Ehrwig, the Second!

Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish, Generalissimo of Fenwick-Gelderland, yawns loudly.
'Are you fatigued, sir?' asks his aide, Captain Fabius Nitzwitz.

'Oh no' says Cavandish. 'I feel uncharacteristically animated. I might even stay up for the first part of the battle.

'That would be nice, sir', says the captain.

Cavandish has a reputation for taking a very relaxed approach to such activities as issuing orders or getting out of bed. In the past, he has often tended to delegate what he terms 'peripheral tactical minutiae', or what others might pickily term 'exercising command', to his horse, Keith. To be fair, Keith also seems to take a very hands (or hooves) off approach, confining himself to the odd neigh and the copious production from his rear end of quantities of flop that, if they smell worse than your average Mittelheim military orders, aren't necessarily less intelligible.

'Indeed', says Cavandish enthusiastically. 'I feel energised by my exposure to professional military education. I have come to see that an enlightened mind, shaped by the teachings of history's great strategists, enables commanders to make sound decisions amidst the chaos of the battlefield'.

'That is most heartening', says Nitzwitz.

'Yes', says the marshal. 'And the best thing about professional military education is that one can get someone else to do all of the written work and then submit it as one's own'.

Nitzwitz considers this. 'Isn't that cheating, sir?' he says.

'Only if one is poor, apparently', replies Cavandish.

Cavandish issues orders for the deployment of his troops. Keith neighs unhappily: the orders don't contain nearly as many nosebags of oats as he thinks appropriate for the circumstances. The Fenwickian troops hurry to their positions. (Below) The final deployment could hardly be described as balanced: but then, that might be said of most of the officers in the army.

The most obvious feature of Cavandish's deployment is the concentration of his infantry. Marshal Cavandish's sagacity is exemplified as he explains his decision to deploy the infantry in a close column formation. This calculated move demonstrates his keen understanding of the battlefield dynamics and his ability to concentrate forces against the weakest point in the enemy line. Also, it means he doesn't have to walk so far to give them orders.

Another reason, though, is that the imperial army is accompanied by the notable officers Giovanni di Tripodi and Sir Thomas Burgess. Tripodi is a rubbish cavalry commander, but by allocating him to the cavalry anyway, he meets the latter's demands for the deployment of an officer of the necessary social standing. This frees up Sir Thomas Burgess to command the entirety of the infantry. For reasons that no doubt relate to some of his teenage activities with local shrubbery, Burgess can lead troops under his command through woods without them suffering disorder. 

Cavandish deploys his musketeers in three lines and orders Burgess to attach himself. His intent is as obvious as a large obvious thing amongst a much smaller quantity of less obvious things - to push the entirety of his infantry forwards against a limited portion of the Rotenburg line. 

(Below) Cavandish has concentrated his artillery on the right flank. This deliberate placement allows for preliminary fire, softening the enemy's defenses before launching the full assault. The Marshal understands the crucial role that artillery plays in shaping the battlefield and weakening the resolve of the opposition. In proper European armies, that is. In Mittelheim, the artillery mainly provides a way of keeping educated officers out of the infantry and cavalry. 

To be fair, Fenwick's artillery is by some measure the best in Mittelheim. This is no small feat given that the imperial Artillery Academy has to teach a difficult technical subject to officers that, because of the Fenwickian sensitivity to double entendre, cannot be exposed to words such as 'ball', 'ramrod',  'pouch', 'barrel', 'man-handle', or 'wiggle'.

(Below) On the left, Cavandish deploys his remaining two regiments of cavalry, which will serve as the protective shield for his flanks. Their exceptional mobility and shock power allow for swift strikes, disrupting the enemy's formations and creating opportunities for the infantry to exploit. Or it would, if this weren't Mittelheim: but it is; so the main role of this force is actually likely to be trying not to fall off their horses, or, indeed, not letting their horses fall on them.

With his troops deployed, and having the initiative, Cavandish issues orders to begin the battle ...

Ehrwig, the First!

Wherein the army of Fenwick-Gederland under Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish encounters the forces of the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg-Schillingsfurst, commanded by Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste..

The Bishopric of Schrote has never been very inspiring: except, one might surmise, if that inspiration was focused on ways in which one might leave. The bright sunlight that shines down upon this small slice of Mittelheim might improve local visibility, but this merely serves to reinforce how disappointing a place it is, and also, given the heat, to make it smell a bit more. The woodcut below, dear reader, shows the environs of the village of Ehrwig, one of the better, and by that one would just mean smaller, collections of domiciles in the bishopric.

What certainly wouldn't improve the ambiance of this place would be the arrival of a Mittelheim army - but, alas for local house prices, one does indeed slowly appear. Long lines of troops approach Ehrwig from the north. Slithering down the nearby road, the force then uncoils itself like an arthritic slow worm whose wife has left to spend a few days with her mother and who has been left no urgent errands to perform. By the red hues of their uniforms, this must surely by the army of the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg-Schillingsfurst.

The army is in poor condition. Having advanced four miles into enemy territory, the landgravate's forces are already well beyond the limits of their logistical support, what with the pie-houses limiting their delivery radius to two miles. Still, a restful nights sleep might restore the troop's morale. Slowly, tents are pitched, fires are started, those fires  started in the possessions of local villagers are then put out, rations are cooked, and soft toys are prepared for the night's slumber. Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste, the army's commander, retires to his tent.

Alas, however, there is to be no rest! 

'Sir! Sir!' cries a figure, interrupting the Furst's repose.

'Wankrat?' groans Augustus.

 The figure pauses, unsure if this an enquiry or an imperative.

'Wankrat? Is that you?' repeats the Furst.

'Indeed sir!' says Captain Sebastian Wankrat, Saxe-Peste's aide. 'Sir, the enemy is upon us! The army of Fenwick even now approaches!'

Alarm! Alarm! Saxe-Peste issues a flurry of orders, and his army droops out its encampment like Landgrave Choldwig after a loincloth malfunction.

(Above) The Furst quickly deploys his troops. It is not a pretty sight: his army could be described as 'polished' only in the sense that they rub themselves a lot. The general now considers his options. The more attractive ones, such as attempting to flee the country dressed as a pantomime horse, are sadly not available - not, at least, until the horse costume has been cleaned. So, a battle would seem to be imminent. 

(Above) On the basis that an army should probably have a centre, Saxe-Peste deploys  the bulk of his infantry in it, including a regiment in Ehrwig itself. His musketeers are deployed in line. Quite a wiggly line, it has to be said, but at least they are probably facing in the right direction. His two batteries  of artillery are dug in, and, for ornamentation, are used to garnish the infantry line.

(Above) On the Rotenburg right wing, the general deploys three of his four cavalry units. Two regiments are deployed perpendicular to the main battle line. It is probable that these have been placed so that they have the option to commence a wide flanking movement around the nearby field. It is is equally probable, of course, that they just think that they are facing forwards.

(Above) On Saxe-Peste's left, the flank is refused - as are all offers to to volunteer for any dangerous missions. Since this flank is covered by a stream, the Furst considers this the least likely avenue of attack.

Through his telescope, Saxe-Peste watches the army of Fenwick-Gelderland as it begins to deploy for the coming battle. What do the Spartans of Mittelheim have in store for their adversaries ... ?

Principles of Bore!

In a hall at the palace of Grosschnitzelring, the Fenwickian-Gelderland top brass are about to have their intellects honed - or possibly just disinterred - by engagement with the latest in Enlightenment military science. Carl von Lackwitz, Gelderland's top military philosopher (since the only competition is Horace de Saxe) is here to impart his wisdom, supported by the newly employed purveyor of professional military education, Lady Timsbury of Somerton.
There is a hubbub of voices. There is some excitement amongst the assembled officers, helped by the fact that no ones knows why they are here. On the basis of the evidence, which is that there isn't an enemy army present, the evening seems to have most of what any self-respecting Mittelheim military officer would want - a low chance of fatalities, and a high chance of crudites.

Lackwitz clears his throat. There is a round of applause. This has been a splendid presentation, pitched at just the right level for military aristocrats. The audience starts to disperse.

'No, gentlemen', says Lackwitz with concern, 'no! There's more - you can't go yet!'

The mood in the room immediately sours. This meeting is already exceeding by a dangerous degree the audience's collective attention span. In Fenwick, the desire to reduce the chance of inadvertent double entendre tends to keep public speeches to the point.

'Gentlemen, gentlemen', continues Lackwitz', it is my great pleasure to welcome you to ...'

'Thank you very much, Herr Lackwitz', says Lady Timsbury, ' for your splendid speech; and I'm sure that everyone here appreciates your excellent analysis and amusing anecdotes. Now, there are some points that I would like to make'.

There is more applause - this is more like it! Short; punchy; and also short again. Lady Timsbury quickly summarises what is on offer this evening.    

'And so, gentlemen', she finally concludes, 'for a modest pecuniary outlay, this scheme of study will guarantee you victory in war and also, more importantly, give you some impressive post-nominals from the very best English university'.

'Oooh, Hull?' pipes up one of the officers.

Lady Timsbury pauses, just long enough to count to ten. 'No, no, as I keep saying, not Hull: all you will get from Hull are fleas. These post nominals will be from the "King's College"'.

Prince Joachim frowns. 'But I've already got a degree from there!'

'So, you have studied in England, sir?' asks Lady Timsbury with interest.

'Oh no', replies Joachim. 'Why would I want to go there? No, they gave me recognition of prior learning. Once they gave me the credits due to me as the son of an emperor, I received the qualification by return of post'.

Lady Timsbury frowns. 'And there was nothing else?'

'Well, there was the money that I gave them, obviously'.

'But not any actual study of war or science?'

'Well, there was the money that I gave them, obviously'.

'Or an exam or something?'

'Did I mention the money that I gave them?'

Lady Timsbury considers this. 'Do you have any pets, sir?'

'Well, there's my codpiece', replies the prince.

'Excellent! Well, perhaps we could enrol that instead. Education should be available to all. Now ...' she turns to the board 'let's look at some of the basics ...'

Lady Timsbury suddenly stares. 'Lackwitz, I think that you've spelled 'sequel' incorrectly'.
Lackwitz tuts. 'Dammit - did I put too many 'S's in it again?'
'No, because fewer 'S's would just make it 'equal'.
Lackwitz squints at the board. 'Perhaps I meant "sequins"'.
'Branches and sequins?' retorts Lady Timsbury. 'Are you going ballroom dancing with a tree?' She walks to the board sighing. 'Now, everyone, how would you define a clear and attainable end state in your coming campaign against Rotenburg?'

There is silence; although, if gormless mystification made a sound, that silence would be deafening. 

'Er ...' says a voice thinly, 'We wish clearly to end the state of Rotenburg?'

Lady Timsbury nods. 'Excellent. Now, what is their centre of gravity?'
'What's gravity?' asks another voice.
'It explains why, when heads are cut off, they fall to the ground' answers another.
'Isn't that because they aren't attached to a neck any more?'
There is a clamour of voices as others begin to contribute to this fascinating scientific discussion.

'Silence!' demands Lady Timsbury. 'Any talking or disagreeing with me and I shall flick your genitals with this metal ruler of mine!'
'Is that allowed?' asks a voice. 'That doesn't seem like it should be allowed!'
'Is it an English thing!'

'She is very domineering!'
Yes, as an infantry officer, I find it quite exciting. If I'd known professional military education was going to be like this, I'd have signed up earlier!'

For Lady Timsbury, it is a long evening. But, armed with professional military education, muskets, and their reputation as the "Spartans of Mittelheim", the army of Fenwick-Gelderland is finally prepared for its next military operation. The next day, after a quick military parade, kept mercifully melon-free, the army commences its advance on Schrote, where the Rotenburg army is currently encamped!

Professional Military Divorce!

Upon Minister Wormer's recommendation, Emperor George is meeting the prospective military advisor for his army, Lady Katherine Timsbury of Somerton. Having engaged in some idle chit-chat, Wormer, on behalf of the king, seeks to address an issue that has arisen as a result of a few investigation's into Lady Timsbury's background.

'So, my lady, I did hear that you stabbed your husband to death with a toasting fork'.
'That is a lie! A terrible calumny!' cries Lady Timsbury.
'What a relief, because ...'
'Yes! The toasting fork didn't kill him!'
'What ...?'
'He just kept hopping up and down bellowing "Blinking flip, woman! You've stabbed me in the thigh with a toasting fork!"' she continues. 'It wasn't fatal - especially given that the crumpet soaked up most of the blood'.
'Errrr ...'
'No, the fork didn't kill him. The slash with the knife, on the other hand ...'
'You slashed him?'
'Only slightly'
'Only slightly?'
'Well, you know, it went through a fleshy bit. It was hardly fatal, although there was a lot of blood, what with me having run out of crumpets'.
'So what killed him?'
'Oh, it was falling out of the window'.
'He was trying to climb out of the window?'
'Well, I did help him ..'
'Help him ...?'
'Yes - he seemed quite reluctant to go: but I applied some elbow grease - and also some butter - and he popped right through it'.
'I suppose a fall from a window would indeed be fatal' says Wormer.
'Oh no - it was a ground floor window'.
'And it was fatal ... ?'
'Any fall from a window can be fatal, if one then gets shot through the head'.
'You shot him?'
'Oh no' says Lady Timsbury.
'Thank goodness'.
'No, that's never been proved in court'.
'So you were acquitted?'
'I certainly would have been, if I hadn't fled England in order to avoid the trial'.
'But ...'
'Innocent until proven guilty ...'
'I don't think that's supposed to apply to someone who deliberately avoids a trial ... Some, if they were judgmental, might go so far as to say that you were, ah, "on the run" as it were'.
Lady Timsbury shrugs. 'No, I just like to think of myself as really well divorced'.

The emperor steps in. 'My lady, as a Christian monarch, whilst I would never condone violence, I am sure that allowances could be made, especially if what you are offering us is especially useful'.
Lady Timsbury nods. 'Well, Your Highness, what I can offer is guaranteed victory in your coming war'.

The emperor considers this. 'Guarantee it? Are you sure? Because that is quite the claim'.

'I can give you the very essence of victory', says the lady. 'It is called "professional military education", and I can offer a course provided by the very best English university'.

'Hull?' asks Wormer, with a measure of awe.

'Almost as good', replies Lady Timsbury. 'It is known as "The King's College". And I can start delivering it immediately'.

'And it will be cheap and well designed?'

'Did I say that I can start delivering it almost immediately?' replies Lady Timsbury quickly.
'Well', says George, shrugging. 'What harm could it do. And it might certainly help my feckless son Joachim to have some military tuition. But Wormer, will our officers accept advice from a woman?'
'If she brings her toasting fork, I expect they will, my lord. Besides, we can bring in that fellow Lackwitz as well. He can notionally be in charge, but if the lady here does most of the speaking, then that might work'.

George nods. 'Excellent - then let us have some of this "professional military education", then'.