Children's Portions!

'Debauchery! Cannibalism! Dark satanic evil!' declares Minister Werner von Wormer, chief councillor to George, Emperor of all Fenwicks* (and soon, surely, also to be King of Gelderland as well).
'And then what happened at the Bachscuttel Christmas party?' asks Prince Joachim, the Emperor's son.

Wormer, the prince, and Emperor George are in one of the chambers of the palace in the Fenwickian capital Pogelswood. Though the purpose of this meeting has been to discuss solutions to the manpower crisis brought on in the army by the casualties suffered at the battle of Falkenhelle, lurid events in the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel are always a topic of conversation.

'Yet worse excesses!' says the councillor. 'They ate Christmas puddings!'

'That English depravity!' thunders the emperor. 'What's wrong with a good German stollen?'

'"Eating puddings" sounds quite rude, father', declares the prince. In Fenwick, with its sensitivity to double entendre, the subject of desserts is second only to vegetables, and some rude fruits,+ as an innuendo bear trap.

'There's more ... they ... covered them with custard!' chokes Wormer. 'Custard covered puddings!'

'I'm not listening! I'm not listening!' says Joachin, covering his ears.

'Cease this flatulent blathering,' orders the emperor, 'for you are on the precipice of producing a prodigious pudding panic! We are here to discuss important matters of state!'

'Quite so, my lord - I apologise', says Wormer. Christmas was always a fraught time for a country in which even the discussion of stuffing was considered perilously suggestive.

'So', says the king, pointing, which he does a lot. 'Let us leave Pogelswood, and head post haste to inspect our new recruits. You say, councillor, that these new forces are of a high quality?'

'To be fair, sire, I think that I said in my report that they were of relatively high quality'.

'Relative to what?' says George, suspiciously.

'It's better if you see, sire'.

'This doesn't fill me with confidence. Very well, then. Fetch me my coach, and let us set off at once'.

The emperor points at Prince Joachim. 'But before we go, and I can't believe that as a forward-looking Enlightenment monarch I have to say this, you will have to deflate your codpiece'.

Joachim's methods of accessorising his attire have long been a sore point - if, that is, anyone in Fenwick could use the phrase 'sore point' in a groin-related context, which they can't.

The prince's latest accoutrement seems to be a kind of giant parti-coloured bag strapped to the front of his britches.

'Father, I wear this on behalf of my country! Like Isabella I of Castile, who vowed not to change her chemise until Granada was conquered, I shall wear this fashion accessory until you are King-Emperor over all of Mittelheim!'

'Part of me wants to ask why', says George to Wormer, 'but then that part gets apprehended, strapped down, and incapacitated by all of the other parts of me that really, really don't'.

Wormer looks more closely at the bag. 'It's not a Wurstburp thing is it? You know, a ... bagpipe?'

'I don't think so', says Joachim.

'Because I'm so not blowing into it', continues the councillor.

                                                                    xXx

Somewhat over an hour later, the three of them are at a training encampment for new recruits. King George doesn't look very happy.
'Does anyone else notice something about these recruits?' he asks.

'Alas, my lord', says Wormer, 'such was the scale of our losses that we have had to reduce the minimum age somewhat.

'Somewhat! Somewhat!' cries the king'. I can smell the talcum powder from here!'

'Well', says Joachim, trying to soothe his father, 'at least they look happy'.

'Of course they do!', fulminates George. 'Now they don't have to go to school!' The king turns to Wormer. 'And have you let them know about the brutal combat that lies ahead? The possibility of being scorched and maimed beyond the recognition of their own mothers?

Wormer shrugs. 'I thought I'd let them know about that after their first few battles'.

A hairy little drummer boy capers forward and, before anyone can stop him, he has stolen one of the king's boots.

'Gah!' cries George. 'And look! That miscreant drummer seems to be a little monkey!'

'He is a bit cheeky', says Joachim.

'No, I mean that he is an actual monkey. A little hairy primate'.

'Are you sure he isn't just from England?' queries the prince.

'What?'

'Because I once had an English girlfriend who looked like that'.

'Did she hang upside down from a flagpole and throw things at you?'

'No, no'.

'Well, then!'

'No, it was mainly doors rather than flagpoles. Does he like tea? Because the English like tea'.

'No. He doesn't like tea. What he likes is to steal one of my boots and then ... look! He's relieving himself in it!'

'Perhaps he's French?' says Joachim.

'He is, quite indisputably, a monkey!' shouts the king. 

Joachim shrugs. 'Interesting, father. Well, what sort?' 

'The sort that hangs upside down from a flag pole, throws bana ... I mean prescribed fruit, at me and then squeezes one out into my boot!'

George turns to Wormer.

'Councillor! You said these new troops were of a high quality! But they are just children! How can we defeat our enemies with material such as this?'

'I still maintain, sire' says Wormer defiantly, 'that these fellows are relatively better than most of the other troops in Mittelheim. I mean, they can at least dress themselves'. Wormer gives a placating gesture. 'Sire, our losses mean that we are in a bit of pickle'.

The king hops forward. 'This isn't just a pickle, Wormer; it's a full-blown apocalypse of gherkins!'

The three watch whilst a servant tries to retrieve the king's footwear. The little drummer, however, is as nimble as he is hairy, and also very capable of multi-tasking, as the boot continues to find out to its cost.

King George shakes his head. 'Wormer, we need more options than this ... nursery of nonesense. Let's see what solutions some professional military education might provide: summon Lady Timsbury of Steventon!'

Joachim snorts. 'I don't think she'll be able to grab the monkey, either'.

'For options!' hops George. 'Strategic options!' 

'Oh', says Joachim. As Wormer leaves, the prince notices something and bends down. 'Would you believe it', he says, lifting his codpiece, 'I think there might actually be a mouthpiece'.

* Though it's not clear if all of the other Fenwicks realise that George is now their suzerain. Given that the price of the postage is likely to outweigh the financial benefits of exercising his Imperial authority over the cadet branches of his realm, George has decided to wait before sending out sternly worded reminders.

+ Melons, obviously; and also bananas. The jury is still out on satsumas.

Pie Me a River!

Fecklenburg enters Rupprecht's chambers.

'It is I, sir, your chamberlain, bringing a courier with news of the latest battles!' he cries.

Prince Rupprecht, to his chamberlain's relief, seems to be commodeless and fully entrousered.

The prince looks up, startled.

'Blinking flip, chamberlain!' he cries. 'What possible reason could you have for interrupting my studies?' 

'News from the front!' Fecklenburg hesitates, turning to the courier. 'What's your name again?'

'It's Rupprecht!' says the prince.
'Not your name, sire, his'.
'But I don’t know his name, Fecklenburg: which is why you should announce it'.
'My name is Colonel Xavier Ritter von Nittedaun, my prince', says the officer.

'No, no, no!' cries Rupprecht, 'don't tell me, tell him,' he says, pointing at Fecklenburg. 'He's the one who has to introduce you so that I know who you are'. 

In the garden of good arguments against absolutist forms of government, Rupprecht was undoubtedly the largest and most swollen melon.

'My I introduce', says the chamberlain, 'Ritter Nittedaun, fresh from General Barry-Eylund's headquarters'.

The prince's eyes narrow. 'It's bad news, isn't it', he says.

The Ritter shifts nervously. 'How can you tell, my lord?' he asks.

'There are three reasons', says the Prince holding up his fingers.

'I think, sire, that that is only two fingers' says Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht nods. 'These aren't the reasons; these two fingers are just how I feel about being interrupted by you. As to the reasons, well, first, it's always bad news; second, Fecklenburg has strategically placed you as an obstacle to impede me getting at him; and third, it's always bad news'.

'My lord, I think that you repeated one of them', says the Ritter.

'Look at my fingers, Ritter', says the Prince. 'Look at my fingers'.

Rupprecht sighs. 'Well, let's have it then'. 

The courier takes despatches from his pocket, clears his throat, and then explains the long and lamentable course of the battle of Falkenhelle.

' ... and so', finishes the Ritter, 'our army has withdrawn in good order, but may, even now, be menaced by the forces of Zenta'. He finishes. There is a long silence. The colonel peers at the Prince. 'Is he dead ...'

'Chicken pie!' coughs Fecklenburg.

'Spread the gravy!' cries Rupprecht, waking up. 'Where? Who?'

'You may have rested your eyes a moment, sire' says the chamberlain.

'No, no! Not I! There was a defeat. And some death. Terrible! You see these - tears: a river of tears from my eyes!' the prince points.

'Are you sure, sire, that that isn't just perspiration from the enormous pie that you consumed for your lunch?'

'No! No! No!' cries the prince vehemently. 'Well, yes! Probably. Somewhat. But mixed in with the perspiration are tears of anguish. A military defeat!' Rupprecht winces. 'I'm numb'.

The Ritter nods. 'Indeed, sir - the awful losses'.

'No. no. no. I think that my buttocks have gone to sleep. Anyway, there must be something that we can do to arrest our decline as a military power?'

Fecklenburg nods. 'My lord, I await your suggestions - you intimated when we entered that you were studying?'

'Yes, chamberlain', replies Rupprecht. 'A book on strategy!' He fishes under his chair for a while and then flourishes a volume triumphantly.

The prince is not noted for his enthusiasm for reading. In the main, his excursions into literature begin and end with the works of the writer Sven von Hassell, one of the pen names of Jonathan Swift, and the tales of his exploits on the Lilliputian eastern front.

Fecklenburg examines the book and sighs. 'Sire. This is not a book on strategy - it is, rather, a book on strudel'.

Rupprecht snorts. 'Strategy, strudels, what's the difference - they both begin with an "s"'.

'Sire', replies Feckenburg, 'I think that the differences might quickly become apparent if one planned to rely upon delicious flaky pastry as the means to align disparate military actions towards a common objective, amidst the chaos and friction that defines the nature of war. But then', he gestures to the book, 'I cannot claim to be an expert on strudel'.

'Exactly!' snaps Rupprecht. 'You're not! And I think that there is a solution to our problems through the use of a pie!'

'Sire, what is it?' asks the Ritter.

The prince frowns. 'Well, it's a baked dish consisting of a filling enclosed by pastry, or sometimes with pastry only on the top or bottom'.

'No, my lord - the plan', says the chamberlain.

Rupprecht snorts in exasperation. 'So I must rescue our country from defeat by coming up with a solution? Fine! I can do it without any problem at all by applying my many talents! Am I the cleverest ruler in the region? Probably not. Am I the handsomest? Maybe not. Am I militarily the most experienced? No. But ….' Rupprecht pauses. 'However ...' He trails off.

'Well put, sir', says Fecklenburg . 'I shall act on your plan immediately!'

'You will?' says the prince. 'Did I actually say something planny?'

'You alluded, sire, elliptically, and no doubt intentionally, to a brilliant plan'.

'I did?'

'Why, yes. And may I commend you on the flexibility you have shown in your approach to pies, given that you have stretched your interests to embrace rolled pastry made from very thin dough wrapped around a filling and baked until crisp and flaky.'

'A what a what?' asks the Prince.

'Strudel, sire - you have literally just read a book on the topic'.

'Have I?' Rupprecht nods his head sagely. 'Well, Fecklenburg, I am not monogamous in my pie attachments. I would describe myself as "pie curious'".

'Anyways, now that my genius has delivered a plan to you, it's time for more government activity. Bring me my commode!'

'Are you sure that this is really the time ...' asks the Ritter.

'All movements are improvements, colonel'.

Fecklenburg sighs. 'I don't think that that's what they meant, my lord'.

It Smells Like Something's Pied in Here!

In Pfeildorf, Prince Rupprecht's chamberlain is deep in conversation with a military courier carrying dispatches. The courier seems rather exercised.

'I have been trying all morning to gain an audience with the prince', he says tetchily. 'Why chamberlain, have you been denying me access?'

Rupprecht's chamberlain, Leopold von Fecklenburg, sighs wearily. 'Sir, I have been denying you access because the prince is not ready to receive you. And when I say that he is not ready to receive you, I say that, not to delay or inconvenience you, but rather to save your sanity and faith in human nature'.

'What is our prince doing in there, then?' says the officer. 'And how can you think that it is more important than these despatches, straight from the battlefield?'
'It is lunch time', replies Fecklenburg. 'Which in any other part of Europe would be no occasion to fear for one's marbles. But this the the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, and there is activity related to that room that no mortal may gaze upon unscathed'.

'He's not Morris dancing, is he?' asks the courier.

'No', says Fecklenburg. 'The pope has expressly forbidden that. But it's worse. So much worse that you are like to go instantly blind upon entering'.

'I could keep my eyes shut'.

'Mere eyelids alone will be no sufficient protection'.

'Well, I could walk in backwards'.

'That won't help with the smell'.

'The smell?'

'Yes, the smell. Although the word "smell" is wholly insufficient to describe the suffocating miasma of noxious smothering fug that you will encounter if I let you into that chamber too early'.

'It can't be that bad. I mean, I've visited Portsmouth. I could just hold my nose'.

'Not enough, I fear', says the chamberlain shaking his head. 'The residual reek will cause your nose to commit suicide and fall off'.

'But what could the prince be doing that would cause such luncheon trauma to an urgent visitor such as myself?'

'It is not just lunch. The prince is ... embracing the principle of just-in-time logistics'.

The courier nods. 'Well, excellent. Our military supply service is ....'.
'No, no - when I use the phrase "just-in-time logistics", what I mean is that he is eating pies whilst sitting on his commode'.

The courier pauses in horror. 'Is there a ... practical purpose to such a pursuit?'
'I suppose it is a form of ... time and motion study'.

'Time and motion?'

'Yes, Prince Rupprecht claims that it makes him more efficient. On the principle, he argues, of "one in, one out"'. Fecklenburg checks his pocket watch. 'But, well, it might now be safe. The prince had stopped laying siege to his commode by late morning'.

'Two hours ago?'

'No, late morning last Thursday'.

'That's quite a long time ago'.

'Which is exactly what the last visitor said'.

'The last visitor?'

'Yes. It took almost an hour to talk his nose off the ledge'.

'Perhaps I should leave and come back in a few years time ...'

'No, sir, perhaps it is now about time for you to enter. For the prince will be keen to see you'.

'Will he?'

'Yes, of course. Your news of the latest battle will provide yet more information for his keen mind to devise, after long hours of exhaustive study, the perfect grand design to enable our state to triumph in this clash of strategies'.

'Really?'

'No, of course not. He'll fall asleep; and then, when he wakes, he'll have you executed for bringing him bad news'.

'I really think that I might want to come back later - perhaps in a decade or two, after he has died'.

'No, no - in you go. I mean, what's the worst that could happen ...'

Falkenhelle, the Last!

Committed to the principle that there's no military situation in Mittelheim that can't be materially worsened by the addition of horses, the Fenwickians seek to exploit the Bachscuttel open flank in front of Falkenhalle itself by wheeing their cavalry and moving forwards (below).

On this flank, the Fenwickian defenders of Falkenhelle have easily held off the Bachscuttel troops to their front, and the Bachscuttlers resort to using sheep as the main element in their attack. This is, of course, a baaa-d idea.

This being Mittelheim and not, say, Sparta, Barry-Eylund's solution to this threat is rather prosaic - he simply refuses his flank (below). Interestingly, the unit of mercenaries (in green) in his attacking army is still alive. This is unusual, since mercenaries tend be the first of the offal thrown into the sausage-fest that is war in this part of Europe. The Fenwickian cavalry finds itself stymied. Or they would, if the word 'stymie' could be used in their presence - which it can't because, even if it's not actually a double entendre, it sounds as if, after three pints of ale, it could be.

(Below) Holding the centre of the Fenwickian infantry line, Marshal Cavandish's headquarters is in a rather exposed position. The noise of the enemy musketry rouses the marshal from a short nap. Giovanni di Tripodi, currently performing the function of Chief of Staff, looks on at the situation with a surprising amount of sangfroid. Having spent so long as a notable in the Wars of the Mittelheim Succession, almost nothing now surprises him. Almost nothing, since there was the incident with the Fenwickian tavern wench, the three-pounder regimental artillery piece, and the tub of lard. 

 

(Above) The marshal climbs from his bed down into the glutinous mud. He checks his pocket watch and surveys the skies. With one final order to 'Do nothing. Extravagantly.' He then climbs back into his sleigh of somnabulance and drifts off. The Fenwickians have spent quite a lot of the battle passing, and doing nothing, on the, as it turns out, very prescient observation that their enemy never misses the opportunity to miss an opportunity to really get stuck in. Although no one could ever say the phrse 'stuck in' because, you know, this is Fenwick. 

And with that, night finally falls! (Above) The Bachscuttlers have run out of time! Cursing, Barry-Eylund orders his troops to retire back to their encampment. As is now clear, his earlier escapades with his irregulars cost him too much precious time, frittering away the later opportunity to exploit the sad state of the Fenwickian infantry line.

The Fenwickians sustain their reputation for success, and gain two EPs. Bachscuttel gains 1 EP, plus another for having inflicted Carnage upon their adversary. 

Marshal Cavandish has lost four regiments of trained infantry. Two of the remaining three trained infantry units are promoted to Elite. Neither of his conscript infantry improves.  His conscript cavalry unit has watched others not falling off their horses sufficiently that it has become trained.

In General Barry-Eylund's army, the Milchfrau Lieb Garde once again has been broken, although it can be re-raised quite easily because Bachscuttel has an almost endless supply of chinless aristos that can't distinguish between a wine bill and an enlistment document. The unit of broken irregulars can be replaced with the simple expedient of conscripting woodland animals and small items of furniture. 

None of the Bachscuttel army can be bothered to use their experiences to improve themselves, and Kershaw, Earl of Brent, does a runner. For Barry-Eylund, it's been that sort of day.

Falkenhelle, the Seventh!

 ... anything is possible, but just not necessarily probable. No residual Christmas spirit is evident in the treatment of the forlorn Fenwickians. Before one can say 'XXXX', the attacking unit gets a rough New Years' handling, and as a consequence collapses and routs from the field (below).

Flush with a newfound confidence brought on by this success, and also quite a quantity of excess festive libation, Barry-Eylund commits two of his regiments to a bayonet charge. Whilst the Fenwickian morale is being slowly worn away, time is passing all too quickly, thanks to the Bachscuttelers having spent altogether too long on their early irregular antics.

(Above) In go the attacking troops! The results are positive for the Bachscuttel forces. One enemy unit is destroyed utterly, and the other, though it survives, is just a mouse's 'Boo!' away from routing.

Marshal Cavandish continues to focus his efforts on wasting away the time available to his adversaries. Many times, he simply 'passes', snuggling down in his bed and focusing on snoring his way to victory. To Barry-Eylund's frustration, yet again a bout of confusion strikes one of his regiments, which pirouettes through some of the other troops (below). 

(Below) With the afternoon now beginning to give way to evening, The Bachscuttlers redouble their attack. (Below) Desperate to split the enemy infantry formation, another assault with bayonets is launched on the enemy! This Fenwickian unit connects the two other portions of Cavandish's infantry line.

'Hold the line!' cry the defenders! 'Grenadiers forward!' yell the attackers! (Below) The Fenwickians again are defeated, and their morale hangs in the same sort of precarious fashion as Prince Rupprecht's britches when he takes strenuous exercise - although for Rupprecht, the word 'strenuous' encompasses almost any activity that doesn't involve a knife and fork.

(Above) It's never a good sign in warfare when one's military headquarters finds itself in the front line. Marshal Cavandish, however, views the situation with equanimity. Partly this is because he is asleep. but partly it is also because the sun is about to set.  The issue now is which will give out first - Fenwickian morale or Bachscuttel's time?

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Blisters!

And so, gentle reader(s), another year hauls itself exhaustedly across the temporal finishing line, looking for a chair in which to sit and a large tankard of port to blot out the previous twelve months. One way of improving the end to this difficult year, of course, would be to visit Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachsucttel, said no one ever.

Rupprecht is in one of his fine carriages, making his way back to his palace through the snowy, ill-lit, evening streets of  Pfeildorf. He is at this very moment making one of his more philosophical festive observations to his chancellor, Leopold von Fecklenburg.

'You can shove Christmas up your fundament, Fecklenburg - for I shall have no more of it!'. The prince holds a kerchief to his face and moans.

'I did say, my lord, that proposing at the opera in public to the actress Lotta Klap was a bad idea'.

'But it's Christmas', says Rupprecht, 'and I wanted to pull a cracker! Why would she turn me down?'

'Well, sire, you are, of course, already married. And she's met you, which is another problem. And also, her family were against the union'.

'Her father? I could buy him off'.

'No sire, her husband and children'.

'She threw a cup of hot punch over me!' wails the prince. 'I shall be scorched and maimed beyond the recognition of my own mother!'

'Your mother is mad, my lord and so already cannot reliably distinguish you from an Italianate inlaid wardrobe'.

'Nonsense, Fecklenburg: only poor people are mad: my mother is merely eccentric'.

'The symptoms are quite severe, lord: she talks to the Christmas trees, wears lampshades, and also thinks that you are the very paragon of an able enlightenment ruler'.

'Well, Lotta has really been unreasonable'. He removes the kerchief and experimentally pushes some of the blotches on his face. 'Ow! See how she has disfigured me, Fecklenburg! I am a burned, blistered grotesque!'

'She threw the beverage over your crotch, my lord'.

'Really?' Rupprecht considers this for a moment, then grabs the front of his britches and howls.

'Maimed! Maimed! Christmas maiming! It's so unfair - what did I do wrong, Fecklenburg?'

 'Perhaps, sire, you might work on your amorous repartee. It is ...', Fecklenburg searches for another way of saying  "illegal", "actionable", and "immoral". 'It is ... sub-optimal'.

'But I'm brilliantly witty, chamberlain - everybody says so'.

'Everybody afraid of execution, sire'.

'Well, what did I say to Lotta?'

'You wished her a merry Christmas, sire ...'

'A good start, I think ...'

'Yes, sire, and you then pulled open your britches and said "You can feel what's in my stocking if you like, mistress, or perhaps you'd like to admire my baubles.'

Rupprecht considers this for a moment. 'I was young and reckless, then, Fecklenburg. I believe that I have matured'.

'It was literally twenty minutes ago, sire. And her husband then wished to duel with you, which is why we had to leave'.

'Did I accept the challenge?'

'Again, sire, literally twenty minutes ago. No, my lord, whilst you might honestly have wanted to say "Poltroon! I shall accept your challenge and see you upon the field of dispute at dawn", what you actually said was "Ooooh, I've been naughty! Take me to horny jail straight away!'''

'Horny jail', says Rupprecht flatly.

'Straight away', adds Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht blows a raspberry. 'But everyone always says that in talking to women one should just be oneself'.

'Oh no, sir, for you that is a very bad idea. Have you thought about being someone else, instead?'

'What, like Martin Luther?'
'Oh no, sire, Luther was notoriously dull at parties. His stories about eating worms were simply embarrassing. Perhaps rather than being yourself, you should try and be someone who is thoughtful, emotionally intelligent, and a good listener?'
'Attila the Hun?'

'Not the first name that leaps to mind, sire, or, to be honest, the thousandth; but, on the plus side, I have never read that the bestial Hun Attila ever ended up in horny jail. So there's that'.

There is a moment of silence.

'This coach is travelling quite fast, Fecklenburg' pipes up the prince.

'Indeed, sire. Driver! Slow this carriage!' shouts the chamberlain, thumping the roof of the coach.

From outside, above the creaking of the wheels, there comes a chittering shriek. The coach speeds up.

'You know, he didn't look like my usual coachman', says Rupprecht, raising his voice above the hubbub.

'How so, sire', says the chamberlain suspiciously.

'Well, he was shorter, and hairier, and much more talkative'.

'Short and hairy', says Fecklenburg alarm in his voice. 'He wasn't covered in lard was he, sire ...'

'Well now, come to think of it ...'

As the prince and his chamberlain speed dangerously towards the unknown, may we here at this modest publication take an opportunity to wish you a Merry Christmas and the most happy of New Years!

Falkenhelle, the Sixth!

The Fenwickian volleys fly, with devastating effect! One Bachscuttel regiment is left teetering on the brink of collapse, though, obviously, no Fenwickian could ever actually use the word 'teetering', what with its salacious suggestion of actions involving both teets and rings. Worse, every single enemy shot strikes home against the Milchfrau Lieb Garde, whose musketeers fall to the ground. Many are dead; others just take the opportunity to have a lie down, and the screams of the wounded are interspersed with some loud snoring. But the effect is the same: the entire regiment is effectively destroyed in a single volley, leaving a huge gap in the line! (below).

Barry-Eylund stands agog (also a word that can't be used in Fenwick, though the reasons aren't strictly clear, given that the words 'gog' and 'ag' aren't usually associated with explicit adult activity - except in Wales, of course), slack-jawed and shocked! One of his guard regiments mown down in a single volley! There's only one thing he can do. Alas for him, he is wrestled to the ground by bystanders before he can hit the fire alarm. This leaves him with only one other option: 'Give me those dice!' he cries, and grabs the special green dice which are definitely not dodgy. Armed with these new weapons of chance, the Bachscuttel return volley inflicts heavy casualties! Marshal Cavandish responds with an attempt at a rousing bout of rallying to try to restore order to his infantry line.

Alas for him, the Fenwickians seem resistant at this juncture to his attempts to improve their morale. The problem lies probably with his overly exuberant use of words like 'honour', 'duty', 'jelly', 'wobble', and 'strobate': though to be fair, he was misheard on the last one. This leaves his troops vulnerable to the newly reinvigorated Bachscuttel musketry! 'Give me back my dice!' cries Cavandish. 'No fear!' replies Barry-Eylund, shaking his newly captured cubes of caprice (Above). Another Bachscuttel volley crashes home, and a Fenwickian unit routs!

(Above) This is a problem. Thanks to the ploughed field, Cavandish now finds his infantry split into three separate forces, complicating his operations immensely. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when he could ride it away, or invite it out for some light dinner and dancing, Barry-Eylund acts! Throwing again his burgled baubles of boon, Barry-Eylund's Bachscuttlers batter their bewildered adversaries.

On Cavandish's left wing, some of his sweaty soldiery are suffused with a sudden martial spirit. 'Oooh, I feel quite warm' some of his troops say, glowering at their adversaries with aggressive ardour.

(Above) Infused with the heat of battle, this unit, already quite disordered, charges forward into the Bachscuttel line. Barry-Eylund sniggers, fondling his dodgy dice of doom. For good measure, the Fenwickians wheel more so that they end up charging through bad terrain, because that's the sort of man that Barry-Eylund is. It doesn't look good for the attackers: an elite unit of defenders, and some aggressive-looking flora. Still, this is Mittelheim - a land where anything is possible!