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.