Ehrwig, the Seventh!

The battle begins to reach what might be termed, in anywhere other than Fenwick, as its climax. (Below) The main infantry lines exchange repeated rounds of musketry. Attempts by both commanders to rally their forces manage to prevent the damage becoming catastrophic.

Alas for Furst Augustus, however, his need to focus on sustaining the morale of his infantry means he has no time to think about his cavalry, the lead regiment of which is also under small arms fire. The casualties mount amongst the Rotenburg horse, and the unit finally quits the field (below).  

In the contest between the infantry, however, things begin to turn the Rotenburg way. Perhaps having lost his lucky dice (or having had them hidden by his adversary), Marshal Cavendish finds that his troops seem to have lost some of their resilience. After a particularly impressive volley by their adversaries, one of the imperial units breaks (below).

Alas for the Furst, sustaining momentum is not the Rotenburg way of war, which instead tends towards disappointing tail-offs accompanied by the sound of breaking wind. Almost immediately, Fenwickian volleys rout another of the floppy ne'er do wells that seem to constitute the Rotenburg line infantry. However, in the heat of the battle, one of the badly disordered imperial regiments decides to make an unauthorised charge (below). On the verge of disintegration, and up against a Rotenburg regiment that is still fresh, success for the over-confident attackers is unlikely: although, given the strange shape of the Fenwickian dice, anything is possible.

It is a moment of drama. Not a great drama, of course: less action-adventure and more romantic comedy with foreign sub-titles. As the imperials charge in roaring, the Rotenburgers wait grimly, hoping to drive them off.

A staff officer suddenly rides up to Furst Augustus. 'My lord - I have thought of a cunning ruse that may well finally turn the tide of this battle!'

'Really?' says Augustus with considerable interest. 

Ehrwig, the Sixth!

'We should move up, sir, and challenge the enemy cavalry!' cries a Fenwickian cavalry officer. Thus far, the imperial cavalry have been notable by their absence from the battle.
'What? What?' replies Giovanni di Tripodi to the officer. Tripodi looks confused and unsettled: not surprising, given that he is both confused and unsettled. The Italian is more suited to staff appointments than leading in the field. His love of book-keeping, writing, and not being on a horse mean that he is more comfortable in ancillary battlefield roles such as copying out and sending orders, having lunch, and looking at horses through a telescope a long way away. Instead, however, the need to allow Thomas Burgess to command the Fenwickian infantry has meant that Tripodi has been deployed with the cavalry, since horsemen always demand to be led by gentlemen of a particular social status.

'Shall we attack sir? Shall we? Shall we?' 

'Is that wise ...?' begins Tripodi. But it's too late. (Above) Aflame with aristocratic ardour, one of the left wing Fenwickian cavalry units commences a charge upon the lead Rotenburg horse hoping, no doubt, that the disorder caused by the latter's passage of the marsh will weaken them. It is a faint hope, however. Flailing hopelessly, the Fenwickians are driven back. One effect, however, of the imperial charge is that the Rotenburg horse cannot declare a charge upon the flanks of the Fenwickian infantry - they must charge the nearest enemy, which is Tripodi's cavalry. Frustrated and annoyed, the Rotenburgers surge forwards, throwing themselves against the enemy horse! (Below).

It's a death or glory charge. In reality, of course, the options in a Mittelheim melee are rarely so binary, and the actual choices available to participants span a range of options most of which feature neither glory nor death; but which do feature options such a voiding oneself physically, sprinting off, changing sides, and fainting; or indeed, all of them, often in that order.

The Rotenburg cavalry are widely successful in their attack! (Above) The lead imperial regiment of horse are not just defeated - they are ridden down completely, the remnants fleeing the battlefield.

However, though the imperial cavalry, like someone frisked by a customs officer wearing sandpaper gloves, have been roughly handled, their failure has not been in vain. (Above, top) Cavendish now has time to swing one of his infantry regiments round to face the threat from the Rotenburg cavalry. Saxe-Peste tuts disapprovingly. The chances of his cavalry breaking an enemy infantry regiment in a frontal assault are lower than a bishop's moral scruples in a buy-on get one free boudoir full of a custard-covered actresses.

(Above) Meanwhile, with their flank now protected against the Rotenburg cavalry, the imperial infantry begin to bear down upon their adversaries!

Ehrwig, the Fifth!

Ah, cavalry - the hopeless horse-constumed coconut-cloppers in the pantomime that is Mittelheim warfare. (Below) Furst Augustus orders all three regiments of his right wing cavalry to engage in an attempt to swing around and fall upon the enemy infantry column. Off they go!

(Above) Relying now on his cavalry to relieve his infantry (an activity expressly forbidden in Fenwick's military doctrine), there is only one additional action that Augustus feels is open to him as a commander. He orders his aide to bring him a drink.
'Actually', says the Furst, after the drink arrives, 'just leave the whole barrel'.

(Below) The cavalry race around the flank in a desperate attempt to save the shrinking Rotenburg infantry line. As a pantomime though, this isn't that entertaining.  The usual 'Oh yes it is!', 'Oh no it isn't!' banter is pointless, because, being Mittleheim cavalrymen, it's obvious that they wouldn't; so they haven't; and so it obviously isn't. Equally, the 'they're behind you!' debate is also entirely redundant because, for someone to be behind them, the cavalrymen would have had to go forward, which they are rarely keen to do, except when there's an opportunity for cruelty to peasants.

In the imperial camp, Marshal Cavendish remains confident, if sleepily so. Keith, his horse, seems to have wandered off, so he cannot turn to him for advice. Normally, at this stage in a battle, the marshal would be relying heavily on the counsel of his trusty steed; not least because Cavendish is usually asleep by this time and his horse, by virtue of bearing the weight of the marshal's buttocks for so long, is in the best position to interpret his thinking. But the marshal knows something that the Furst doesn't. He knows that right about now, just in front of the enemy cavalry, something unpleasant is going to appear ...

'That's not on the map!' groans Augustus, as his lead cavalrymen splash and squish into a hitherto unforeseen bog. 'No! No! No!' he laments.

(Above) As it turn out, however, the marsh is positioned in such a way that the Rotenburg cavalry can cross it in one move. Displaying a hitherto never before seen commitment to their mission, the cavalry just ride through the marsh, accepting a measure of disorder. In front, the plump, jubbly flanks of the enemy infantry hang out invitingly.

Furst Augustus roars enthusiastically and then gesticulates inventively at his adversary. It's time for a drink! He has had his barrel refreshed, and, given the sudden improvement in his circumstances, this isn't even a euphemism. Tally ho! 

Ehrwig, the Fourth!

Alas for the Furst, the confusion suffered by his enemy is easily remedied. Being out of musket range, the imperial troops have the time to halt and wait as their errant companions are berated for their mistake and then beaten back into the line.  Exiting the 'forested area' (any mention of 'wood' being a dangerous thing in the presence of Fenwickians, given their sensitivity to double entendre), the imperial formation is restored and the troops re-commence their advance. 

Just to show proper contempt for his enemy, the Furst orders his artillery to fire at the enemy regiment in front of the village. (Above right) Suitably enraged by the insult of being made the subject of an artillery attack, the regiment falls into a measure of disorder. These troops are mercenaries, though, so no one cares.

(Below) Meanwhile, Marshall Cavendish contemplates the optimum distance from which to command his troops. This may not be it. He is, truth be told, a little disappointed that professional military education has so little to say regarding the most efficient use of  beds in a command and control context. At this distance, the marshal can't really see anything or exercise much control over the battle except with enormous exertion. But prior experience has demonstrated that the marshal is not, by nature, a dynamic commander or, except in matters of the chamber pot, a man who can be induced to move himself quickly. 

Nor is the marshal a man who is generally over-worried by such trifles as having no information on the development of his battle, or not actually being able to see it. For Cavendish, fresh information is a dangerous thing: something likely to induce unhelpful uncertainty in victory by indicating when things aren't going right or where he has made a mistake. But even he begins to conclude that he might be little far from the action.

(Below) There's nothing for it. Ordering up some aides, he has them drag his bed closer to the front line. This also puts him near Sir Thomas Burgess, though the marshal pretends not to notice: Burgess'  long monologues on his teenage exploits with vulnerable saplings tend to give Cavendish very bad treems. In the meantime, having advanced into musketry range, the infantry of both sides have commenced firing volleys at one another.

(Below) Furst Augustus has, in the interim, tried to reorganise his infantry line. Though in practical terms this just means that the original wiggle is now a longer w-i-g-g-l-e, it does mean that more of his infantry are now able to fire, and it has allowed him to cover his otherwise quite vulnerable cavalry.

(Above) But the Furst recognises that his troops are still disadvantaged. The imperials have more troops in their line. Moreover Lady Luck seems to favour the attacking Fenwickians, tipping them a saucy wink every time that they cast their eyes longingly in her direction. The Furst curses under his breath, uttering phrases difficult to decipher but which seem to rhyme with 'deighted wice', 'rodgy dolls', and 'deating chastard'.

Another lethal volley crashes into his infantry line, and one of the Rotenburg infantry regiments collapses and flees! The Furst turns now to his cavalry for a solution - a desperate measure indeed ...

Ehrwig, the Third!

The troops of imperial Fenwick begin the battle with a barrage by their artillery (below). Of course, 'beginning the battle' would be too strong a description of such an activity. As the regular reader of this modest publication would already be apprised of,* experience shows that the function of artillery in Mittelheim combats leans more towards the aesthetic than it does to the practical. Very few enemy tend to die from artillery barrages, whose main function is to create smoke and to give employment to those depressingly educated and upwardly mobile members of the lower middle classes who otherwise might agitate for commissions in the infantry or cavalry.

But this time there is indeed method to this apparent madness. Whilst Marshal Cavandish does not, of course, have the benefit, as the Nabstrians do, of all of the military creativity brought by participation in miniature games of war, he is now fully inculcated into the mysteries of professional military education. One clear lesson from his earnest study of military theory (thirty credits), are the benefits of doing nothing for a while and seeing what crops up. Cavandish fires his artillery and waits to see if any especially useful stratagems come into his hands.

(Above) Across the field, Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste senses a trap. No sane military commander expects any useful results from an artillery barrage, and so he suspects some clever ruse on the part of his adversary.  Not wishing to look stupid, therefore, he fires back. This creates that part of  a Mittelheim battle most beloved of pacifists: an artillery duel. Predictably, there are no casualties, since the chances of a fatal wound in such an exchange hover somewhere in the same bracket as being stabbed by a chocolate eclair.  

This unmanly hand-bagging continues, until Cavandish, by the gleam in his eye, seems finally to obtain the stratagems that he thinks necessary. After a period of time, and the blunting, metaphorically, of several dangerous looking eclairs, the imperial infantry begin their advance! (below).  

(Above) The entire mass of the Fenwickian foot, largely accompanied by their bodies, marches resolutely forwards. Such is the mastery of shrubbery and small woodland animals shown by Sir Thomas Burgess that the right of the imperial infantry pass in perfect order through the woods to their front. 

From Cavandish's position, it is clear that there is something  of a difference in the quality of formations between the infantry of both sides. The imperial troops advance in linear fashion with a rigidity seldom seen outside of Landgrave Choldwig's loin cloth after a visit to the famous evening trampolining emporium "Frau Baum's Boudoir of Buxom Bouncing". Alas, the Rotenburg infantry are deployed according to no established doctrine (above); unless that doctrine contained words such as 'bendy', or 'wiggly'.

The Marshal is unperturbed, however. He senses that soon fate might strike the imperials with some unwelcome complications. (Below) And so it does!

(Above) A bout of confusion strikes one of the Fenwickian regiments. Interpreting the order to go forwards as one to go backwards, they retire immediately into the nearby woods. In doing so, they also disorder themselves, as well as causing Marshal Cavandish to utter some very naughty words.

The main dynamics of this battle are already revealing themselves. The Fenwickians have directed all of their infantry against only a portion of the Rotenberg line. But whether this will become an effective imperial concentration of force or an efficient Rotenburg economy of effort remains to be seen ...

* Unless, of course, he is on holiday: in which case, if he is reading this, welcome back.