Falkenhelle, the Second!

The Fenwickian army marches smartly into position according to the dispositions outlined in Marshal Cavandish's orders.'Smartly', though, in Mittelheim is mostly a synonym for 'slovenly'; and also 'blubbery'. The Fenwickian deployment therefore is smart relative to the usual Mittelheim standard; a standard that would make the word 'slovenly' feel poorly dressed and badly postured. As the troops file to their appointed places, they move like a collection of orangutans with back problems and a bad case of piles. 

To the left of Falkenhelle, Cavandish deploys all four batteries of his artillery (above). These fellows are trained in Fenwick's Artillery Academy and so are worthy of rather more respect than your average Mittelheim fire support. Dug in behind bastions and positioned behind a marsh, these troops are well protected against any saucy attempts to ride them down. Much will be expected of them in the coming encounter, though no one could tell them this, since the use of the word 'coming' in Fenwick would earn one ten years' hard labour; and then another five years for using the word 'hard'.

(Below) On the far left, the Fenwickian cavalry are deployed. One regiment of elite are on the right, and a regiment of conscripts are behind. Positioned here, the cavalry are ready to do what Mittelheim cavalry are best prepared for: to smoke some cigars and make jokes about poor people. 

In command of the cavalry is Theodore Creasey, who has a preternatural mastery over vegetation. Troops under his command can move unimpeded through difficult terrain. As a superpower, it's perhaps not quite up there with being proof against bullets or being able to fly; and also, he seems to smell strangely of hemp. But this is Mittelheim, and one has to take what one can get. Deployed in the open, and with quite a lot of openness to their front, it's not quite clear how Creasey will be able to apply his unique talents. But who can tell what dangerous vegetables might be thrown their way in the ensuing battle?

To the right of the village, the whole of the Fenwickian infantry is deployed in three lines (above). At the back are two regiments of conscripts. The remainder of the troops are trained. For some reason not unrelated to the choices of Cavandish's adversary, General Redmond Barry-Eylund, there is a ploughed field inconveniently positioned amongst the Fenwickian troops. No doubt this feature will be completely irrelevant in the unfolding encounter.

(Above) The army of the Empire of All the Fenwicks is now fully deployed. There is a commotion in the distance. It could be a travelling freak show; or, perhaps, a herd of Welshmen grazing upon leeks. But no - by the terrible smell and the strange profusion of body hair, it is clear that the army of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel has arrived!  

Falkenhelle, the First!

Wherein the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, under General Redmond Barry-Eylund, encounters the forces of the Empire of All the Fenwicks, commanded by Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish.

We return, dear readers, to encounters upon the open field of war: an activity altogether more suited to the soldiers of Mittelheim than sieges, since the former requires less of the tedious study, inky small-mindedness, and ridiculous attention to detail that in Mittelheim is known as pedantry and that in the rest of Europe is known as military professionalism. On the battlefield, one is free to express oneself more fully, and also, of course, to run off more quickly in the confusion.

Here, we find ourselves upon the eaves of the forest of Pupsforst, near the small hamlet of Falkenhelle. The hamlet itself is now full to bursting, overrun by the troops of Fenwick.

(Above) The tiny village consists mainly of what the original estate agent portrayed as 'a perfect family home, built in the rustic style, with interesting period features. The annex is suitable for keeping pigs'. Alas for the purchasers, the annex turned out to be the house; and whilst the animal pen did indeed have some excellent period features, the period in question was some considerable time before the birth of Christ. Most of the inhabitants tired of residing in dwellings with roofs that look like lawns, whose main modcon was hot and cold running slugs, and where the heating was provided by flatulent farm animals. Thus, the villagers are not entirely unhappy at the presence of the Fenwickian army. There is some hope amongst the populace that the unruly troops will engage in some home improvements by burning the place down. 

Marshal Cavandish is deep in conversation with his aide de camp, Captain Fabius Nitzwitz (below). An enemy army is nearby - the troops of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel - and a battle is in the offing.  Cavandish has a reputation as a man keen to conserve his energy, an attribute that explains the main feature of his headquarters (a large bed), and his attire (a nightshirt and nightcap). Spending much of his time asleep does not seem to have materially affected his quality as a commander, and his army has performed exceptionally well in the recent wars. Indeed, they are known widely as the Spartans of Mittelheim. Spending time asleep and not actually giving orders also allows the marshal to reduce the stress involved in commanding Fenwickian troops, not least because it increases the chances of avoiding any double entendre.

The problems caused by the Fenwickian sensitivity to double entendre have already been commented upon in this august* publication. Its military ramifications have been profound. Nowhere in Fenwickian doctrine, for example, does it allow troops to penetrate, drill, mount, or insert. Fenwickian units cannot be ordered to undertake an early withdrawal, or a full frontal assault, or go in hard, or inspect their weapons. Nor can one include in any orders issued to the troops words such as jam, wobbly, pair, dangly, or wibble. Luckily for their monarch, King George, however, this does not seem to have impeded their military effectiveness on the battlefield. Even if Cavandish has largely been reduced to issuing orders in picture form, and many of those seem to be crude pictures of his genitals (or generals - it's possible he was misheard), his army is really very effective.

Now, crayon in hand, the marshal is drawing his orders and deploying his troops for battle! 

* Or October, depending upon when you are reading this.

Corpse d'Armee!

In Pogelswood, capital of the Empire Of All The Fenwicks, King and Emperor George XIII waits in a rather shabby anteroom of his palace. With him is Johan von Schmeligbad, Minister of Toast, Breakfast-Related Bakery Products and War. Schmeligbad's costume is rather finer than normal, on account of him being newly made a bishop.

'Excellent, Schmeligbad', says the King, 'You look just the ticket. Have you been doing your homework as I ordered: boning up on all things religious?'

'That, sire, ... would be an ecumenical matter', replies the bishop slowly.
'Superb!' says the king. 'We'll soon have everything in place finally for my coronation and formal recognition as King of Gelderland! And yet, I feel a sense of disappointment, Bishop. A feeling that can only presage a meeting with my son'.

There is a knock at the door. It is indeed Prince Joachim, who enters and bows low. 'Father, you wished to see me'.
'No, but I felt that I had to, however ... there is something different about you, Joachim. Looking at you, I somehow feel less annoyed and exasperated. I can't quite put my finger on it'.
'Exactly, father', says Joachim ruefully. 'Because there's nothing for anyone to put their fingers on. My codpiece has vanished!' Joachim has long been infamous for his choice of alarming anatomical accoutrements.
'Exactly that!' cries the King with pleasure. 'Your dismal doom-winkie has disappeared!'

Joachim sighs unhappily.

'Son, is this a sign that you are growing up? That you are maturing? That you might yet make a contribution to this family beyond that of  terrifying the clergy?'

'Not this clergy!' says the bishop, making the sign of the cross.
'No, father', says the prince. 'No. This state of affairs has arisen because of the application once again of Ape Interpretation'.
The King shrugs. 'All of the other monarchs have been doing it? Surely I, as prospective ruler of all of Mittelheim, should be expected to embrace the monkey magic that is AI'.
'It's stolen my codpiece, father. It has pinched my princely protruberance'.
'But no, not so!' interjects the bishop. 'I can still see it, God protect me'; he once again makes the sign of the cross.
'No', says Joachim, sadly. 'Look more closely, and you will spy that those chimp chumps seem to have confused my royally rigid retainer with the corpse of a dead man lying in the corner of the room'.

King George turns and peers across the room. He nods. 'How extraordinary! Well, now that's not good. Do we know who he is?'
Joachim shrugs. 'I mean, I suppose, in a sense, he could be construed as the human personification of my codpiece?'
George turns to the bishop. 'Is that theologically, philosophically, or indeed actually, possible?'
The bishop huffs and blows for a while. 'That ... would be an ecumenical matter', he replies eventually.
'Yes, well, I suppose it might be', admits the king. 'But why is he dead?'
'I might surmise, sire', replies the bishop, 'that he found out that he was the personification of your son's genital jewellery. I cannot imagine that for anyone that would be a rewarding discovery. I would seem to be, I wager, a most perverse form of penal servitude'.

'In any case', continues George. 'Let us take advantage of the absence of your cursed crotch-rod, and talk of important affairs of state'.

'I feel strangely unbalanced' says the prince absently, wiggling his hips. 'My weight distribution is all out'.
But at least everything else is all in', replies his father testily. 'Everything is inside your brotches as God intended'.

'Amen', adds the bishop.

A sudden groan emanates from the supine form upon the floor.

'He is alive!' cries the bishop. 'A miracle!'

'A miracle I didn't kill myself tripping up on this, sir!' says the fellow, standing. He has in his hand something that is either Joachim's codpiece, or a pervy pirate's peg-leg. 'I come with a message from Marshal Cavandish's army!'

 

Pie Another Day!

Chamberlain Fecklenburg is attending Rupprecht at his breakfast. The prince seems to be about to consume an enormous pie sufficient to feed a family of twenty.

'Are you on a diet, my lord?' enquires the chamberlain.

'Indeed, Fecklenburg', replies Rupprecht. 'Indeed, I am. I have concluded that, since I as yet have no issue, I should be more careful with my health: at least until the succession is assured by an heir'.

'A wise, if surprising, conclusion, sire'.

The prince gestures to himself. 'My body is a temple, chamberlain'.

Fecklenburg nods. 'Then can I commend you, sire, on your very extensive outbuildings; and also the troop of monkeys that might well live in your belly-button. But you do not seem to be consuming your pie, my lord'.

Rupprecht nods, gloomily. 'I have a pie, Fecklenburg; but I don't appear to have a table to put it on. You couldn't come here and bend over could you?'

'Sire', says the chamberlain, shocked. 'Such a thing is surely beneath your chamberlain!'

'No: I think it would be above you, chamberlain, on your back'. He nods at the pie. 'Come now - you would not deny your prince?'

'My lord, there are important matters of state that need to be discussed!'

'But my breakfast is cooling rapidly! I like my pies like I like my women, Fecklenburg - hot!'

'And covered in gravy, sire?'

'No!' says the prince. He pauses. 'Not generally, at least'.

'My lord, if you might put aside your repast for a moment! Our Nabstrian allies have been defeated in their attempt to storm one of the Kurlandian border fortresses. This means that the Grand Duchess Catherine's army can remain in the field against us'.

'Which field? If it's a field far away from us, then we can just leave them there while we stay in the palace here. Unless it's a field with pigs in. Then, obviously, our state must annexe it!'

'My lord, it is a figure of speech - I mean that they are still actively campaigning against us'.

'But why? What have I ever done to annoy my neighbours, Fecklenburg? I am a gentle and placid man, who desires only to feel the gentle caress of peace ...'

'What have we done to annoy our neighbours, sire?' says Fecklenburg slightly incredulously, as he reaches to a bookcase, removing a volume. The prince doesn't seem to be listening.

' ... to rest amidst the ample bosoms of harmony; to rub my face in them; and then, to squeeze ... ouch!' The prince snorts as a large and heavy volume is plopped into his lap.

'My lord', says the chamberlain, 'here is an account of our foreign policy over the last thirteen years: it contains some clues, I think, as to why, if we are not the most hated country in Mittelheim, that's only because some of the inhabitants haven't met us yet'.

'But I think under my stewardship that we have been very measured in our policies; reflective; judicious ...'

'You might wish to skip the analysis of the substance of our foreign policy, my lord - it constitutes one short paragraph of chapter one - a chapter which, coincidently, consists of one short paragraph - and move onto chapter two: foreign policy failures'.

'Chapter two seems to take up the whole of the rest of the book ...'

'Indeed, sire. Also, you might also want to consult some of the entries in the Index, in particular entries under 'F' such as 'Failure', 'Farce', and 'Flatulent'; also 'B', for 'Battle', 'Buffoon', and 'Blubbery'. 

'Does it mention pigs?'

'Look under 'P' for 'policy''.

'Pigs seem to be the only entry under Policy'.

Fecklenburg shrugs resignedly.

'My lord, there seems every likelihood that our army will soon be engaged in a battle! If not Kurland, then, in all probability, Fenwick-Gelderland!'

'The army of Fenwick-Gelderland?' says Rupprecht, sounding concerned. 'But I do vaguely remember that their army is quite good'.

'The Spartans of Mittleheim, sire. In recent years, entirely unbeaten'.

'So how will we beat them, Chamberlain? Through bold manoeuvre?' 

'Bold manoeuvre? By General Barry-Eyland? Der Turtlekoenig? It seems unlikely'.

'Perhaps he could cheat? You know how he likes to invent new rules'.

'Well, obviously, he'll cheat, sire. But perhaps he needs something else in this hour of need?'

'He could cheat ... more?'

'Well, obviously he will cheat more, sire. But perhaps something else as well?'

'Oooh - I wonder what it could be?'   

Bogorovsk, the Final!

And so, dear reader,we reach the final crescendo; nay, climax; nay denouement; nay, horse, in the struggle for control of the Kurlandian town of Bogorovsk! It has been a rollercoaster ride, thus far: a crap rollercoaster, of course, with squeaky wheels, low speed, and a small child in the car behind vomiting loudly into the footwell.

(Above) As with the other side of the siege, the Nabstrians here have made good progress with their saps and artillery positions. Three such positions, one newly placed, are on the glacis and ready to commence breaching fire upon the bastion to their front. Luckily for the Kurlandian defenders, only one artillery battery has been brought up by the Nabstrians.

(Above) The attacking and defending guns exchange fire, to no great effect. But it is now that Retchin launches upon this flank, his great military innovation: a sortie. That sorties have not been a feature of previous Mittleheim siege encounters has many explanations: a lack of imagination, perhaps; a lack of aggression; and also, a lack of rules. But Retchin is a commander of a new stamp: aggressive, and, having not seen the new rules, entirely ignorant of any of the problems of such an enterprise. A man who knows no fear about attacking because he genuinely knows nothing about how one goes about doing it. He launches two sorties: one against the enemy battery, and the other against the pesky enemy sappers!

(Above) The Kurlandian infantry rises from the covered way! The Nabstrian battery fires at close range with grape. Alas, it would appear that it's the fruit and not the artillery munitions, because the attacking regiment suffers no great damage and swarms over the emplacement, bayoneting the gunners and, in the Kurlandian style, once they find the holes, ravishing the Nabstrian artillery pieces.

The Kurlandian invalid battalion assaults the Nabsiran sappers. Or at least, one might label it a charge in the same way that one could declare a cat to be a lion: it's about the right sort of species, even if the details are rather different, especially if one were to try and put one's head in its mouth. The charge involves more squeaking than one might expect, the noise coming from bath chairs, and also the wooden pounding of false legs rarely heard outside of a pirate reunion. (Above) Knackered old has-beens though the attacking infantry might be, their drooling horde overcomes the defending Nabstrians, who are wiped out!

(Above) Embarrassment alone might at this stage have signalled a Nabstrian withdrawal, but the rout of the sappers breaks the morale of von Rumpfler's army. The defending Kurlandians have won! General Rumpfler writes dispatches home claiming a successful diversionary action against the Kurlandians. He claims to have suffered low losses, which isn't entirely wrong given how short many of his troops are. General Retchin declares a glorious victory, the largest for the Duchy in living memory: although, given how much the Kurlandians drink, 'living memory' is basically around four hours. Retchin further adds to Kurlandian military doctrine by declaring the utility and necessity of defensive sorties, even if he's still not clear exactly what they are.

Bogorovsk, the Seventh!

Lady Luck clenches her fist at General Rumpfler, and then. gently extends her middle finger. Thanks to his decision to keep his guns off the walls in the early stages of the siege, Retchin still has most of his artillery left. If one combines this fact with Rumpfler's unfamiliarity with the concept of enfilades, then suddenly, possibilities emerge for some Kurlandian successes!

(Below) The right-most Nabstrian battery takes flanking fire from the bastion and is annihilated! No programme of Professional Military Education, however expensive, is adequate defence against a 24lb cannonball up the jacksy.

In addition to being enfiladed, the Nabstrian artillery lacks infantry support: not surprising, given that the Nabstrian foot can see the state of the artillerymen's jacksies. Retchin siezes the moment, or at least, something that seems like the moment, although it might actually be his nose, and decides to conduct an activity never before attempted by Mittelheim forces - a sortie from the fortress! Kurlandian veterans nod their heads judgmentally. A sortie requires things hitherto unheard of in Mittelheim siege battles: rules for sorties, for a start. But Retchin has come prepared with his own set of rules for such an activity - rules which are no doubt fair, balanced, and in no way dodgy. Choosing to attack at dawn, because it seems like the dramatic thing to do, he orders his troops forward. 

Retchin withdraws his guns from the bastion and then orders General Barfolovamisev to attack. (Below) One of the latter's regiments of musketeers forms a column of assault and surges forward! Though the defending artillery is entrenched, it is outnumbered and taken in the flank. The battery is quickly overrun.

(Below) Lady Timsbury of Somerton considers the unfolding situation. Whilst many might attribute the Nabstrian difficulties to some faults in the placement and support of the siege batteries, she is quite clear that the real foundation of their problems is the lack on the part of the Nabstran gunners of real engagement with their post-graduate written work. Sharper analytical skills and a grasp of international relations theory would no doubt even up the brutal hand-to-hand combat. Sadly, it's clear that the gunners haven't been doing their homework, and they are cut to pieces. On the plus side, though, Lady Timsbury always makes sure that she gets paid first. Perhaps what the Nabstrians are in need of is a really extensive, and as it happens expensive, programme of remote learning. Remote, in that the student is sent to live for six years in a hut on a small Baltic island, where the only conveniences are hot and cold running slugs, and even the halibut leave poor reviews. In such places, one lacks the distractions that stand in the way of really intense study, and also of going mad.

(Below, left) The woodcut shows the results of the impact of the second of Barfolovamisev's attacks. His other musketeers have attacked from the covered way, driven back the enemy sappers, who flop uselessly in the open, and then, thanks to the limited visibility imposed by the early hour, retreat, unmolested by enemy defensive fire, out of carving back to the covered way.

(Above) The situation at this portion of the siege has been transformed. Moreover, the Nabstrian morale is now rather low - so, about normal, then. All now hinges on events at the left-most bastion: events, dear reader, that we shall now turn to. Who knows what stories of heroism, enterprise, and daring-do we might encounter? It's not impossible, though, that if you are an experienced observer of Mittleheim warfare, you might just be able to guess.

Bogorovsk, the Sixth!

The Kurlandian battery opens fire. (Below) Alas, however, the gunners are too well steeped in the doctrines of Mittelheim artillery. This is a doctrine which seeks to surprise the enemy and, to be fair, their own troops, by missing all the time and rarely ever inflicting any casualties. This wrong-foots the enemy, laying them open to more effective forms of attack such as tickling or pillow fighting.

Still, for General Retchin there are surely a range of other interesting and effective options. Or so one might think.  Although the enemy artillery is on the glacis, and so too close to be the target of a trench raid, the enemy saps are not. A company of Kurlandian grenadiers, accompanied by a unit of sappers, launches a bold attack upon the enemy supporting trenches, seeking to fill them in (below).

Alas, the only thing that gets filled in is the sappers themselves. There are, in life, many sad sights to be seen: the weeping of a child; the howl of a hungry hound; an English penalty shoot-out. But there are surely few things sadder than seeing a trench raid defeated by a trench that has no enemy troops in it whatsoever. One can only surmise that the Nabstrian works were inhabited by some particularly doughty badgers; or some very long and surprisingly elastic worms. Whatever the reason, Retchin again finds himself lounging on the sofa when Mister Cock-up comes calling.

Things don't improve, however.

(Above) The Nabstrian batteries reload and pound the bastion. Clearly poorly trained, they hit their target, rendering irrelevant their carefully husbanded pillow cases.

On the other side of the siege works, things aren't much better either.

(Above) Before one can say "This is likely to sting a bit", Nasbtrian sappers have popped no less than three artillery positions on the glacis. Worse, Rumpfler is able to move up three batteries to occupy these new positions. The defending batteries fire but have the predictable effect - which is to say Jacques Merde.

Worse, the busy Nabstrian sapper companies then plop two more emplacements in front of the Kurlandian bastion. From these positions, Rumpfler's artillery will be able to commence breaching fire. At so short a range, and with a target that is literally larger than a barn door, some of their fire is bound to hit. You'd think.

And so, as General Retchin makes up a bed for Mister Cock-up, the situation for the defenders looks dimmer than a Guard's officer on a foggy morning.