My Grandfather's What?

'Your wooden clock!' says chamberlain Fecklenburg with evident relief. 'You wanted to show me your large wooden clock. Thank goodness!'
'Yes', replies Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel quizzically, 'what did you think that I said?'
'It ... it doesn't matter, my lord. It really doesn't matter. Suffice it to say that my morning has improved significantly'.
'Well, there it is!' says Rupprecht, pointing.

'Splendid, sir: although, and forgive me for being picky, but there don't seem to be any numerals on the clock-face'.

'Oh no', replies the prince dismissively. 'If there were numbers then the clock would actually tell the time; and then I would have to concern myself with un-princely things such as being on time. And then, before you know it, I'd have schedules, programmes, appointments. I have', says Rupprecht waving his hand generally in the air, 'a post-temporal mindset'.

'You mean you're late for everything'.

'Not at all, Fecklenburg. As a prince, I am never late: everyone else is just inconsiderately early'.

'Quite so, my lord', bows the chamberlain.

'While we are here, sire, it would prudent to talk about some matters of state.' There is an audible groan from Rupprecht.

'Sir, here I need to be frank', continues Fecklenburg.

'No!'

No?

'No! I have trouble enough remembering your name without you trying to change it. You can't be Frank; You’ll just have to remain Fecklenburg'.

'No sir, I mean that we must be honest about ...'

Rupprecht blows a raspberry. 'Look, I appreciate your honesty in opening up to me about wanting to change your name; but the answer is still no. Anyway, if you were going to change your name then it has to be a name I can remember: like Rupprecht'.

'But that's your name, sir'.

'Hmmm, you're right: and if we were both Rupprecht then that would be very confusing. Well, I suppose I could change my name to something else that was easy for me to remember: like Fecklenburg'.

'My lord, then I'd be Rupprecht and you'd be Fecklenburg. Imagine the problems ...'

'You're right. Well, then perhaps you could be Rupprecht, and I could be Frank?'

'Sire, I think that we have drifted from my original intent. In fact, it's less a drift, and more a vigorous paddle. I simply wanted to say that I think that, respectfully, things on the frontier are likely to get a tad difficult'.

'A tad? Is that bad? It sounds bad; or at least the tone of your voice leads me to think that it's bad'.

'Sir, I fear for our frontier towns. It seems likely that the Vulgarians might have a go at them'.

'But why would the Vulgarians come all this way and lay siege to one of our towns?'

'Well, sir, probably because they have all of this siege stuff and they want to use it again'.

Rupprecht snorts. 'Well, let them come. Our towns are locked up as tight as my mother's virtue'.

'Exactly sire: almost anybody might be able to get their hands on our bastions'.

Apres Moi, Le Deluge!

The Wurstburp defenders watch their Vulgarian adversaries paddle disconsolately around in their muddy trenches. Sickness spreads through the latter's army. Trench foot, trench nose, and trench belly button lay many of the besiegers low. Morale plummets: appalling weather, dysentery, misery - this isn't warfare; it's an English bank holiday.

(Above) There is sally port in the defences of the town. Ruminating on the exposed state of the Vulgarians, there are signs that a sortie might be being considered by the defenders: these signs include the movement of troops; the shifting of supplies; and the uttering of airy and utterly non-specific enquiries such as 'Where's the section in the rules on sorties?'

In the meantime, the Vulgarians try once again to infiltrate a spy into the fortress. Having failed in her designs the first time, the spy re-enters the town in the form of a bat: a form that looks quite a lot like a middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo, leaping up and down and flapping her arms. Equipped with nothing more than a cup,a tall hair-do, and a cleavage that would past muster as an impressive toast rack, she moves rapidly through the streets, intent upon reaching the Wurstburp granary.

There are many words that might be used to describe this means of ingress into a enemy fortress: 'unorthodox' might be one; 'unwise' would be another; 'unhinged', might also suit.

Sadly for her, the spy runs into a patrol who have been ordered to be on the look out for anything unusual. Even by the poor cognitive standards of Mittelheim sentries, tall women flapping their arms, crying "I fly! I fly!" are generally recognised as being somewhat out of the ordinary.

'That's, ah, somewhat out of the ordinary', says one sentry to his comrade as he watches.

'But, is "somewhat out of the ordinary" the same as "unusual"?'replies his comrade. 'Because we've only been told to look out for the unusual'.
'Is that too narrow a remit for a patrol in a town under siege?'

'Hmmm, well, I suppose we could have a chat with her and see what she's doing out at night'.

'Madame, upon what business are you about the town at such a late hour of the evening?' 

The spy turns. 'Away! Away!' she cries. 'I shall mesmorrrrrize you! Brrrrrrrrr!' she waves her hands around in front of the sentry's face. 'These are not the bats you're looking for'.

The two soldiers look at one another. No enemy spy could surely be as rubbish as this? On the other hand, this is Mittelheim ...

'Madame, I think you should come with us ...' they say. And so, another great Mittelheim exercise in skulduggery comes unstuck! 

In Mittelheim, once in a lifetime events can be relied upon to happen weekly. And so it is again. As Lackwitz strips off his coat and shirt in preparation for another heatwave, the heavens open again and another unprecedented storm engulfs the battlefield. Almost all of the Vulgarian positions are plunged nose-deep in muddy water, driving the defending troops out of their trenches.

There's only so many times that Lady Luck can kick the Vulgarians in their dangly bits before they conclude that she isn't just playing hard to get. After a month of siege operations, the Vulgarians have nothing to show except a dead enemy spy and a lot of fungal foot infections. The besiegers have had enough.

Defeated by the weather, which, let's face it, was always likely to be a more wily adversary than any Mittelheim army, the Vulgarian troops are forced to retreat. The Wurstburp ranks are then left to deal with a strange and disorientating feeling: the feeling of victory. Suspicious of this feeling, and worried that the warm glow might simply be a temperature brought about by the early stages of typhoid fever, the troops of the Margravate revert to a mind-set with which they are more comfortable: bitter recriminations, finger-pointing, and morale-boosting beatings. 

The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the First Parallel!

One can tell immediately in Mittelheim military campaigns when a bout of 'decisive action' is about to ensue. Clear signs include the sound of kettles being put on to boil, the unmistakeable rustle of pyjamas being retrieved from napsacks, and the whiff of naive optimism that presages the firing of cannon. 

(Above) Wurstburp gunners, clearly inexperienced in war, fire their batteries in an attempt to inflict casualties on the Vulgarian sappers. This has the usual effect: a few of the enemy stand up and ask 'what was that noise?'; the remainder continue playing cards.

(Above) The saps begin to approach the Wurstburp glacis. Upon the walls of the town, Captain Lackwitz surveys the weather prospects.

'I sense a heatwave in the offing, gentlemen', he says to some nearby staff. 'Relentless sunshine; unending drought; heat-stroke; shortages of water; swarms of locusts'.

No sooner has he uttered this commentary than fat raindrops begin to fall from the sky. 

For the Vulgarians it had all seemed now to be going swimmingly; which is ironic, really, given that it now starts to rain. A lot. Such a deluge of water has not been seen such Wilhelm of Gelderland got stuck in his bathtub and had to be extracted through the use of an artillery hoist and the very liberal application of lard. Many of his servants never recovered their sight. 

(Above) The blue markers indicate flooded positions. The Vulgarians in the respective fortifications are displaced by the weight of watery intrusion. There is much grumbling, searching for hats, cloaks, ducks, and any other accoutrements that might repel the wearying sheets of rain that fall from the skies.

(Above) Days are wasted as troops try and bale out their flooded positions. The only consolation is that an event so random and unprecedented as this ferocious storm is surely a once in a lifetime event. Of course, that depends upon whose life we're talking about ... 

Is that a Transverse Sap in Your Britches, Or Are You Just Pleased to See Me!

It's more helpings of siege spaghetti all round! (Below) The Vulgarian sappers dig forwards slowly. Clearly of the opinion that second parallel's are just for girls, they seem intent on sapping all the way to the enemy glacis. What they might intend to do there is anyone's business: but it's pretty certain that Vauban wouldn't approve.

Things begin to heat up. Already, as Vulgarians, morally exposed, the sappers also add an equivalent degree of physical exposure as well. (Below) Having zigged when they probably should have zagged, some of the sappers are exposed to enfilade fire from the enemy ravelin and bastions.

The defending artillery miss, of course. But it's the principle that counts: these are sappers, not slappers, and they should know better than to flaunt their dangly bits in full view of the enemy.

Rain falls, slowing down the progress of the attacking forces. But with a few days more effort, the Vulgarian troops seem to be making some additional progress.

(Above, left) The Vulgarians construct a battery emplacement at the end of one of the saps. If they can deploy some guns in this position, then they will be in range to conduct battering fire on the Wurstburp walls. It's all to play for: if you like games that are slow, dirty, and low-stakes, that is. Now would be the time for some decisive action!