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 ....