way to go. At the general's order, Wustburp trumpets gurgle, and Unpronunski's horsed regiments commit themselves to a do or die attempt to smash the Zentan light troops. 

Now the battle begins to reach what might be called, in anywhere but Fenwick, its climax. (Above) Fitzbadlie's Cavallerie charge the enemy with a loud 'hurrah!' Their attack is helped by the fact that their Zentan adversaries suddenly begin to falter!

(Below)  At the same time, Baggins' Horse charges forwards in an attempt to drive off the enemy infantry. Nothing if not ambitious, the cavalry take on two units of Zentan irregular infantry.

It is a bold and desperate gamble! (Below) In charging forwards, the Wurstburp cavalry are exposing their flanks to other Zentan regiments. Robert de Casside, the notable serving with the Wurstburp army, takes a worried look at the enemy irregulars hovering to his left. A practical man, he joins the Wurstburp cavalry in their charge, but not before updating his life insurance.

(Below) As it turns out, the results are mixed: which is certainly a triumph by Zentan standards, The Fitzbadlie's ride down their opposition, scattering and routing them. But Baggins' Horse, the hairy-footed half-wits, are worsted and rout the field!

Emboldened, General Bulbous decides that it's time to really commit to offensive action. Wurstburp casualties mean that their army morale is now low, and the loss of only a unit or two more might seal a Zentan victory. 'Charge! Charge!' orders the general. With the thunder of hooves and the mewling of riders, the Zentan light cavalry are now committed en masse to the fray! The battle enters its final act! Thank the lord.

Groeninghumpe, the Eighth!

With his Albanians out of command (below, far right), that portion of the Zentan line must descend into inactivity. Instead, Bulbous decides to focus his efforts against the highland regiment just in front of the woods (below, left). 

For this dangerous mission, it's time to test the power of mad-looking millinery. Sending orders to his two units of Djivileks (trainee janissaries), the general commits his bonkers-bonced troops into the attack. One unit is committed to a frontal assault; the other joins in from the flank (below): with only double the numbers, the Zentans are still well short of the numerical superiority necessary for them to develop a sense of courage. But their hats are very tall and yellow, so perhaps that will compensate.

Just because he can, and probably because he likes them even less than the rest of his army, Bulbous throws another of his irregular units into hand to hand combat. Assuming the Borats actually have hands, that is, and not just some sort of primitive prehensile tails (below).

Given the importance of this attack, Imam Fatih is interrupted in his coffee break, and is tasked once again with encouraging the Zentan irregulars. Having run out of tales of Zentan bravery, a collection of folk tales that was never very extensive, the Imam fires up his troops with stories about the excesses of their Wurstburp enemy (below).

Never very sensitive to the feelings of others, although quite keen in the right circumstances to feel others, the Zentans are easily encouraged to believe the worst of their adversaries. It helps that their Wurstburp enemies are strangely garbed, and so it is easy to misrepresent their kilts as some kind of odd cocktail dresses, and to convince the Djivileks that their enemy are not claymore wielding hooligans who might be quite dangerous, but are instead lovely ladies engaged in a relaxing and genteel afternoon of cutlery sharpening.

Bulbous’ attack is fully as effective as one might expect from troops training to be troops that never actually seem to fight. (Below, top) The hand of fate favours the Wurstburpers. The Zentans win, but not by enough to break their adversaries. The Djivileks to the front fall back into the woods.

(Above, bottom) The other unit of trainees must also retire, but as they retreat they encounter other friendly units and must keep heading backwards down a long line of other troops. In the end, theirs is less an exercise in falling back, and more a military rearward half-marathon. Separated from their irregular brethren by the regular sipahi cavalry, it’s clear that Bulbous is unlikely to be in position ever to get them back into command range. 

Bulbous snorts. ‘Fudge!’ he says, or something similar. To maintain the pressure on his enemy, he turns again to his irregular cavalry. But is that wise?

Groeninghumpe, the Seventh!

The Wurstburp troops charge in, four regiments forward. One highland regiment advances to dislodge the Zentan infantry in the woods to their front (below, left); two more units of highlanders and one of regulars also attempt to close with the enemy.

(Above, left) The Zentan unit in the woods declines to evade and stands to make a fight of it. (Above, centre) Two more Zentan units try and evade, but fail and are contacted by some very angry ex-Jacobites. (Above, right) The Wurstburp regulars find that their adversaries have scarpered backwards into the woods behind them. For those that have closed, the fight is violent and bloody ...

(Above, left) Already disordered, the highlanders charge into the woods, taking more disorder; lose the combat, taking more disorder; and then are pushed back, taking more disorder. The unit disintegrates and quits the filed: the Zentan irregulars have won! True, most of the real damage was done by the trees and other flora, but it's a win by Zentan standards. (Above, centre) The next unit of highlanders wins, but does not break their Zentan adversaries and so falls back to reform. (Above, right) In the remaining combat, the highlanders show their comrades how it should be done: in the briefest of fights, the Zentans are sliced and diced by the blade-wielding Wurtsburpers. The irregulars don't so much break, as just slide apart into meaty heaps.

Close combat is much too much like real war for the Zentans. In preparation for another retreat, Imam Fatih is deployed (below). With his tales of wildly implausible Zentan victories in unknown wars at imprecise times in the past, he buoys the morale of the troops, allowing them to rally as they fall back.

The Zentan troops retreat. The Wursburpers follow up. In the centre, they charge against one of the irregular units and, once again, the Zentans fail to evade. After a brief and embarrassing fight, the irregulars are cut to pieces and rout (below, centre). The Zentan line begins to look rather threadbare here.

At this point Bulbous realises that he has made what would be known in a regular European army as 'serious command and control error', but which the Zentans call 'a boo boo'. He has ordered his Albanians (above, right) to fall back just far enough that they are no longer part of the same command group as the rest of his line. With this portion of his line beginning to unravel, Bulbous decides that he needs to regain the initiative. It's time to put his faith in the power of silly hats! Bulbous calls upon his janissary trainees (the Djiveleks). Given how little time it takes to train to be a Zentan janissary, since they are never used in battle, one can get some idea of the quality of those that have still not yet qualified ... Still, never mind the quality, look at the size of their hats!

Groeninghumpe, the Sixth!

The tone of the battle suddenly changes!  Sure, a battle is all laughs when you're shooting at an enemy at long range so that they cannot reply. But when it looks like they might actually reach you and force you into dangerous activities like fighting, then war doesn't seem quite so clever. (Below) The Wurstburp infantry close with the Zentans.

The wily General Bulbous knows that his troops have one key weakness: they aren't any good at anything at all. On that basis, the Zentans decide that discretion is the better part of valour: in the Zentan case, much the larger part; and actually also that kind of "discretion" that is functionally identical to congenital cowardice. (Below) The irregulars fall back as far as they can in the face of the advancing Wursburp troops.

(Below) On the other side, however, their light cavalry presses closer to the Wurstburp horse. The Wurstburpers might have a vulnerable flank. There is much discussion of a mathematical nature about angles, table sizes, wheeling radii and whether one might forfeit the battle by punching one's adversary in the face for being a supreme court rules lawyer. 

Back on the other side of the battlefield, light on their feet in a retreat though they might be, it would seem that the Zentan infantry are still within reach of the Wurstburpers if the latter continue to advance. (Below) Being irregulars, the Zentans have the option, if contacted, to try and evade. Should Unpronunski send his troops in anyway?

For Unpronunski, it isn't a decision at all: he orders his troops to charge! What is a little danger when one's honour is at stake? And also, he is still well behind the fighting line; so, in truth, all the danger will be borne by the tartan-trewed porridge-gobblers that comprise his front line. Keen to deep-fry their enemy in the saturated fat of combat, the claymore wielding Wurstburpers race forwards again! It looks like the Zentans are going to have to test their evasion skills ...

Groeninghumpe, the Fifth!

With their flanks under threat, the Wurstburp cavalry have the choice of charging hell for leather (or perhaps, given that it's the Zentans, 'smell' for leather) into the enemy, or of 'tactically re-adjusting'; a manoeuvre that, in Zenta, usually involves scratching one's crotch, but which in civilised armies involves a minor retrograde movement: nothing too dramatic though; nothing, certainly, that could be construed as indicating hesitancy or a lack of martial ardour. 

The Wurstburp cavalry are commanded by Unpronunski to position themselves on Little Groeninghumpe; an order that could never be issued, ever, to Fenwickians. 

(Above) The Wurstburp cavalry fall back into their new position, covering their own flanks and those of their infantry. (Below) Keen to maintain the pressure on Unpronunski's right, the Zentan irregular cavalry gingerly follow up. Nothing too dramatic, mind: they move just close enough to their adversaries that their smell will continue to unsettle the enemy horses.

Unpronunski recognises that he cannot afford any longer to dance to the Zentan tune. On a matter of general principle, dancing to Zentan tunes is a bad idea, give that listening to Zentan folk music is like having a cucumber stuffed into one ear, whilst the other is intimately assaulted by a yodelling octopus. But there are specific reasons why the general decides that now is the time to energise the fight on the Wurstburp right wing. (Below) On this flank, the Zentan infantry continue to take pot-shots at their adversaries, trying to whittle them down. 

After a while, even with the usual lamentable Zentan accuracy, the Wurstburp casualties begin to mount. With his cavalry under threat and his infantry even more impotent than usual, Unpronunski decides that only vigorous action will allow him to seize the initiative from his enemy. The general gives the order to advance! Drums beat! Pipes wheeze! With a loud 'hurrah!', legs pounding and sporrans akimbo, the Wursburp highlanders charge! 

Groeninghumpe, the Fourth!

The Zentan irregulars continue to inch forwards. The Wurstburp artillery fire but, who would have guessed?, they fail to inflict any telling damage upon their advancing adversaries. The loss of a few limbs or even heads is unlikely to stop troops for whom speed, dexterity, or the capacity for logical thought are merely 'nice to haves'.

(Above) The Zentan infantry line gibbers and hoots, the troops forming a chaotic, capering mass; like a troop of monkeys that have been let loose on a children's dressing-up box and that have then found to their delight that a barrel marked 'Bananas' actually contains both bananas and a collection of modern firearms.  

Whilst the Wurstburp centre and right remain firmly on the defensive, the highlanders running their hands over their weapons as they wait for the Zentans to come closer, on the left Unpronunski decides to go for more of an active defence.

With the enemy regular cavalry masked by their sheep-brained irregular bretheren, Unpronunski decides it is time for some offensive action! (Above) Baggins' Horse and Fitzbadlie's Cavallerie charge a single Zentan unit. The Zentans fight as hard and heroically as they can; which is to say, not very hard or heroically at all. (Below) Before one can say 'sub-optimal speed-bump' the Zentans have been ridden down.

(Above) The Wurstburp cavalry halt in place. Though suffering minor disorder, they are still in good shape. Any attempt by the remaining Zentan horse (or indeed their riders as well) to take them on is surely in for a good thrashing.

Bulbous has clearly reached a similar conclusion. (Below, left) Declining the invitation to commit his irregular cavalry to anything so hopeless as an actual combat, he instead orders them to begin to move around the Wurstburp left flank. Even Zentans might pose a dangerous threat if they can reach an enemy flank or rear. 

In the Zentan military, the term 'combined arms' is most usually used in the context of the challenge of getting troops to use both of their upper limbs at the same time. Now, however, Bulbous begins to achieve some genuine combined arms coordination. (Above, right) Evidently intent at this stage on fighting a war of position, General Bulbous orders his Borat levend musketeers to move up into the nearby woods. Safe under cover from the enemy cavalry, they are now in a position to bring fire upon Baggins' Horse. 

(Above) The main Zentan line has halted. Bulbous' plan seemingly intends to make use of two key advantages possessed by his army. First, being skirmishers they out-range the Wurstburp musketeers. Second, being Zentan, they have no self-respect. Thus, despite the jeers and cat-calls from their enemy, the Zentan troops demonstrate no intention whatsoever of getting close to the main Wurstburp battle line. Unpronunski's frustrated highlanders are left waving their great choppers in the air, dreaming of poorly trained English conscripts. Unpronunski considers his options ... 

Groeninghumpe, the Third!

Bulbous orders his irregular troops to advance. On the Zentan right wing, the Zentan light cavalry pass through the palace sipahis and begin to move towards the Wurstburp cavalry. In screening his best troops with his dross and making it impossible for the former to make a useful contribution to the battle, Bulbous is, of course, following one of the key principles of Zentan warfare.

(Below) The Zentan irregular infantry shamble towards their adversaries. As they advance, they leave behind their artillery support, another key principle of Zentan warfare. As their Zentan adversaries get nearer, the Wurstburp artillery begin a cannonade, which, in relation to its effectiveness at causing casualties, is rather like a lemonade, but less refreshing.

(Above, top left) As the irregulars advance, the janissaries are left behind. As previous experience has shown, the Zentan view on war is that no great advantage can be had from committing one's decent troops to a fight. The janissaries hang around, catching up on their ironing and pursuing their hobbies. One of the units has already been promoted to elite status through these activities, and a few more well creased pantaloons will no doubt see the other also elevated to this august station.

(Below) In his position between both cavalry and infantry, Unpronunski is able to see in the distance the advancing line of enemy troops. Prince Karl is with him, and they exchange concerned views on the developing character of this battle.

'We should charge!' cries the prince. 'My Scottish blood demands it!'

'But you're not Scottish', replies the general tartly. 'You're from Wurstburp: you're German. You're about as Jacobite as a deep-fried strudel'.

'But I identify as Jacobite', cries Karl.

Unpronunski blows an undiplomatic raspberry. 'We must bide our time, Prince Karl. We must pick exactly the right moment before springing forward with the sword!'

'When will that be?'

'Well, I was hoping that your military experience would be useful in helping to answer that question. Do you have a plan?'

'I could get the cook to rustle something up, I suppose. But I'm not sure if he has any eggs ...'

'That's a flan, my prince. I can see that I am going to have to use some of my own initiative here'.

(Below) The likely development of this battle is clear from its early stages. With the Zentan line extending beyond the Wurstburp left, it seems likely that the Wurstburp cavalry might soon have Zentan irregulars lapping at their flanks: an unpleasant experience by any civilised standards.

(Above) Moreover, at that point in the centre where the irregular cavalry and foot meet, Bulbous may well be able to apply some combined arms attack against the Wurstburp horse. This kind of militarily effective coordination is largely unheard of in Zentan military practice, and so one reason it might fail is that the shock of doing it might require some of the Zentans to lie down for a rest. Bulbous moves his headquarters up. With his artillery and regular troops kept to the rear, the Zentan plan seems to rely entirely on their irregulars to carry the main weight of the fight. To those with any experience in modern warfare, the chances of the success of this approach might seem lower than a limbo-dancing sausage dog ...