Friday, 22 November 2024

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.

Monday, 18 November 2024

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.

Sunday, 10 November 2024

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'.

Sunday, 3 November 2024

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!'