Schwimwehr, the Second!

On the other side of the field of battle, Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste, Generalissimo of the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg, surveys the Vulgarian deployment and makes his plans. The general could really do with a victory. Though related to the Landgrave Choldwig III, this being one of the main requirements for promotion to high military office in Rotenburg, his relationship with Choldwig has not always been harmonious. Choldwig holds the view, problematic in Mittleheim, that commanders should win battles. The Rotenburg army, whilst it has had its moments, not least at the legendary Battle of Chestwig, has of late suffered badly, and many of its troops are newly raised conscripts.

                            

(Above) In some respects, General Rentall has done his job too well. With a wood, a stream, and a marsh clogging the front of the Rotenburg right wing, the Furst concludes straight away that there is no point in him attacking on that front. There's going to be no getting around behind the Vulgarian line there. Not for the first time, Saxe-Peste curses the fact that his troops are a bunch of useless flankers. Instead, he deploys all four regiments of his cavalry on this wing, and he places both his guns to support them. This force will act defensively to prevent any advance by the enemy irregulars. 

(Below) The rest of his army, all of it infantry, he deploys in a double line astride the road. The road itself is the main objective for this battle.

The front rank are trained troops; the whole of the second line are newly raised. Saxe-Peste hopes that, with the advantage of his troops' lethal volleys he will be able to advance, win the ensuing musketry duel, and triumph before his conscripts learn that they are actually in combat. If his conscripts actually end up having to fight, then Saxe-Peste's chance of victory in the battle is as low as something that was already quite low; but then, thanks to poor maintenance during an extended public holiday, had been allowed to sag even further.

The general attaches considerable importance to his troops' ability to conduct oblique manoeuvres. His intention is that his infantry will advance, obliquing to the left with the hope that this will not only make it impossible for the enemy cavalry to move around his flank, but that he will in fact be able to force the Vulgarian cavalry to take his infantry on frontally: a very difficult proposition for them. Having defeated the enemy cavalry, he will then wheel his left flank around and roll up the enemy infantry line. As long as his troops only have to do an oblique, and don't have to spell it, there is at least some chance that they might succeed.

He summons his orderly, Captain Sebastian Wankrat.

'Wankrat!' says the Furst. 'Sound the advance!' 

With a glass of brandy in his hand, and a small barrel for refills in case of emergencies, Saxe-Peste watches as his infantry begins their attack!

 

Schwimwehr, the First!

Wherein the army of the Landgravate of Rotenburg under General Augustus Saxe-Peste encounters the forces of the Voivodate of Vulgaria, commanded by General Hertz van Rentall.

In the distance, shuffling lines of troops from the Landgrave of Rotenburg appear. It is apparent that the Vulgarians have lost the scouting competiton, and that they must therefore defend. Rentall begins to deploy his troops. First, he decides to make use of the local terrain to interfere with the enemy's options. The Vulgarian left deploys to take advantage of a marsh and stream (Below).

This wing of the Vulgarian army is composed of Rentall's irregulars and his artillery. On the far left are two regiments of light cavalry; these are deployed behind the stream. As irregulars, they are immune to the effects of difficult terrain. Rotenburg regulars, on the other hand, view the water as a challenge that could only be made more terrifying by the addition of some soap. All three batteries of Vulgarian artillery are dug in with gabions and are positioned behind the marsh for maximum protection. Linking these two forces are both regiments of irregular infantry, deployed one behind the other.

The irregulars are under the command of the Dutch mercenaries, Captain Kleinvarken and Colonel Kurtz. As has been noted in previous editions of this publication, Colonel Kurtz is not known for his jolly outlook on life. At the moment, though, his conversation with Kleinvarken is of a more professional character. 

'What's your view on whether we can fire if we climb into that swamp', asks Kleinvarken.
'No, definitely not', replies the colonel.
'Have you checked the rules of war?' says Kleinvarken.
'I don't need to: when it comes to the rules of war, one simply needs to make a pronouncement with enough confidence'.
'So, colonel, you don't think accuracy is desirable, or checking the rules of war?'
'No, just confident delivery'.
'But what if we got into the marsh and then found out that we could fire?'

'Impossible: just listen to the confidence in my voice as I deliver that pronouncement'.

In the centre, Rentall deploys his five regiments of regular foot. Four are deployed in the first line, with only one in reserve. The Vulgarian army is well trained, but rather small. In this, it is very much like the mind of Landgrave Choldwig of Rotenburg: except for the "well-trained" element, that is.

(Below) On the right flank the three Vulgarian regular cavalry regiments are deployed. 'Cavaliers' all, one regiment is also elite, and another comprises the horsed Garde du Corps. If they can find someone to fight, then these chaps are likely to do some nasty damage.

Rentall watches as his adversaries begin to deploy for their attack. At least the enemy are not from Bachscuttel, with the embarrassment that comes with their peculiar form of "Turtlekrieg". The Rotenbergers will come forward, and the Vulgarians have the qualitative advantage! Huzzah!

Military Revolution!

It has been quite some time since this publication last reported on the exploits of Landgrave Choldwig. The reasons for this relate partly to the low tolerance that the editorial staff here have for cruelty to terrapins*; but also that too frequent a focus on the Rotenburg court would breach recommended moral guidelines on gratuitous nudity and the use of olive oil. 

Still, as a core participant in the Wars of the Gelderland Succession, our gaze needs must alight on the Landgravate at this period of crisis. At this very moment, the landgrave is reviewing his newly reformed unit of palace guards. These reforms are a reflection of Choldwig's desire to push through the fruits of his programme for a military revolution in his army. Choldwig's idol is Alexander the Great, and so the landgrave has particular views on what constitutes the foundations of military effectiveness.

In other places a military revolution might entail radical innovation in technology, doctrine, and organisational culture: in Rotenburg it just means making the sticks longer. As such, his guards have been re-equipped with pikes. Since Greek-style tunics might leave his troops too exposed to the depredations of the weather and of angry terrapins, they have been issued landsknecht uniforms. These changes have been received enthusiastically by Choldwig's senior officers: if the word "enthusiastic" is defined by responses such as holding one's head in one's hand and sighing loudly; or saying things such as "For the love of God", and "Kill me now".

For the troops themselves, it has all been hugely entertaining. As palace guards, their chances of being committed to combat seem about as low as their likely combat effectiveness if they actually had to fight; and what Mittleheim soldier doesn't like frolicking in parti-coloured costumes, poking other people with big sticks, and saying things like "Halt, who goes there?"; or "I wouldn't touch your wife with this barge pole".

The landgrave's fun is interrupted by the arrival of Baron Lothar von Prohlaps, the Minister for Alexandrification. 'My lord, a message has arrived from our field army. It seems that General Saxe-Peste has committed his forces to battle against the Vulgarians!' cries the minister.
'When will this battle take place?' asks Choldwig with interest.
'My lord, it seems likely, given the time taken for this missive to reach us, that the battle will already have been fought'.
The landgrave fiddles with some olives. 'What are our chances in battle, minister?'
'Many of our troops are conscripts, my lord' says Prohlaps delicately.
'Hmmm', says Choldwig. 'Then I feel confident. Conscripts are less likely to be bound by the dangerous constraints of traditional military thinking and practice'.
The minister nods. 'If, sir, you mean that they don't know what they're doing, then yes'.
'This is the Enlightenment' replies the landgrave. 'I don't want mindless automata in my army. I want Alexandrian style enterprise and initiative. Surely that is what matters on the field of combat?'
'Opinion is divided, sir'.
'Is it?'
'Yes sir: you think that that might be the case; but everybody else doesn't'.
Choldwig frowns. 'What will the result of the battle be, minister?'
'I think, my lord, within the usual parameters of success'
'That bad?' The landgrave sighs. 'Well, we'll just have to see. And when the troops come back, I have some more Macedonian surprises for them'.
'It's not more olive oil is it, my lord?'.
'Not this time, no', replies Choldwig. 'Although', he continues, 'I could be persuaded'.



* And other amphibians. Except axolotls, who deserve everything that's coming to them.

Tostov!

We turn, dear reader, to the Vulgarian army as it wends it way from the newly captured town of Schwettinbad. The army intends to regroup in the territory of its ally, the Empire of Fenwick, and is now traversing the Duchy of Bahnsee-Kassel in a south easterly direction. The headquarters of its commander, General Hertz van Rentall, is interrupted by the arrival of a knot of horsemen. Who could they be?

'General, splendid to see you and compliments upon your latest victory!' cries one of the new arrivals. 

Why, it is Captain of Infantry, Duke Walter von Neucheim. Duke Neucheim has with him his close companion, Baron Tostov. Neucheim looks well, as he should since he has been on leave and so has avoided the boredom and disease attendant in serving during the recent siege. His compatriot, Baron Tostov, doesn't look quite as well due to some injuries sustained in a previous battle.

'I come bearing grave news!' says the Duke, leaping from his horse. Tostov also dismounts, although for him this involves more of a sort of falling off into a heap.
'Da Baron ish, ah, well?' asks Rentall, looking at the heap of Tostov in front of him.

'Gottle of geer!' says Tostov, as the Duke tries to reassemble him.

Neucheim balances Tostov's wooden head on his barrel-like body: barrel-like because it, in fact, a barrel.

'Duke', says the general wearily. 'Perhapsh itsh time to recognishe dat dish rushe wid da baron won't fool anyone anymore'.

'The baron is here!' shout the soldiers nearby. 'Hurrah for Tostov! Hurrah for Tostov!' The celebrations are taken up and down the line, and soon the whole Vulgarian army knows that their hero, Baron Tostov, is once again ready to fight!

Rentall sighs and shakes his head.

'And what ish da news dat you bring, good duke?' asks Rentall, as one of Tostov's fingers falls off.

'You are being pursued, my lord' says Neucheim excitedly. 'The Rotenburg army is close by and means to bring us to battle!'

Rentall nods philosophically.

'And dosh da Baron Tostov have any advish in dis situation dat we find ourshelves in?'

'Gottle of ...'

'No!' says Rentall holding up his hand. 'Duke, does da baron have any advish dat doshn't involve a bottle of beer?'

Neucheim considers this. 'Nope' he says, finally.

'Dat's what I tort' says Rentall. 'Luckily, I do. I have a plan! Let ush order da troopsh into battle formation!'

And so, near the small village of Schwimwehr, the Vulgarians prepare to test their mettle against the Rotenbergers. Rentall has plan. Of course, this is a Mittelheim plan; so, if the chances of the plan actually working aren't exactly zero, then they are so very nearly zero that it really isn't worth the effort of trying to put a decimal point in.

Doctor in the House!

'Is the message sent, chamberlain?' asks Prince Rupprecht, his voice full of unusual zeal.
'Indeed, yes, sire', replies Chamberlain Fecklenburg. 'I am sure that Landgrave Choldwig will bestir his army and move immediately upon the enemy'.

'Did you include my pictures?' asks Rupprecht.

Fecklenburg considers this. 'All of those that were fit to include in our letter, sire', he replies finally.

'So, all of them', says the prince firmly.

'Yes, sire: all of those that could be identified as small drawings of pigs, and not those that looked like they had been drawn in crayon by a syphilitic and wildly drunk monkey that had never actually seen a pig and whose best monkey friend had lied about the claws'.

'Are there many of those sorts of monkeys?' asks Rupprecht, who likes to think of himself as a man with an enquiring scientific mind.

'I think that Landgrave Choldwig is likely to think so sir. But, moving on swiftly, I am sorry to disturb you again but I have here Doctor Hans Klenser'.
Accompanying the good doctor is his assistant. The prince blanches, remembering their previous encounter.
'Ah, uh, lovely to see you again madame', panics Rupprecht, searching for a suitable greeting that might avoid a repeat of the terrible social faux pas that accompanied their last meeting. 'You, ah, really, uh, haven't got any uglier since the last time that we met'.

Klenser chokes. Fecklenburg steps in straight away. 'Come now doctor, the prince hardly has time for this exchange of pleasantries. 'Why are you disturbing his Princely Personage'.

'Well, my lord - it's your gout' stutters Klenser recovering. 'I am sorry to disturb your evening', he continues, gesturing to the pair of oars. 'But you have been suffering from said affliction since I can remember. And as your Chief Medical Officer, I thought that it was time that you set an example of health and wellbeing for your subjects'.

'You're not going to saw it off, are you?' asks Rupprecht worriedly, pointing at his foot. 'Because I've only got two. I think'.
'Oh, no, no, sire. Not yet'.
'Not yet?' gulps the prince.

'No sire - not whilst we have such a long list of alternative treatments to attempt first'.

Fecklenberg intervenes with concern. 'But it's not a long list, Doctor Klenser. I have some acquaintence with medical matters, and I know that that list has one item on it, and it begins with 'L' and ends in 'H'!'
'Lunch?' asks the prince hopefully. Then he frowns. 'And if that doesn't cure me then you saw my foot off?'

'"Leech", my lord', replies Fecklenburg. 'It's "leech" that comprises the entirety of the medical profession's long list of treatments'.

'In my defence, it's a really long leech', says the doctor. 'It's more of a snake, really'. He opens a pouch to show the chamberlain.

'That is a snake', says Fecklenburg', stepping back in alarm. 'That is very much a snake. How on earth did you intend to prescribe it to our prince?'

'Well, usually, I recommend placing one under the tongue with some water until it dissolves'.

'And do your patients say that they feel better after that'

'It's difficult to tell' replies the physician. 'what with their tongues swelling up from the bites. But I can say confidently from looking at the jerking of their limbs that their mobility improves and that they stop complaining about their gout'.

'No, no, no!' replies the chamberlain firmly. 'There must be some other recommendation'.

Klenser thinks about this. 'Well, the prince could cut down on his drinking'.

Rupprecht frowns. 'Why would I do that? Only one of my feet has swollen up. I've got one left. I'd say that means I'm only drinking half of what I need to'.

'But your foot, my lord ...' Klenser tries continuing.

'It's fine. I'm used to it. It was like when I was bitten by that wild dog'.
Klenser nods. 'Bitten by a dog? Thank goodness, it could have been a small child'.
Rupprecht frowns. 'What? No, I could have fought off a small child. Anyway, my leg blew up, but I just ignored and it went away. Unlike my wife'.

'My lord, I must insist ...' begins Klenser.

'Be off!' cries the prince. 'On this issue, it's mind over matter: I don't mind, and you don't matter! So take yourself and your, ah, wife, away, and let me alone to contemplate serious matters of state'.

The physician is bundled out.

'Were you serious about considering significant matters of state, sire?' asks Fecklenburg.

'What? Oh no, I've got the whole evening in front of me. Now, chamberlain, help me with those oars: it would be a shame to waste them'.

Gloom and Doom!

'Gloom! Gloom! Darkness! Darkness!' wails Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel morosely. 'I just can't see a way out of this terrible situation!'
'Would this be better, my lord?' says Chamberlain Fecklenburg, lighting a lamp.
'Ooh, yes, that's much better!' replies the prince happily as the room moves from pitch black to a warm and rosy glow.
'My lord, can I ask you why you were sitting in the dark?'
'Yes, chamberlain, you can'.
There are a few moments of silence.
There is a barely audiable sigh from Fecklenburg. 'And why, my lord, were you sitting in the dark?'
'So, Fecklenburg, that I do not have contemplate the ruin of my evening - an evening that I was very much looking forwards to'.
'And what entertainment was lined up, sire?'
Rupprecht points to a pair of oars that are lying on the floor.
'You ordered the staff to procure you a pair of oars for the evening?' asks the chamberlain with some interest. 'What, my lord, did you intend to do? This isn't ...' he looks around concernedly '... this isn't some sort of English entertainment is it?'

The prince snorts derisively. 'Look around Fecklenburg - can you see any steak and kidney puddings?'

'There was that incident, sire, with the fried potatoes, fish, and the peas that were mushed up ...'

'No Fecklenburg, there was just an English actress who should have tested the temperature better before asking me "would you like gravy on that?" No, chamberlain, my evening has been ruined by cloth-eared servants that don't pay attention to what I'm saying'.

'It wasn't a pair of oars that you wanted, my lord?'

'Of course not: I wanted something altogether ... fruitier'.

'That, sire, would explain the large pair of melons that I saw in the hallway. You asked for a pair of oars with enormous melons?'

'That isn't at all what I asked for'.

'I see, my lord', says Fecklenburg, nodding at last. 'Oh, I see. You seem to have obtained wood of an entirely different kind. Well perhaps, sire, you need to enunciate more clearly'.

'Why, chamberlain? I can't see the relevance here of religion. But now my evening is all ruined. What am I going to do now? Where am I going to put those?' he points at the wooden implements.

'Certain suggestions leap to mind, sire - but let us leave such matters.' 

Fecklenburg continues. 'With your evening free, sire, would that not leave time to discuss the dreadful loss of the town of Schwettinbad?'

'Rupprecht considers this carefully. 'No'.

'But many of your citizens were slaughtered in the fight sire!'

'There's probably a bright side somewhere', says the prince resentfully. 'You can’t say "slaughter" without saying "laughter"'.

'My lord, the Vulgarians have made off with a great array of goods and chattels'.

'That's sad, obviously', says the prince giving his nose a thorough rummaging with his finger. 'But you know, on the bright side, it's not my stuff that they've taken'. 

'But in a way, sire it is: you have always been an advocate sire, I believe, that what is yours is yours; and what is your subjects is also yours, should you tell them to give it to you. So in a way, the Vulgarians are stealing from you. And of course, the things that they've done to the local pigs ...'

'The local pigs!' says Rupprecht horrified. 'What things?'

'Vulgarian things, my lord'.

'Well that just won't do! We must recapture the town! How can it be done?'

'The Vulgarians have left a garrison and have now, by all accounts, begun to withdraw to Fenwickian territory'.

'Shouldn't we stop them, Fecklenburg? I mean, think of the pigs!'

'I could send a message post-haste to the nearest of our allied forces, sire. The Rotenburgers are within striking distance of the enemy!'

'Do it, Fecklenburg! Think big: think pig!'

Capacious Exploding Orifices!

 'A sudden startling level of competence by the Bachscuttelers delivers an unexpected and quite remarkable victory!' said no one, ever, in the history of warfare. The attacking grenadiers of course are driven off by the defending Vulgarians. The Bachscuttel sappers, seeing this, drop their shovels and run as well.

To the distinct whiff of coal-dust, beer, and chips and gravy, the Vulgarian miners establish a mine head and begin digging towards the town's defences (below). Having run out of nuns, the defenders can only look on gloomily as barrows of earth are removed and barrels marked "Gunpowder: Do Not Snort" are wheeled in to replace them.

To add to the Bachscuttler's woes, a heavy siege mortar is dragged forwards and placed in the new artillery position (below). There's nothing that Vulgarians like more than handling large barrels, and this one is a whopper. So capacious is the capacity of the muzzle that it is named by the gunners "Wilhelm's Cake-Hole" 

As mortar rounds begin pounding the fabric of the town, Governor Zwöllenglantz decides it is time to end the battle before the attackers can breach the walls. His troops are out of morale; and food is running low - the prospect of hunger stalks the town like a stork with a scythe and a poor sense of humour. Only gunpowder remains plentiful: but that is because there is precious little left to fire it from except grenadiers' backsides.

The governor has done everything possible to fight off the attackers: if that is, the concept of 'everything' could be defined as the mindless repetition of trench raids and the working of nuns well beyond their regulation hours, and doing not much else.

Zwöllenglantz asks for the Honours of War. As this is Mittelheim, it takes quite a time to find some of them; but eventually the Bachscuttel garrison is permitted to quit the town unmolested. The troops are allowed to leave with their arms, which is handy because without them it would be difficult to make their hands work. 

The town of Schwettinbad has fallen to Vulgaria! General Rentall immediately begins implementing the Vulgarian form of martial law. The main element of this seems to comprise of a violent pogrom against purveyors of garlic, salt, and bedroom window locks. A new and progressive tax system is introduced to discourage sun-bathing and to encourage investment in larger cleavages. A strange explosion of love-bites and lassitude quickly begins to afflict the inhabitants of the town.

News of this defeat will surely not be well-received by Prince Rupprecht! 

Nun Shall Pass!

The battle begins to reach its final denouement; or, as it might be termed in Mittelheim, the end. As the defending Bachscuttlers look on, the Vulgarian sappers quickly raise a new artillery battery position right in front of them. If the Vulgarians get some guns into it, the fire from it is going to really, really hurt. From here, the attacking guns will be within breaching range of the walls and so able to begin the process of battering down the fabric of the fortress, just as they have already battered down the fabric of the Bachscuttel morale. The latter was never likely to be that challenging, given that if it were indeed a fabric, Bachscuttel morale would be a rather frayed pair of underpants, probably worn on alternate days by respective members of the platoons.

What to do? What to do? Governor Zwöllenglantz reviews his options. He can afford to do this quite a lot because it's not a very long list even if he writes it in very big letters. There are no doubt, a wide array of clever strategems that might be available in a siege to an enterprising defending force: tarring and lighting pigs; stuffing goats; smearing elephants in honey and chasing them with bees into the enemy positions; secrets forays to stuff comedically large pineapples into the barrels of the attacking artillery. Most in fact seem to involve variations on cruelty to animals and fruit; or cruelty to animals with fruit. But the governors options in both cases are limited given the lack of both: Bachscuttlers don't eat fruit; but they really do eat almost any animals, even if they seem oddly covered in bees and honey. So, the governor once again plays a collection of the Bachscuttel greatest siege hits.

Wearily Sister Molestus trudges the well-worn path to the Vulgarian lines. It is generally acknowledged in circles familiar with espionage that one of the important attributes of a spy is that they should be relatively unknown. It is somewhat worrying, then, for the sister that, as she approaches the enemy line, she is received with the words "Oh hello, it's you again, Sister".

Alas, there's only so many times a woman dressed as a nun can claim to be seeking a 'lovely bunch of strong men' to help her with her 'entirely naked fellow sisters who are in a nearby inn and have become trapped in the bath tub'. Alerted by the nun's suspiciously detailed knowledge of bathing, an activity that no one in Mittelheim is terribly well acquainted with, the Vulgarians apprehend her. Accusing her of being dirty Bachscuttel spy, which, to be fair, she actually is on both counts, the nun is beaten with musket butts until she passes out; although, in deference to the fact that she is nun, the troops apologise profusely while they are doing it and also skip their normal practice of rummaging around in her underclothes.

And then, of course, it's time for the Bachscuttel trench raid. This one is made slightly more interesting because the company of grenadiers are now leavened with a group of sappers.

If the grenadiers can storm the position, the sappers will then fill in the new battery. The sappers are notably well-rested given that they haven't done anything at all during the whole of the preceding fighting. This is it - the final act. It would hardly be a surprise to communicate, dear reader, that the Bachscuttel force has already run out of morale. This means that they cannot rally any troops and that they will automatically surrender if the walls are breached. Only if they can break the Vulgarian morale before the latter happens do they have any chance of preventing the fall of the town!

There Can be Only Pun!

Somewhat surprisingly, it does indeed seem that doing the same thing again as the Bachscuttelers have repeatedly done before has caught the Vulgarians napping. Who knew that the rapid approach of  enemy assault companies against one's trenches might indicate that the enemy was raiding one's trenches? Moreover, although Bachscuttel is a place where the phrase "getting back into the swing of things" usually just means hanging more people, the previous practice really does seem to have warmed up the attacking troops. The raid has some success, and with cries of "Chase me! Chase me!" the Vulgarian sappers scatter to the rear.

The Bachscuttlers decide to pile the pressure on the defending Vulgarians. It's not a great pile, to be sure: more the sort of small heap produced by a naughty puppy - but still, there is at least an attempt to multiply the confusion caused by the raid. It's time, once again, for the furtive shuffling of spies.

'It's time to commit the nun' has never really been a phrase that indicates a battle is going well. Nevertheless, Sister Molestus finds herself again ordered to betake herself to the Vulgarian lines in order to sew some mayhem (below).  

Alas, even the best of her needlework puns fails to move the Vulgarian troops. Taking stock of the situation, they've already moved onto some soup word play, and don't broth-er paying any attention to her.

'I've got to get out of this place', whispers Sister Molestus to herself. She kicks one of the Vulgarians in their bouillons and then sprints off.

In the first parallel, two companies of Vulgarian troops shift to some pudding-related fun and decide to desert (below). It is a sad fact that in this siege the most dangerous threats to the Vulgarian troops have been their lax hygiene and their own legs. More of them have either deserted and run off or shat themselves to death than have been laid low by Bachscuttel gunnery or muskets.

The remaining Bachscuttel infantry begin to gather in the covered way (below). With little artillery firepower left available it would seem that Governor Zwöllenglantz might be considering an all or nothing assault with his infantry to destroy the enemy's third parallel. In Bachscuttel, of course, the phrase "all or nothing" isn't really as balanced an option as one might suppose, since the "all" element is usually rather quite similar to the "nothing". Still, you have to admire the governor's sense of adventure.

Such an assault might be just in the nick of time. With a third parallel now undergoing construction, the Vulgarians begin to muster the makings of some new artillery positions. But in the trenches, one can also hear phrases such as 'Get thee whippet aht o' my beer' and 'It's grim up north, it is': firm evidence that miners have been ordered to the front!

Lip Balm Death!

(Below) The Vulgarian siege lines look unfeasibly like an actual military line of sieges. The usual characteristics of Vulgarian military activity - troublesome attitude, wheezing decreptitude, and perennial lassitude - seem strangely absent.

The architect of this sudden competence, Lady Timsbury of Somerton, surveys the developing engineering works in the company of General Hertz van Rentall.

'Dish ish mosht pleashing', says the general in his highly variable Dutch-accented German. 'I don't shink I could have imagined a better shet of sheige works after da lasht hash de troopsh made of tings'.

Lady Timsbury smiles serenely.

'That, sir, is the power of professional military education. The pen, you see, is mightier than the sword'.

'Datsh true, madam', nods Rentall. 'Eshpeshially when you threaten to shtab da chief engineer in da eye wid da pen if he doshn't do better'.

Lady Timsbury nods with satisfaction. She smears a small quantity of ointment on her lips drawn from an ornate tin in her bag. The smell of violets drifts out.

Lady Timsbury nods with delight. 'Can you smell that? Can you smell that, sir?'

'What, madam?' replies the general.

'Lip balm. Nothing else in the world smells like that. I love the smell of lip balm in the morning. It smells like ... victory!'

Despite the positive effects of their regular siege operations, the Vulgarians still can't stop themselves dabbling in the nonsense that is espionage. (Above) A winsome Vulgarian spy insinuates herself into the town square which is currently the main rallying point for discomfitted Bachscuttel troops. At this rallying point, the shaken defenders fortify themselves with stirring tales of the Palatinate's military past. This really doesn't take very long, leaving them a lot of time to contemplate their very limited life expectancy if they move back up to the bastions.

The spy intends to try and reduce the Bachscuttel morale. She fails of course, because it can't really get any lower. Indeed, so depressing is it to be in the company of the remnants of the Bachscuttlers that the spy becomes rather weepy and flees. 

There's only one option left for the Bachsuttel defenders. Proving beyond doubt that they are a one-trick pony; a single-stringed violin; a jack of one trade; a single sausage breakfast, the defenders launch another trench raid in an attempt to see off the enemy sappers. After all, doing exactly what they did last time, and the time before that, is exactly what the Vulgarians won't expect. Right?

Spare the Rod!

Having shortened the range, as well as a considerable number of the defending troops, the Vulgarians are able to make the most of their superiority in gunnery. Another of the defending batteries is silenced.

The defensive forces, like a small Lacedaemonian, are now a little spartan. In an effort to try and slow the seemingly inexorable forward movement of the enemy sappers, two companies of Bachscuttelers are committed to yet another night-time trench raid (below).

One thing that the Palatinate troops have really begun to get the hang of is trench raids. Of course, it is a form of warfare that any Mittelheim soldier would be ideally suited for by both temperament and life experience: creeping forwards in the darkness; springing upon unprepared targets; throttling the life out of still sleeping victims. Indeed, it has much in common with Mittleheim techniques of child rearing.

(Below) The assault is successful: one of the sapper units is driven back and the other is subjected to something that bears a great resemblance to Mittelheim 'tiger parenting', since the latter also consists of stuffing the recipient's mouth with rags, beating them with poles (or any other handy foreigner), and then burying them in mud. This is, according to many, character building; and also, of course, quite terminal.

(Below) In the town, the Bachscuttel grenadier battalion remains in reserve. Governor Zwöllenglantz has moved down from the defences in an effort to try and rally some of the remaining gunners.

'Fear not, my fine fellows!' cries Zwöllenglantz. 'A few minor flesh wounds cannot dampen our spirits!'

One of the artillerymen considers the ragged remains of his battery. 'We’re screwed, sir' he concludes.

The governor frowns. 'Could you elaborate, my man'.

The soldier considers this. 'We’re really screwed, sir' he replies morosely.

With the defending fire weakening, the Vulgarian sappers are able to return to their saps and continue digging. That the floor of some of the saps seem rather lumpier than they did earlier, and give out pained moaning sounds when trodden on is not something that seems to dispirit them. (Below) The sappers begin the start of a new trench line just at the bottom of the glacis. More Vulgarian troops begin to mass in the second parallel, ready to move forwards once the third line has been constructed. 

The Vulgarian troops begin to detect the unmistakable whiff of victory. It smells quite similar to arm pits, however, so it is certainly too early for the attackers to count their chickens - which is good, because their supply wagons contain quite a lot of chickens, and their maths is quite poor, given that their childhood was often spent being gagged, beaten, and buried. (Below) Deadly supporting fire wears down another defending battery.

With the accumulation of losses, the Bachscuttelers morale is now probably quite low. Only honour now sustains their resistance. Alas for Zwöllenglantz, the soldiers of the Palatinate generally only use the word 'honour' when prefixed with 'your' and in the context of tricky court proceedings often concerning theft, gropery, and home schooling. Perhaps, though, all is not lost .... 

Onward! Onward!

Disease strikes the besieging army and a company of musketeers are laid low (below). Governor Zwöllenglantz can only look on with satisfaction as noisome smells of the very worst kind emanate from the putrifying enemy lines. The Vulgarian camp rings with sound of plague bells, the creak of casualty carts, and urgent cries of  "I'm getting better" and "You're not fooling anyone, you know". 

Whether it's dropsy, flopsy, or a bad case of bloaty head, the Vulgarian physicians are unable to diagnose the cause for certain. The cure, however, is obvious: leeches. 

Festooned with damp  invertebrates, the Vulgarian gunners continue their artillery bombardment. The siege guns now start to target some of the defending infantry. The Bachscuttel musketeers in one of the bastions lose heavily (below).

With limited options, Zwöllenglantz deploys another spy. This time it's Don Penguino. Even stickier than usual, and smelling of something that is hopefully lemons, the Don has been released from prison because the geese have recanted their testimony. The Spaniard creeps through the Vulgarian encampment until he can find an enemy unit that looks like it might be ready to desert. His main problem is that there are so many potential candidates.

Penguino picks his targets (above). Sadly for him, the Vulgarian unit doesn't find a citrus-scented Spaniard with a faint whiff of farmyard anaimal to be a trustworthy purveyor of rumours. If anything, Don Penguino's mix of Spanish, prison-yard German, and animal impersonations makes the troops even more resolved to bayonet the defenders. With a final disappointed "scorchio", the Spanish rake drifts off back to his lines.

(Below) Demonstrating the new professionalism and diligence brought about by expensive postgraduate professional military education certiicates, the Vulgarians begin to build batteries in the second parallel, and also begin to strike forward again, looking to push saps towards the glacis. Once on the glacis, the Vulgarians can then start digging the third parallel.

(Below) Vulgarian troops haul some of the siege batteries forwards to the second parallel. Supprting troops deploy into the nearby trenches. 

(Above) Snorting leeches by the handful, the Vulgarian gunners begin firing again at reduced range!
 

We're Jamming!

Tired of fiddling around with a strategy of the indirect approach, the Vulgarians begin to concentrate on some of the more direct basics of siege warfare. (Below) The sappers re-organise themselves, and the siege artillery begins to rain destruction on the defences.

The fire of the guns is slowed a little because of some difficulties with the orders that have been sent to them.

'Why are these orders so sticky?' asks one Vulgarian gunner, slowly unpicking some paper.

Another sucks his finger. 'These missives seem to be covered with jam ...'

(Below) The concentrated Vulgarian fire begins to have an effect. One of the Bachscuttel heavy batteries suffers a number of hits from enemy fire and is silenced. That the crew can no longer be heard chattering inanely about coconut halves and swallows is undoubtedly a merciful relief: but the loss to the defence of the fire of this battery is a serious blow. 

In parallel, there are more opportunities for espionage. This time, the Vulgarians send Oscar the ginger cat (below). This is an unordothodox move given that Oscar (a) cannot speak; (b) is not great at sketching the defences - he has an eye for perspective, but he will never really achieve his potential until he manages to evolve some opposable thumbs; and (c) tends to prioritise fish over his mission objectives. On the plus side, Oscar isn't captured - because, let's face it, no one is likely to suspect a ginger cat of being a master spy - but he also fails in his mission, because he is a ginger cat and actually not a master spy.

(Above) Oscar's meowing does, however, interrupt Don Pajero, who is clutching a small bundle of orders. He has a knife in his hands and seems to be spreading something over the papers.

Governor Zwöllenglantz points at the Don. 'What is he doing?'

Sister Molestus shrugs. 'We captured some of the enemy orders'.

'Excellent! And have you been decoding their orders and passing the information on to my headquarters?'

'No sir - even better, we've been jamming the enemy communications'.

'You've been jamming them?'

'Yes sir: Don Pajero has been spreading marmalade on them, and then handing them back to the Vulgarians. It'll take them weeks to clean the mess off'.

The governor counts to ten. It's not enough.

'God's ill-fitting hessian underwear!' blasphemes the governor. 'Are you idiots?' 

Molestus suddenly covers her face with a hand. 'Of course, my lord - we've been such fools!'

'Yes, you have!'

'Indeed, my lord. It's so obvious: marmalade isn't a jam.'

(Below) If their diversion into feline skulduggery hasn't hit the mark, the Vulgarian artillery does. The Bachscuttel heavy battery is now completely shot to pieces and the guns dismounted. This doesn't much reduce the accuracy of the Bachscuttel fire, of course, but the garrison's morale continues to decline.

(Below) The Vulgarian sappers now begin to dig a second parallel. What can the defenders do? There's only one option left available. Don Pajero snorts in disgust and tosses the marmalade aside. It's time for the lemon curd!

This siege really is beginning to be handled with a measure of competence that is difficult to credit to any military force in Mittelheim. It can't last: or can it?

Well, That Sucks!

 The Vulgarian sappers continue to dig forwards. If there's one activity that Mittelheimers can be relied upon to do well, it is swanning around in mud, making crude jokes about their tools. The intent, clearly, is that the second parallel will be pushed closer to the town's defences. One consequence, however, is that the sapper companies are now quite isolated (Below).

Baron Friederich von Zwöllenglantz, the town's governor, decides to exploit this situation and orders a trench raid! Only two companies of troops are ready for this operation: one of musketeers, and one of grenadiers.

The governor splits his force into two, and orders them to assault a pair of the enemy's saps. Making use of darkness, the Bachscuttel troops sneak forwards to a position near the enemy. (Above) They then launch a fierce bayonet attack! The use of the word "fierce" is more a matter of artistic licence, of course. A more diffident advance towards the enemy would be hard to imagine unless they were actually moving away from them, waving, and promising to come back at some later time. Much later. And to be honest, even the term "bayonet charge" probably conjures an image of aggression that is unsuitable for an activity that in the hands of Bachscuttlers looks more like the embarrassed rattling of cutlery. Still, undeniably, there is a move by the raiders that can't entirely be classified as a retreat.

One of the perennial features of Mittelheim warfare is irony. And dirt, of course. And morally questionable acts involving livestock and underwear catalogues. But here, irony is in the ascendant: and it decides that the limp musketeers quickly overrun the defending Vulgarian sappers, driving them back to the first parallel; whereas the grenadiers, of course, being Bachscuttel elite, are driven off in confusion, making noises like glassmakers that have sucked instead of blown. Nevertheless, damage has been done, and the Vulgarians must spend some time regrouping.

General Hertz van Rentall decides on reprisals. Deciding not to commit his own grenadiers, the desertion of some of which has stained their honour almost as badly as their trousers, he instead orders one of the Vulgarian spies into action: Lady Katya Natsov. Lady Katya is one of the female coterie that surrounds the new Voivodina of Vulgaria, Lady Carmilla. These strange ladies, porcelain of skin and long of tooth, refer to themselves as "The Grand Coven", a term that surely implies nothing but harmless fun; although, to others of the Vulgarian aristocracy, who perhaps feel aggrieved at having their power usurped, the ladies are instead referred to as "The Tossferatu". 

There is a strange flapping sound, and out of the darkness on one of the bastions, Lady Katya suddenly appears as if from nowhere!

(Above) 'Donner und blitzen!' cry the Bachscuttel sappers in front of her. 

'Bah!' cries Lady Katya, hauling the front of her corsetry back up to cover herself. 'Dat climb too strrrrrrrenuous for silly clothes'. 

The sappers look agog, realising now that it might not have been the lady's wings that were flapping around.

'I come here help you', continues the Vulgarian, pouting. 

The sappers consider this. On the one hand, failing to turn in this stranger who has appeared so suddenly in the fortress will no doubt result in them being hung, drawn, and one sixteenthed.* On the other, there seems to be the promise of intimacy with what is probably a real woman, with no mention of any pecuniary transactions.

'We're game', reply the sappers together.

'I come here for to stirrrrrr leetle insurrrrrrrection!'

'I think that's worked already' replies one enthusiastically.

'No', replies the other. 'She said an insurrection'.

'You prrrrrromise spread rumours and lowerrrrrr morale of population, and I come back, give you keeeeeeess'.

'Give us geese?' says one. 'Thanks, but I'm trying to give up'.

'No, no - a kiss', says the other.

In a few moments, the deal is done. A success for Lady Katya! The morale of the civilian population will decline, as the sappers agree to spread rumours designed to strike terror into any self-respecting citizen of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel: tales of mandatory bathing, no doubt, and of the raising of the drinking age to five. 

'I fly avay now' says Lady Katya, flapping her hands, and hopping backwards. 

'Madame!' cry the sappers. 'The parap ...'

'I fly avaaaaaaaaaaaaaayaaaaaaaah!' the Lady's words turn into a cry.

'Right over the parapet', the sappers say sadly to one another.

'Should we help her?' asks one.

'It might attract attention', says the other dubiously.

'Do you think her corset has fallen off again?'

They look at one another and then both run for the battlements.

*Merely quartering someone is regarded in Bachscuttel as namby-pamby liberalism.

Sew Far, Sew Good!

A new, more informed and ruthless military competence seems to have taken hold in the Vulgarian approach to siege operations. (Below) The Vulgarian saps look less like the diggings of a band of drunk moles going through their impressionist phase, and more like the result of the studied application of military theory. The saps develop swiftly, and promise soon that a second parallel might be put in place.

Looking at the advancing saps, the Vulgarian Chief Engineer de Goudenlid sighs with relief and blows gingerly on the backs of his hands: it looks not entirely impossible that they have been rapped painfully by some kind of wooden instrument: a large wooden ruler, possibly.

The defending Bachscuttlers as yet hold off on their artillery fire. This is probably a mistake, given that one of the functions of fortress cannons is widely considered to be firing at the attackers. But still, it does save on gunpowder. Instead, the Governor tries an alternative tack. He calls upon one of his spies: in this case, Sister Molestus, a choice taken on the solid basis that she, unlike Don Pajero de Penguino, hasn't yet been locked up in the town's prison for indecent behaviour towards geese. 

Molestus quickly makes it through the Vulgarian sentries. Her religious garb, and the firm promise that she is not bringing with her a wooden horse, wooden rabbit, or any similar means of tricking the attacking forces, soon gives her access to the Vulgarian lines. (Above) She has determined that she will encourage some of the enemy troops to desert. She picks a unit of grenadiers and approaches. She is, at it turns out, a mediocre spy: but then, international espionage was only an elective course at the nunnery, and she chose instead to do needlecraft.

'Good evening, my fine fellows!' says Molestus to the grenadiers. 'God be with you!'

'I don't think he is', replies a soldier morosely. 'We are quite miserable, what with the dysentry that we are suffering from and the terrible holes in our pantaloons. If only we knew someone who could repair them, thus allowing us to desert and sprint from this battlefield'.

'Repair your trousers?'

'Why yes, sister: a quick bit of needlework would solve the problem. But probably, as a nun, you took the course on international espionage instead - if only you had the skills to sew up our pantallons, we'd soon take the opportunity to flee the field'.

Molustus considers this. 'Hmm, well: Our dear Lord really does work in mysterious ways. Get me a needle! You'd better get thready for action, gentlemen, because I'm going to make a last stitch effort sew that you can quit the fight!'

The Vulgarians look at her blankly.

'Never mind!' says the Sister with a sigh. 'Just get me what I need'.

Inconceivably, then, Sister Molustus' mission is a success! Thanking God, for his mercy and the application of some sound stitching, a company of the grenadier battalion runs off into the night! Despite the competence of the siege operations, it's first blood to the Bachscuttlers!

Research Framework!

With the agreement of General Hertz van Rentall, Lady Timsbury has been allowed to introduce the Vulgarian Chief Engineer, the Dutch mercenary Major de Goudenlid, to the benefits of professional military education.
'It costs how much?' expectorates the major, incredulously. But I cannot afford that! I am just a member of the middle-income gentry: my peasants will never be able to rustle up that amount'.
Lady Timsbury tuts. 'Well, then: you'd better hurry up and sack the town, so that you can get the enemy to contribute to your process of education'.
'It sounds like your education is based quite a lot on theft', observes de Goudenlid miserably.
'You see' says Lady Timsbury brightly, 'you're already learning'. She holds out her hand. 'And that "continuing education" will cost you a bit more'.
'I'm not sure I can afford any of it', replies the engineer morosely.
'Nonsense!' replies Lady Timsbury briskly. 'Besides, this education is provided by a world-leading English university'.
'Hull?' says de Goudenlid, hopefully.
'No!' replies Lady Timsbury with annoyance. 'The King's College'.
'So, King's go there?' asks the engineer, impressed.
'No', replies Lady Timsbury. 'And also, it's not a college. But these are mere details. I can assure you that your process of education will be cheaper than you think, because we can make it shorter than you expect through the application of three key academic tools'.

'Well, that sounds more hopeful' says de Goudenlid.
'Yes; first we shall apply the principle of Recognition of Prior Experience, or RPE. Do you have any accumulated experience that might be relevant to an academic qualification?'
'Hmm', considers de Goudenlid. 'I'm Dutch; and I have been for quite a long time'.
'Excellent' replies Lady Timsbury. 'I think that covers all of the first year's curriculum. Second', she continues, rummaging in the folds of her gown, 'let me introduce you to Mister Research Evaluation Framework' she waggles a large wooden ruler in a threatening manner.
'That seems like a ruler, madame' says the engineer with some trepidation, 'and not, as such, a framework'.
'It's a learning framework', replies Lady Timsbury, 'because either you progress quickly, or I will hit you with it. Mr REF is the very quintessence of modern pedagogical techniques for accelerated research'.
'You punish me until I research more quickly?'
'You see, you're already learning at a more rapid rate!'
'But what about support for research quality rather than a superficial focus on mere quantity of outputs?'
Lady Timsbury does not answer - because she is laughing too much.
'And the third technique?' asks de Goudenlid.
'I shall swear at you,' says Lady Timsbury. 'A lot. Now, get a fornicating move on with this siege. And if you do not improve', she waves Mr REF, 'this fornicator is going to fornicating fornicate you'.

Under the close eye of its newly educated and motivated Chief Engineer, the Vulgarian siege begins to develop in quite unexpected ways ...