Bogorovsk, the Fourth!

Like a Mittleheim waistband, the Nabstrian works creep inexorably outwards. Each of Rumpler's pioneer companies is put to creating its own sap (below). If there is one thing that Mittelheimers have a reliable knowledge of, not least because it is forms such an important part of their culture and culinary heritage, it is mud. Wriggling gleefully in the filth, the troops tunnel their way through the earth like moles on their way to a hot, but poorly lit, date.

Having learnt from the experience of previous siege operations, the Nabstrians have identified the risks involved in being too cavalier in pushing forward unsupported saps. As a result, and most disappointingly to the Kurlandian defenders, the next flurry from the sappers brings forth a set of trenches (below).

In a rare moment of coordination, the supporting infantry is able to move up almost straight away (above and below). This provides the sappers with support in case of an enemy attack. Kurlandian infantry continues to wait in the covered way. They have not yet decided to take their lives (and probably a range of saggy body parts) in their hands, and move up to the firing step, a position from which they can both fire and be fired upon.

Siege warfare, however, is in many respects about geometry, angles, protractor-thingies, and, you know, paying attention to where one's troops are relative to the enemy guns. (Above top) Whilst the Nabstrian infantry are safely protected in their trenches from enemy fire to their front, this is not the case in relation to another enemy battery (out of wood cut and to the right) that is now in an excellent position to fire right down the side of their defences. This is what is known in other parts of Europe as an 'enfilade': in Mittleheim, though, this sounds rather too much like 'lemonade', and for Mittelheim gunners risks confusing serious artillery work with fizzy beverages. Thus, the Kurlandian gunners prefer to refer to what they intend to do as a 'spank you with my gun'. 

It is a sound spanking that they mete out. A barrage from a heavy battery on a flanking ravelin skips munitions right down the trench, routing the defenders (above), although the comments from the defenders that they have 'spanked the Nabbies with their balls' seem unlikely to appear in the official history of the action. 

Barely pausing to goad the Nabstrians with some ripe and inventive allusions to their mothers and their proclivities towards cavorting on hot dates with moles, the defenders then compound the damage by launching a night trench raid with one of their grenadier companies (above)! What Rumpfler needs is some early luck that will bloody Retchin's nose, and, metaphorically, stuff some moles up his nostrils (not least to remove the temptation from the Nabstrian mothers). Can the sappers drive off the small attacking force? I mean, probably not, but you never know: the grenadiers might get lost, or tired, or get attacked by irate and horny moles whose dates have failed to turn up.

Bogorovsk, the Third!

The Nabstrian forces begin the process of sapping forward, intent on creating a third parallel. The general has four sapper companies at his disposal, one company of miners, and fourteen regiments of infantry, including two of grenadiers and one of guard infantry. Four regiments are under the command of Michael von Pfannensteil, scion of one of the great military families of the burgravate; General Heinrich von Zwöllen-Glantz commands the grenadiers and guard; Baron Florian von Meyer-Fleischwund commands three regiments of musketeers;  Horst, Freiherr von Friedegge commands the remaining four regiments, all of musketeers.

(Above, right) Rumpfler has established three main battery positions. He has five siege batteries, two heavy batteries, and two batteries of mortars. The mortars and one heavy battery are placed in the first parallel, with the remainder divided between two batteries in the second parallel. The general is a firm believer in the Christian principle of 'women and children first'. As such, he intends that both batteries of mortars will bombard the town, to terrorise innocent civilians and, if the Gentle Lord wills it, to set them alight. 

At this early stage, though, the general declines to fire, saving his powder for later. Instead, as his sapping commences, Rumpfler decides to commit one of his spies in order to spread unease amongst the population.

His choice is Roderigo the Spaniard (above). What led Roderigo to Mittelheim is a mystery. But this big, butch, bearded, ex-blacksmith is a master of disguise. A smudge of lipstick, a quick change of clothes, and a twist of his chorizo, and Roderigo is ready to undertake any manner of subterfuge. Or so Rumpfler hopes. 

Alas, Roderigo has made a fatal mistake. Sent to foment unhappiness amongst the population of Bogorovsk, he has chosen an entirely unsuitable ensemble -  a rococo style robe à la française, with a fitted bodice, elaborate trimming, and a full, pleated skirt supported by petticoats. The problem is - it's just too good. The style in Kurland this season is the same as every season - robe à la badger tres rough. Roderigo has made the same mistake as many Europeans trying to blend into Mittelhein: he's too competent.

Needless to say, Roderigo stands out like a Nabstrian spy in a rococo style robe à la française, with a fitted bodice, elaborate trimming, and a full, pleated skirt supported by petticoats. Quickly identified as an enemy agent, he is executed and then interrogated: an order of events that the Kurlandian secret police later begin to recognise may not be optimal.

News of Roderigo's demise is met with the necessary solemnity for someone who has given their life for the Nabstrian cause. 'What a loser!' snorts General Rumpfler angrily. (Above) Having expended one of his three spies, the general orders his sapper companies to continue with their efforts. Each company continues to dig forward: two on the left and two on the right, giving Rumpfler the sort of operational flexibility that mirrors his moral elasticity.

Bogorovsk, the Second!

The Nabstrian army has set its quite inconsiderable might against the walls of Bogorovsk.  The town is one of Kurland's major industrial centres, though the word 'major' here is rather a relative concept. Bogorovsk is certainly more industrialised than the surrounding area; but the same could probably be said of any house in the region with more than two pieces of cutlery. In the white heat of Mittelheim industry, the major products of Bogorovsk's nascent factories include spoons, iron nostril straighteners, and clockwork wheelchairs for mice.

(Above) Which is all to say that the town is strangely well protected given its risible contribution to the Kurland economy. The governor, General Retchin, has at his disposal four fortress artillery batteries, two heavy batteries, one light battery, and a battery of mortars. The fortress batteries are not as yet deployed upon the town's bastions. Having heard the lessons of previous Mittelheim sieges, the general has determined that exposing his batteries too early will simply make them targets for the enemy guns, and ensure that the enemy is so far away that they will not make useful targets. 

In addition to the guns, Retchin has six infantry regiments, divided into three brigades. One of these, commanded by Baron Felix Kraptin, consists of a regiment of veteran invalids and a regiment of local militia. The militia (above) are volunteers - a term which in Kurland simply indicates any individual worse at running than a recruitment sergeant. Brigade Kraptin is hardly an elite formation, and so is likely to form more of tripwire than a reliable defensive line. What it might succeed in tripping up, though, is open to question, unless the enemy mainly consists of mice in clockwork wheelchairs.    General Pyotr Ticklikoff, dressed in a dashing yellow uniform, commands the garrison's converged grenadiers (above, top). The remaining three regiments, all musketeers, labour under the command of Count Alexei Barfolovamisev, a septuagenarian goat worrier who, it turns out, is surprisingly spritely for his age - something that routinely disappoints his pet goats. The bulk of the troops are sent to the covered way, whilst the grenadiers and two companies of sappers remain in the town itself.

With this deployment, the Nabstrians then begin their attack!

Bogorovsk, the First!

Gauging the weather, dear readers*, this must be summer. Gauging the smell, this must be the border town of Bogorovsk in Kurland. Gauging the competence of the besieging force, this must be the Nabstrian army.

Testing the power of the law of averages, General Hieronymous von Rumpfler has decided to confront once again the troops of the Grand Duchy of Kurland. This time, though, he has besieged the enemy within a town, a condition that should reduce the enemy's mobility and allow the Nabstrians to leverage one of the key strengths of their army - their ability to move mud from one place to another destination that is quite close by. Utilising this skill, the besieging army has already managed to construct the first two parallels of their siege lines.

Content with the progress thus far, Rumpfler has found time to meet various important personages attached to his headquarters (below). One is Bishop Munschrugge, who has come to bless the efforts of the Burgravate's army. This is an activity that, to an outsider untutored in religious doctrine, might seem functionally the same as getting wildly hammered on the general's store of port, and then exposing his buttocks to passers by, on the basis that the Good Lord blesses those who turn the other cheek. Also here, however, is Lady Katherine Timsbury of Somerton, an advocate of something known as 'professional military education'. If we move closer, we might be able to hear the conversation ...

'And so, general, I think that I have demonstrated the great value that might accrue to your army if you signed up to the King's College's extra special programmes for the education of military officers'.

'But Lady Somerton, is it not the case that you have been selling these courses to our adversaries?'
'Of course - my institution takes its ethical responsibilities very seriously'.
'So, you would be against war, and conflict, and violence, and things such as that?'
'No, no: it's just that we sell to both sides so that we cannot be accused of unethical favouritism'.
'Well, how much are these courses?'
'I would be embarrassed to say, sir'
'Well, that's very ...'
'But I'll happily write it down here on a contract ....'
'How much? Jumping Jesus', the general blasphemes. 'That's as much as I spend on port in a month!'
'Well', says Timsbury, coyly. 'Perhaps, under the circumstances, I might do you a special deal'. She crosses out something and then writes something else.
'Jesus pole-vaulting Christ!', exclaims Rumpfler. 'That figure is higher than the first one!'
'Well, sir, there's been a sudden jump in demand'.

'But my army is large', says the general. He watches two of his sappers hit one another with shovels. 'And the need is very great. How can you possibly find sufficient tutors to begin the education of my army?'

Lady Somerton produces a pistol. 'Well, general, if it bleeds ...', she cocks the pistol, '... it can teach. Just give me a cart, some restraints, and directions to the nearest village'.
'There's also the additional work', says Rumpfler. 'My troops are already busy'. He gestures to some sappers who are experimenting with which end of a shovel seems a more efficient mechanism for moving soil. 'How will they have time for this process of education?'

'You may have heard', says Lady Somerton, 'of the new-fangled technique of Ape Interpretation?'

'AI? Yes, madame. But you can't mean that ...'

'Indeed, sir - you can just get the monkeys to do the donkey work. Or the donkeys to do the monkey work - I don't suppose that it matters'.

'But won't the fraud be exposed when you mark the work, madame?'

'Mark the work? ha, ha, ha, ha ... oh, you're actually serious'. Lady Katherine strikes a solemn pose. 'At the King's College, we feel that marking work is a judgmental and inequitable process that crushes the creative faculties of our students. So, we gently drop any written work down a set of stairs and let God sort them out'.

'That doesn't seem quite right', says Rumpfler. 'I mean, it seems quite wrong ...'

'I think', says Lady Katherine, 'that one of the many advantages of taking our courses would be that you would begin to understand that everything is contested and just a matter of perspective - except, of course, our prices'.

'Well, excellent', says Rumpfler. 'I think that with some quality postgraduate professional military education, we have a ninety per cent chance of success!'

Lady Timsbury watches as one of the sappers begins to eat the dirt that he has just shovelled.
'Ninety per cent seems quite high, sir ...'

* I use the plural more in hope than certainty.

Salade Days!

'I fear, sir, that I seem to have won again', says Chamberlain Fecklenburg sadly.
'Fie and tush!' cries Prince Rupprecht of Bachscuttel. 'And also, bugger it!' he throws his cards aside. 'Poker isn't a real man's game anyway. Snap - that's what alpha gentlemen play these days'.

Fecklenburg shrugs. 'My lord, you still haven't settled the debt that you owed me on our last playing of Snap'.

'Bah!' retorts the prince sourly. 'How much do I owe you?'

'Bavaria', replies the chamberlain. 'And also Poland, depending upon the rules of inheritance and who it is that dies first'.

''Hmmph!' says the prince. 'Add it to my tab! Anyway,' he continues, after a pause, 'I've got another game that I think I shall play with you instead.'

A look of alarm passes across the chamberlain's face. 'It's not a painful game, my lord?' says the chamberlain in alarm. 'You're not going to suggest that you play me at chess?'

'Oh no, no, no, no!' says the prince quickly. 'Although ...' he stops and thinks. 'No, not this time. The new game that I have is a collectable card game where players battle using decks built from a vast array of spells, magical abilities, and vegetables'.

'Vegetables, my lord?'

'Yes - it's called 'Radish: The Buggering'. Would you like to play it with me?'

'No, sir. I really, really would not', says Fecklenburg firmly. The chamberlain frowns. 'But who could have invented such a game?'

'Donatien Alphonse Francois de Salade', replies Rupprecht.

'That great French pervert?'

'Yes', replies Rupprecht. 'The Marquise de Salade! The things he did with cucumbers', the prince continues, admiringly.

'Anyway, Fecklenburg', continues Rupprecht, 'wasn't there something that you wanted to tell me, before I so comprehensively defeated you at cards?'

'Indeed, sir', replies the chamberlain. 'I was trying to report to you that our allies, the Burgravate of Nabstria, have invaded Kurland!'

'But, Fecklenburg - haven't they already fought the Kurlandians?'

'Yes, sir. But they have now sought to regain the initiative by besieging and taking the town of Bogorovsk'.

'But they lost against the Kurlandians - why would they want to take them on again?'

'On the basis, I presume my lord, of "In for a penny, in for a pound"'.

Rupprecht frowns. 'But why would they be exchanging English money if all they want to do is fight?'

'No, my lord - it's an aphorism. Like "A bird in the hand is worth two in a bush"'.

Rupprecht snorts. 'But should I be putting my hands in bushes? Because, you know, I seem to have got into a lot of trouble for doing that in Austria'.

'No, my lord, an aphorism: it is a ...'. He looks at Rupprecht's thinking face - a sight only distinguishable from the bottom of a farting cat because the latter is less hairy. '... it is an irrelevance. All you need to know, my lord, is that our allies are attacking a Kurlandian border town'.

'Well, excellent. I think that the Nabstrians probably have a one hundred per cent chance of success!'

'They are Nabstrians, my lord. One hundred per cent seems quite high ... Sir, why are you taking out those vegetables ...'

'To try out the Marquise de Salade's game. Now, let me give you this aubergine ...'

'I think I'd like to leave now, my lord'.

Mathematically Invalid!

Rupprecht is reviewing his most recently raised infantry regiment, Infantry Regiment von Leck.

The prince frowns as he surveys the troops: a collection of decrepit, broken-down, ill-favoured, tree-dwelling primates that have been forcibly squeezed into a uniform: often, it would appear, into the same one. 

'Well,' says Rupprecht loudly sighing, 'this is a problem'.
'Indeed, sir', agrees his chancellor, Leopold von Fecklenburg, who is accompanying him.
'Yes', continues the prince. 'If the war continues much longer, how will we be able to sustain this superior quality of recruit going forward?'

'My own thoughts exactly, sir. There is, however, one other problem'.
'Are they Welsh?'
'No, my lord. I think that the problem becomes clear if one counts their limbs and then divides this by the number of bodies. Received wisdom would suggest that 'four' would be the desirable answer'.
Rupprecht frowns. He begins the process of applying his knowledge of mathematics.
Fecklenburg leaves, has a leisurely lunch with coffee, and then returns later after a cheeky brandy.
'I've got it!' cries Rupprecht. 'Five! They've all got an extra arm! But aren't troops with five limbs actually an advantage?'
'My lord, I think that you have perhaps made an error in your calculations. It is indeed a complex process of mathematics, requiring as it does both addition and division. But I think you'll find that the problem is that the answer is only approximately four, a total which is achieved only by some rounding up'.
Rupprecht shrugs. Well, if they're missing a leg or two, then wouldn't rounding them up be quite easy? I mean, how far can they get?'
'No, my lord. It's not just a leg or two. Some are missing arms - see the empty sleeves; and many have had to replace their lost legs with wooden stumps'.
'So they have fewer than four limbs? I don't see that as a particular problem. I mean, slightly less than four leaves quite a lot of leeway. I think we're fine until we're in the 'one-and-a-half average' range'.
'Less than two limbs per man? My lord, there are many attributes commonly ascribed as desirable in a modern infantryman. And I'm sure that an unspoken one would be that they have four limbs. Less than two would complicate their ability to perform key military tasks such as standing up or putting on their trousers'.
'Fecklenburg, it could be an advantage. They say the Devil makes work for idle hands ...'

'I don't think that removing the hands, as well as the arms that attach them to their bodies, is the answer'.

'I don't understand why this regiment has such a high body to limbs ratio, chamberlain'.

'It is an invalid battalion, my lord. These men are veterans who have given years, and many body parts, in your service'.

'And they've signed up again, Fecklenburg? I am touched - the honour, the courage, the loyalty!'

'And also, sir, the poverty and the desperation'.

Rupprecht nods, seriously. 'How very moving. I feel, in a way, morally responsible ...'

'And also, sir, actually responsible, since they have no other means of obtaining a living'.

'Well, Fecklenburg, welcome them to my army - if the term "army" is wholly appropriate, given the empty sleeves that I see. And then send them straight to the front as fast as their stumps will allow!'

Ape Interpretation!

The Yum Kipper War continues to rage throughout Mittelheim. Amidst the escalating violence and suffering, it should surely befit all serious-minded Enlightenment rulers to consider best how peace and order might be restored and how justice and prosperity can be delivered to the peoples of this region. This means, of course, that Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel is fast asleep. Chamberlain Fecklenburg stands in front of the prince.

'Waaah! I didn't do it!' cries the prince, suddenly awaking.
'Didn't do what, sire?' asks Fecklenburg.
Rupprecht wipes away the dribble from his lips. 'Whatever you've come to complain about, Fecklenburg. Unless it's good news, in which case your congratulations are a justifiable recognition of my skills in masterly inactivity.
'Are you alright sir?' replies the chamberlain.
'You startled me, chamberlain! Stop sneaking up on me!'
'I knocked for ten minutes, my lord, before entering'.
'Well, knock louder!'
'I came in anyway, my lord, and have been loudly singing our national anthem for ten minutes, in the hope of rousing you'.
'And I didn't wake up?'
'No, sir. Although you did join in with the chorus'. 

The prince seems about to say something but then stops suddenly and looks around.
'Fecklenburg', says Rupprecht finally, 'the traditional woodcuts of our exploits seem to have been replaced by some form of painting!'
'That is true, sire. One of the Christmas monkeys turned out to be rather skilled with a paintbrush. We have kept him; and his artistic perspective on our exploits, I thought might be an interesting contrast to our usual illustrations. I have called the process "Ape Interpretation", or AI'.
Rupprecht surveys things curiously. 'Interesting, chamberlain. Your green base seems to have become a carpet'.
'Yes, sire'.
'And also, Fecklenburg, you seem suddenly to have grown a moustache'.

Fecklenburg touches his upper lip. 'Odd, my lord. And also, your gout seems to have disappeared'.
'Why, yes! This is pleasing, but also disturbing. What other things might suddenly appear, or', he looks down worriedly, 'suddenly disappear? Anyway, why have you disturbed my princely executive time?'
'There is news, my lord. Some of it is good, and some of it is bad. Which would you like first?'
'Is this a trick question, Chamberlain?
'No, sir. Some of the news is good and some is bad, and you might like to have that delivered to you in a specific order'.
'It's definitely a trick, Fecklenburg. I'll give you one answer, and then you'll say something that makes it look like I should've given the other answer, and it will make me look stupid!'
'I don't think that trick questions are necessary to prove that, sir'.
Rupprecht pauses, that portion of his brain concerned with analysis, a vestigial growth attached to the parts used to calculate the size of his breakfast, tries to work out if he has been insulted.
'I think, sir', says Fecklenburg, moving swiftly on, 'that you're overcomplicating what should be a straightforward interaction'.
'It's a trick question! Like when you asked me if I wanted breakfast, and when I said "yes" it turned out that it was lunch time!'
'I think, my lord, that that's not a comment on your intellect but rather a result of your extended temporal and intellectual somnambulance'.
'Exactly what I mean! I didn't need an ambulance at all'.

'Indeed, sir. Well, let me give you the news in a random order, then. The bad news is that our allies, Nabstria, have been defeated!'
Rupprecht frowns. 'Booo! This is very bad news indeed. This is quite the worst news I've ever heard! The Nabstrians are close and valued allies! And the good news?'
'It's that our allies, the Nabstrians, have been defeated'.
'Hurray! That's the best news I've ever heard. We hate them!'
'Quite so, my lord. But their defeat, and that of our other allies, the Margravate of Wurstburp, leaves us very exposed. I have ordered the raising of new troops! On that note, I thought that you might wish to review the newest regiment in your army'.

Rupprecht considers this. 'Why not, Fecklenburg! In any case, we had better leave before your Ape Interpretation causes your moustache to disappear and my gout to return!'

Vahringblancks, the Last!

Violent exchanges of musketry take place. Nabstrian lethal volleys are countered by Kurlandian cries of 'Stoyte krepko, parni!', which translates into German as 'Steady, lads!', and into Scottish as 'Did you spill my pint, Jimmy?' It's the Kurlandians that come off best, and one of the Nabstrian regiments collapses and flees. Exploiting the advantage, the Grand Duchess orders her infantry to charge (below)! 

General Rumpfler's musketeers, as it turns out, don't like it up 'em. Or around them. Or, really, anywhere in their general vicinity. (Below) Rumpfler's front line is entirely routed. Even the erstaz gunners, who had otherwise performed so creditably in this battle, decide that discretion is the better part of getting bayoneted in the face. They make their excuses and leave.

In the nick of time, though, the Nabstrian cavalry joins the fray. They launch an immediate charge on the enemy troops to their front.

Both regiments catch the left wing of the Kurlandian infantry in the flank (above). Outnumbered, disordered, and Kurlandian, the defenders' disadvantages pile up like body parts at a quiet Mittelheim night out. Only a miracle can save them! Alas for the infantry, this is less a fray and more of a 'fraid not. The Mittelheim miracle wagon passes by without stopping.

(Above) There is no divine intervention, and the infantry are comprehensively ridden down, ridden up, ridden sideways, and then ridden over. Despite this success, the accumulated losses in Rumpfler's army mean that his troops teeter on the edge of moral collapse: like Prince Rupprecht of Bachscuttel in a bathhouse full of pigs dressed as nuns. The trousers of Nabstrian morale are now firmly down around the ankles of their courage. All that can save them now, perhaps, is a glorious cavalry charge! 

But Rumpfler demurs. Uncertain about what that means, he also throws in the towel. And just in case the Kurladian savages aren't familiar with using towels, he also offers Honours of War. On balance, he concludes that his remaining infantry is likely to be defeated before his cavalry can break the enemy. Grand Duchess Catherine accepts with traditional Slavic docorum, greeting the general's offer with a fist pump and a cry of 'Get in!'

The battle has been hard fought. The Nabstrians have lost three trained regiments of foot and one of conscripts. A regiment of conscript cavalry has also been lost, as have both artillery batteries. The Kurlandians have lost one trained regiment of foot. Their regiment of conscripts is promoted to trained status. Another regiment of infantry is promoted to elite. The Berndt-Lippe Carabiners are also promoted to elite. In addition to winning, the ratio of losses means that the Kurlandians have also inflicted carnage upon their adversary.

Vahringblancks, the Eighth!

(Below, bottom) Through the miracle of combined arms warfare, the successful exercise of which in Mittelheim is indeed miraculous, the Nabstrian troops drive back the Kurlandian cavalry. Faced with steady infantry, the Grand Duchess' horsed regiments can inflict little harm - as long as the Nabstrians don't kiss them, or lend them any money.

(Above, top) The clash of infantry, on the other hand, proves to be quite a different kettle of fish. Though why one would want to put fish in a kettle, and why one wouldn't question the extent to which such a libation, by definition, might be entirely unlike an exchange of infantry fire, isn't quite clear. Anyway, whatever the state of the hot beverages, the volleys of musketry by both sides begin to do great execution.

(Below) The infantry have deployed into close range of one another and begin a sanguinary contest of fire. In this fight, General Rumpfler begins to miss the presence of the two regiments that he detailed off to confront the Kurlandian cavalry. Casualties, like Rumpfler himself on his nights off, begin to mount alarmingly on the Nabstrian side.

(Below) As is evident, however, the Nabstrian successes on their right do mean that the Grand Duchess' infantry line has an exposed flank. Rumpfler decides to try and exploit this by ordering his remaining cavalry to move to the centre of the battlefield. Naturally, though, they are facing in the wrong direction, and one regiment is still perched in the swamp, their undergarments damper than a sumo wrestler's codpiece.

First, therefore, Rumpfler needs to extract his elite cavalry regiment from the marsh, a delicate exercise that requires them to reverse (above, right), and then to about-face (below). These manoeuvres are executed with the grace that one might expect from troops whose horses' ears have to be labelled "left" and "right", and the bodies "up" and "down".

And so finally, dear reader, we reach the final, rudely-shaped portion of this battle. Can the Nabstrians bear down on the exposed flank of the enemy infantry before things go awry for their own musketeers? Or can the Kurlandians seize the hill before this happens? Things don't get more exciting in Mittelheim! Which is disappointing.

Vahringblancks, the Seventh!

On the Nabstrian right wing, the battle now becomes a form of Mittelheim military ballet. This being Mittelheim, the ballet is notable chiefly for the large plappy feet of its participants, the rolls of lard peeking from beneath their tutus, and the ways in which the pirouettes remind one less of ballet and more of the inexpert and lumbering exploits of some short-sighted and very horny hippos.

(Above) The Nabstrian infantry drives forward, pushing the Kurlandian horse back in the direction from which they came. (Above, top) In a development that signals a shift to the decisive element in this battle, however, Grand Duchess Catherine coordinates the retreat of her cavalry with the advance of her infantry.



(Above) Weighing his options, Rumpfler pushes his right flank infantry forward one more time. It's just too much fun seeing the Kurlandian cavalry heading back to the same position that they started the battle at. Meanwhile, his cavalry remains in position, rising damp from the marsh causing a degree of chafing amongst his elites.



(Above) Now, however, the necessary preliminaries of any battle in Mittelheim have been completed. The artillery has created some dramatic smoke; the cavalry has ridden forward and then retreated back again. The respective commanders have riled one another with poorly hidden barbs regarding recollections of the rules of war and the weighting of their dice. 

Finally, Grand Duchess Catherine, seeking to regain the initiative, commits her infantry to a decisive attack upon Vahringblancks Hill!

Vahringblancks, the Sixth!

Rumpfler reorders his cavalry, forming a line to protect the otherwise exposed flank of his infantry (below). To be fair, the 'reordering' mainly involves one unit moving, and the other, his elite regiment, continuing to experience the rising damp that comes from squatting in a marsh.

(Above) The Kurlandian cavalry wheel, clearly preparing themselves for another assault. One thing that you couldn't accuse them of is being reluctant to fight. Although one thing that you could accuse them of is being reluctant to bathe. 

Rumpfler has other ideas, however. At his order, his two rightmost infantry regiments wheel into march column (below). In other armies, this would no doubt signal an attempt to manoeuvre in support of their cavalry. This being Mitteleheim, however, this option is only one of a range of choices that includes routing, deserting; changing sides, going on holiday, or marrying one another.

Thankfully for the Nabstrians' chances in this battle, the infantry seems to have chosen Option A. They manoeuvre to their right and form lines (below).

With enemy infantry moving up, Catherine recognises that she needs to effect a quick breakthrough. With the vigorous clashing of coconuts, her cavalry dash once again into the fray (below). In true Mittleheim fashion, they target the weakest adversary, and then gang up on them, making unkind comments about their parentage, weight, and musical choices.

The stern line of Nabstrian cavalry refuses to be ridden down, however. The Grand Duchess' cavalry fail to break the enemy, and their ardour for the fight, like soft tissue in a Mittelheim plague, drops off. The Kurlandians are forced to fall back (below).

For Rumpfler, the situation on his right flank now looks much more promising. The enemy cavalry have retired right into the sights of his musketeers who, if they can only remember what their muskets are for, should be able to inflict perhaps decisive damage upon their enemies! 

Vahringblancks, the Fifth!

As the Nabstrians advance, however, there is suddenly a strange sloshing sound, and the rasping croak of frogs. A marsh! And one that doesn't seem to be on Rumpfler's maps! (Below) Our distance from the general makes it impossible to hear what he is saying. However, by the expression on his face, his hand gestures, and the way in which he is gnawing his hat, it is possible to deduce that he has found this new state of affairs to be sub-optimal.

Possibly as a result of his slight frustration at the geographic japery that has just been inflicted upon him, Rumpfler issues an order not generally found in military manuals even in Mittelheim. His direction "Sod it! Who cares - let's charge anyway" nevertheless is enacted immediately by his cavalry! (Below)

Despite the presence of more frogs and bog water than is usually good for cavalry actions, Rumpler's elite ride down their adversaries! With conscript-level strangled cries, the Kropotkin Dragoons are driven from the battlefield. (Below) Grand Duchess Catherine can only look on in dismay as the Nabstrians are left positioned for another flank attack - this time, the target is the Berndt-Lippe Carabiniers

Determined not to cede the initiative, Catherine orders the Carabiniers to drop back, and then charges again with the two remaining units: mercenary hussars and the Nicolayevsk Horse Grenadiers. The charge succeeds in riding down one of the Nabstrian regiments (below).

Much to the Duchess' chagrin, however, a sudden bout of confusion overtakes the horse grenadiers. In Kurlandian, the phrases "Advance forwards, march!" and "Tit about a bit, for a while" are dangerously similar in promunication. The horse grenadiers wheel themselves through their comrades and then set off forward into what is known in military circles as "The Wide Blue Yonder" (below).

Why they have done this will no doubt be straightened out after the battle - a straightening porcess that will also be enacted, no doubt, to their colonel's face and knees.

Rumpfler assesses the swirling cavalry melee - the situation remains in the balance: what can be done to gain him an advantage? He could, of course, set off a fire alarm and then steal some of the enemy units in the confusion, but no one would believe that this was an accident - again. Sternly taking the measure of the situation, he issues new orders ...

Vahringblancks, the Fourth!

With the deployment completed, the battle begins! There is a mutual exchange of artillery fire. In this, the substitute Nabstrian gunners demonstrate their utter lack of a grasp of Mittelheim artillery doctrine, by hitting the enemy and causing them casualties.

The Kurlandian artillery replies, firing upon the Nabstrian cavalry. Being regular Mittelheim gunners, they miss, exactly in accordance with their training.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, given the Kurlandian deployment, on the Nabstrian right wing the battle develops into a clash of cavalry. With the addition of  a unit of mercenary regulars, the Duchy's horse outnumber their Burgravial adversaries four regiments to three. 

(Above) However, Catherine has deployed her regiments in mass formation, whereas Rumpfler has deployed his in line. This means that the latter are extended along a wider frontage. (Above, left) Secure in the knowledge that they are being fired at by three batteries of enemy artillery, and so are safe from any serious harm, the Nabstrian elite cavalry edge forwards little.

(Above) The two bodies of horse close with one another. The two forces pause in front of one another, exchanging insults and probably also some fleas. (Above, top) Grand Duchess Catherine can see the looming threat from the Nabstrian elites. Rumpfler no doubt intends to use this unit to try to engage in something that rhymes with "spanking", but that this time won't get him expelled from the Burgravial Christmas celebrations.

(Above) Charge! Trusting to numbers and throwing their stirrups right into the action, the Kurlandians thunder towards their enemies. Alas, there is the sort of brief flurry of exertion and then disappointed withdrawal not seen since Prince Rupprecht of Bachscuttel's wedding night. The Nabstrians, it turns out, also have their own set of stirrups to throw into the fray. The defending Nabstrians succeeed in repelling the attack.

(Above) The Duchy's cavalry falls back to regroup. Now, like ex-King Wilhelm of Gelderland in his underpants, their flank is hanging out so badly that a heavy spanking does indeed seem to be in the offing. The Nabstrian elites rub their hands, amongst other things, and prepare to attack! 

Vahringblancks, the Third!

It is as well that the Nabstrians have finally got their rustic in a sock and finished their deployment, because, before one can say 'Well, I remembered to bring my artillery', their adversaries the Duchy of Kurland have arrayed their forces for battle. (Below) To the uninitiated, their formation looks like 'A Big Long Line': but long-standing readers of this modest publication, those that have been drugged by the editors, that is, and had their eyelids taped open, will know that there is so much more going on.

For starters, all of the regular cavalry have been deployed on the left under the command of Boris Katzenov. This places them opposite the Nabstrian cavalry, and surely signals an intention to engage in some early equine antics. Katzenov is exactly the man to take part in this operation because he is utterly expendable. Whatever it is that he is good for, it doesn't really seem that it's battle. 

(Below) Just to the right of the regular cavalry is the Kurlandian headquarters. Amongst the many recent innovations undertaken by the Duchy of Kurland in its effort to modernise its army, the most controversial is that its commander is the Grand Duchess herself! Thus far, however, the Duchess has proved to be a canny and successful strategist. Catherine's headquarters are run by Gregori Savvinos, who is acting as the army's Chief of Staff. Savvinos is responsible for undertaking a variety of unMittelheim activities, such as writing precise orders, imposing a coherent structure for command and control, and preventing the troops from biting one another.

(Above) Next to the cavalry is the artillery - all three batteries of it. The batteries are dug in behind gabions. If the gabions themselves seem rather less substantial than normal, this is because the real bastions can be found wherever it is that the real Nabstrian artillery are. Thus, both sides have imaginary artillery defences  - in the same manner that they have imaginary competence.

(Above) Facing off the enemy foot is the main Kurlandian infantry line. Thanks to their recent victories, the proportion of conscripts is now much reduced and the Duchy's musketeer regiments are now quite a respectable force. 

Finally (below), last but very much least, are the Cassock irregular cavalry. One constant in Kurlandian warfare is the presence in their campaigns of these wild and undisciplined horsemen. The Cassocks' presence is a function partly of their love of violence, but mainly because their wives force them to go. Cassocks live in the saddle, which, as many a Cassock wife will tell, plays merry Hell with the dining room carpets. The Cassocks always turn up for a fight - then they wait until it's over so that they can frisk the bodies of the casualties for valuables. Distressingly, what the Cassocks define as 'valuable' is usually defined elsewhere as 'soft and dangly': seeing them relieve victims of their 'valuables' is a sight exceeded in its unpleasantness only by watching them try to deposit said 'valuables' at local banks.

The Cassock's are positioned no doubt to engage in a wide and sweeping flanking manoeuvre. This might be rather optimistic, since previous experience would seem to show that all manoeuvres attempted by the Cassocks end up looking suspiciously like a panicked rush to the rear. The Grand Duchess must surely have some clever plan to overcome the previous obstacles to their effective employment as a battlefield force.

Vahringblancks, the Second!

Now that he has what might pass, at a distance and with the most cursory of looks, as some artillery support, Rumpfler redeploys his forces. (Below) Vahringblancks Hill, the key objective of this battle, he occupies with his infantry and his *cough* cannons.He places his elite regiments in the second line and his regulars in the front. 

Disconcertingly for the Nabstrian infantry, the peasant gunners actually seem quite up for the battle. Seldom heard phrases issue from the vicinity of the Nabstrian batteries - phrases such as: 'Combined arms warfare - I think it's quite important'; 'Where are the doctrine manuals - I feel that technical knowledge should be an important part of our aspiration to be respected military professionals'; and also 'I feel it's important that artillery should make a usful contribution to a battle'.

(Above) on the Nabstrian right, Rumpler deploys all of his cavalry. These include the famed Pfannenstiel Hussars (above left), a unit where men are men; which is useful since, if they were horses it would make riding the other horses slightly more difficult. Sir Thomas Chaffie (above right) commands the cavalry. Why Chaffie is still hanging around in Mittelheim as a soldier of fortune is probably best not explored in any detail. Since better rates of pay can be had working in any European tavern as a spitoon, we must conclude his circumstances are so woeful that even the prospect of death at the hands of his own artillery isn't sufficient to make desertion a palatable option.

(Below) On the far left of the Nabstrian line, the general deploys both units of his irregular infantry. Here, they are able to perform the two key functions of Mittelheim light troops, which are to terrorise squirrels and to keep well out of the way of the fighting.

In their fetching green uniforms, the jager can blend in perfectly with the local flora: assuming, that is, that the trees and bushes are also wearing tricorns, carrying muskets, and threatening the nuts of local bushy-tailed wildlife.

(Above) The main Nabstrian battleline. Nothing says 'Mittelheim military professionals' like having to deploy further back on a hill than intended because one keeps sliding down it. Still, there is every reason for the Nabstrians to feel confident. Rumpfler is an experienced general; his troops are quite experienced; and, well, the enemy is commanded by a girl.