Trouser 'Bout That, Then!

We return, dear reader, to witness Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel. He is in the palace in Pfeildorf, his refuge, his solace, his Fortress of Porkitude. Things are not going well.

'Gah!' cries Rupprecht desperately. 'Are there no end to the challenges that, as prince, I must overcome?'
His chancellor, Leopold von Fecklenburg, nods. 'You mean our inability to translate battlefield success into broader political success? To, as it were, convert strategic effect into positive strategic performance?'
Rupprecht chokes. 'No! No! No!' he cries! 'It's my britches - I can't get them on!' He pauses, noticing the look of existential disappointment and resignation on his chancellor's face. 'But obviously' the prince continues quickly, 'the strategic, ur, thingy - well, that's a problem too'.

Fecklenburg eyes his master's situation sourly. 'Are they too small, sire? Didn't you last time have them let out a little to avoid such a future difficulty? I think you did, because I remember the sail maker's guild complaining about how much canvas it required'.
'Well, they've shrunk', retorts Rupprecht truculently. 'And I just can't get to grips with them!'
The chancellor sighs. 'Sire, trousers aren't generally known to pose an insuperable and serious life challenge. Strategy, on the other hand ...'
'But this is strategy!' snorts the prince. 'How do I get my britches on! I have set my policy goals - to get my legs into my trousers; I have developed the appropriate means - some britches, and also some legs; and now, I must develop the appropriate ways of connecting the two - which is surely strategy!'

Fecklenburg reflects on this. 'I would say, sire, that some would assert that what you are describing is really tactics; and still others would assert that what you are describing is really just 'Getting Up In The Morning: 101'.  

Rupprecht waves at the troublesome garment. 'But I'm not an expert at this sort of thing! I have no skills in engineering, or alchemy or ... whatever it is that is required to master this challenge'.
'Sire, just give it another go! There are literally only three holes, and you have two legs. Your odds of success are quite high'.
'Well, Fecklenburg, I think that you are deliberately minimising this problem as a way of trying to imply that I am not up to the task of managing this war'.
'Sire, I know for a fact, because you gifted me one, that there are monkeys that can successfully put on a pair of breeches; and then, as it turns out, take them off, and squeeze one out in the Christmas stuffing'.
Rupprecht waves at Fecklenburg airily. 'You may have the time to hone your skills in the manipulation of breeches, but I, chancellor, have many other calls on my time. Such as ... ah ... putting on my waistcoat'.
Fecklenburg gestures. 'But couldn't you just get your valet to help you with this problem?'
'That damn idle fellow!' cries the prince.  'Run off! Left!'

Fecklenburg surveys the room, theatrically shading his eyes. 'Has he, my lord? Has he? He could be closer than you think'.

'Well I think he's run off - so, no he isn't'.
'What could that be under your feet, sire?' asks Fecklenburg patiently.

Rupprecht peers downwards. 'Well, bless my ample bratwurst - there he is! Why didn't you say something lad?'

'I think I did, sire', cries the serving boy piteously. 'But after the first hour, with your bunions so heavy, I gave up'.

'Well, this is excellent!' says the prince happily. 'With your help, lad, I shall soon be comfortably entrousered, and ready for a day of really hard ruling'.

The chancellor coughs. 'Alas, my lord, I must interrupt your newfound sense of purpose with some terrible news'.

'But what bad news could there be? We have defeated the Zentans handsomely, and I shall soon have my trousers on'. 

'It's Wurstburp, my lord. Despite our best efforts, they have gone on the offensive and intend falling upon the army of Fenwick-Gelderland'.

'Is that bad, Fecklenburg?'

'Look at their military record, sire. 'Falling upon' adversaries implies, I think, some combination of predation and competence: they don't 'fall upon': they just 'fall over'. It will be a disaster, and our recent victory will be entirely cancelled out!' 
Rupprecht sucks his cheeks. 'Well, what if I wore larger trousers?'
'A noble offer, my prince, but I fear it would not compensate'.
'Any suggestions, because I am out of ideas'.

'Well, sire, there is the secret plan'.
'What plan?'
'The secret one'.
'Then how would I know about it?'
'You were there, sire. It was your plan. Largely'.
'I don't remember it'.
'But we were all there: it was a large meeting of the council'.
'No, I can't remember at all'.
'A long secret meeting?'
'Nope'.
'Count Erlock-Weisse drank too much port, assaulted a wardrobe and then married one of your chairs'.

'I've got nothing'.
'You had sausage pie for lunch with creamed leeks, potato a la potato, and then a catering-size portion of trifle'.
'The 27th of April!'
'Yes, and the serving girl had a remarkably low-cut bodice'.
'One-thirty-six pm: it was a Thursday, and there were 28 people at the meeting. To be fair, the wardrobe had it coming; but I think the chair could have made a better match'.
'And you remember the plan now, sir?'
'Of course I do: magnificent, pert, and saucy!'
'That's the serving girl, sir: what about the plan?'

'I do remember that there was some resistance to my suggestions early on'.
'Because you had the map upside down sir, and it was for the wrong part of the world'.
'But then everyone later said what a good plan it was!'
'Yes, sir, because you said the plan should be whatever the council could come up with. And what we came up with was chancy'.
'Was it?'
'Dangerous, high risk, but a chance of a quite remarkable success!'
'Sounds like the serving girl again!'  chortles Rupprecht, but then his face drops sadly. 'Except the bit about success. Well, Fecklenburg - let's see how the Wurstburpers do. And if they lose, you may execute the secret plan!'
Fecklenburg bows. 'A most sagacious decision, lord. And perhaps, thanks to the power of the law of averages, Wurstburp will win. Maybe the Fenwickians will forget to turn up?'

'That's the spirit, Fecklenburg. Now, give this lad a hand: this time I'll try my trousers without the chair'.

Klosentheim, the Last!

The drums of war now reach a crescendo! This being Mittelheim, it actually sounds more like a bongo solo. (Below, top) Try as they might, the Bachscuttel musketeers cannot hit the large unit of Zentan sipahi cavalry to their front. Perhaps they are intimidated by the size of their opponent's lances, or maybe the enemy seems so easy to hit that the musketeers believe that there is a catch of some sort. It's not like Mittelheim soldiers to overthink a situation, though, so it might be that there is a simpler explanation: they are terrible shots that couldn't hit a barn door if they were lying underneath it. The sipahi look on at their enemy's aim-free antics with the same look of incredulity as Bachscuttel Christmas chimps might have watching the Bachscuttel troops trying to run a tea party.

(Above) It's not all good news for the Zentans, though. Seated on his palanquin, General Taras Bulbous begins to notice the sudden dearth of friendly troops between himself and the enemy. The other Bachscuttel guard regiment, the Tchokolet-Feyer Garde, has dispatched the irregulars to their front and advance menacingly towards the Zentan headquarters.

'The enemy! The enemy!' cries the general, pointing.

'The enemy?' cries his aide.

'The enemy!' replies Bulbous, with extra emphasis.

'The enemy!' agrees his aide.

'I keep saying that!' cries General Bulbous. 'What do you think I'm saying, you moron? "Custard slice"? Come on! Let's get mobile! Get me out of here! Punch it, pig boy!'

Cursing the fact that he cheaped out and went with only the eight-slave palanquin, when he should have gone with the twelve (with spoilers and a roof-rack), Bulbous retreats! His headquarters is overrun, but the general escapes unscathed. The Bachscuttlers loot the headquarters, which seems to contain more than the expected quantity of Turkish Delight and nipple-clamps. Thankfully, the Bachscuttlers have very limited imaginations, and quickly move on.

With his irregulars now circling slowly down the waste-pipe of defeat, Bulbous is keen to save his elite sipahis. The cavalry do an about-turn and swiftly head towards safety. Imam Fatih accompanies them, removing some of their disorder with amusing tales of the time that his invitation to the palace mixed up 'Fatih' with 'Farty', which made for a surprisingly tense carriage journey with some of the other guests.

Bulbous leaves another sting in the tail for General Barry-Eylund. To make it even harder for the Bachscuttlers to pursue the cavalry, a strange marsh is discovered that wasn't on the map (above). Demonstrating the measured, reflective, and philosophical demeanour for which he his famous, Barry-Eylund launches into a tirade of apoplectic abuse, in which the inventive use of Turkish Delight and nipple clamps is merely the amuse-bouche to a longer list of anatomically challenging and definitively illegal ways in which other inanimate objects might find their way through various means up General Bulbous' backside.

(Above) Through a combination of fire and movement, the Bachscuttel line routs the infantry in the Zentan centre, leaving only a couple of disordered cavalry units to keep Bulbous' army together.

(Below) On the Zentan right, Bulbous' irregulars continue their attempts to beat the enemy off (not something that could ever be said in Fenwick, of course). But, in a sad case of projectile dysfunction, their limp volleys inflict little damage. In this case, it does matter, and they can't try again later.

Finally, with most of the remaining front line Zentan units in a parlous state, the Zentan commander offers his enemy Honours of War. Barry-Eylund, still perspiring heavily from his earlier outburst, agrees, and the battle comes thankfully to an end. A Bachscuttel victory! 

None of the participants improves their quality as a result of the battle. Zenta receives one Epic Point for fighting the battle, but expended one in order to draw more cards. Bachscuttel gains two Epic Points.

Klosentheim, the Sixth!

Guard infantry! Surely they are the pinnacle of military skill, daring, and professionalism! A paragon of combat competence! A force that the rest of the army can look up to! Or so one might think. On this battlefield, however, they are actually something that one could look down upon; in a quite literal sense, given that the Milchfrau Leib-Garde have been squashed flat by the hooves of the Zentan palace cavalry. The Bachscuttelers are comprehensively defeated (below).

To be fair, the regimental history will be able to state quite categorically that the unit did not rout from the field. But this is only because, after the comprehensive trampling that they received from their enemies, they have about the same mobility as a dining room rug, and also about the same height. The remnants are rolled up and removed from the battlefield.

Barry-Eylund seems unfazed and continues with his plan. This is because he only has one plan, and he intends to continue executing it until he has achieved victory or killed all of his men. In Bachscuttel this is known as 'using one's initiative'. (Above, top) Troops from the second line have filled the gap created by the flattening of the Leib-Garde. The whole Bachscuttel infantry line has been pushed up close to their enemies.

(Above) General Bulbous responds by applying one of the cardinal principles for success in Mittelheim warfare: if it worked last time, try it again, harder. He orders his palace cavalry forward once more in another attempt to break the Bachscuttel line. To give them a bit more oomph, they are accompanied by one of the army's clerics, Imam Fatih. Fatih has already had some experience of the Zentan style of warfare. It is a style that usually favours the bold drinking of coffee, and then sudden strikes against portions of the enemy that look quite short, weak, or preferably asleep. But this time, Bulbous is really going for it, stirrups in and clerics out.

(Above) Alas, this time it doesn't work, and the fresh enemy infantry, with their grenadiers forward, drive the sipahis back. It's a nasty situation: the cavalry are perilously disordered, the enemy infantry are levelling their muskets for a volley, and Imam Fatih has pulled something badly in his Turkish delight.

Klosentheim, the Fifth!

(Below) The Bachscuttel infantry continue their advance. Far to the rear, their cavalry support waits stolidly, snoring. The riders, that is, rather than the horses. Some of the horses are contentedly chewing grass,. Others are idly leafing through Bachscuttel military doctrine for some clues on why, despite their employment in what should surely be the most dangerous, exciting, and decisive of the battlefield arms, their chances of death or serious injury have turned out to be quite a lot less than your average cart horse; even those employed in the transport of Fenwickian melons. Whilst history seems to suggest that combined arms warfare might be the stronger mode of tactical combat, General Barry-Eylund likes to plough his own furrow; then take that furrow and plant pragmatic European battlefield experience; before covering it with horse manure and letting it die in the dark. From the general's actions, it seems his philosophy that it's better to throw his troops in, one combat arm at a time. It's a simple life.

(Above) The Bachscuttel infantry line begins to close in, and musket fire is exchanged. The Zentan irregulars in theory have a range advantage, but Barry-Eylund negates it through 'careful calculation,' a phrase which in his headquarters is a euphemism for the tedious application of a ruler and the tactical calling of a lunch break.

(Above) On the Bachscuttel left, two regiments of elite infantry duel Zentan irregulars ensconced in the woods. Though the Zentans are of dubious quality, they outnumber their adversaries. The Bachscuttel grenadiers struggle to find their enemy: is that a Zentan behind that tree? Or a large squirrel? Or a large squirrel carrying a Zentan? Or a tree with a hat? Or a squirrel in a hat carrying a Zentan?

(Above) The second Bachscittel line has begun to swing outwards to cover the right flank. Luckily for Barry-Eylund, thanks to command and control problems, the Zentan irregulars facing them are still in march column or, as it is more commonly termed in the Sanjak's drill manuals, a conga line. At the very back of the line, the Zentan janissary auxiliaries can only gnash their teeth in frustration. Even if they turn the power of their silly hats up to eleven, they are still too far from the enemy to terrify their enemy. 

Indecisive exchanges of fire continue for a while. General Barry Eylund then decides that it is time to try and regain the initiative. Charging irregulars is always a dicey business, what with their ability to evade. But, lacking any other good ideas, he trusts in luck and the poor state of the Zentan footwear. He orders both of his guard regiments to charge (above)!

(Above, left) One unit of Zentans manages to evade, and scuttles back behind their cavalry. (Above, centre). The red-coated Milchfrau Lieb-Garde, however, catch their silly-hatted opponents and give them a good bayoneting. The Zentans rout. The guard, however, are now quite disordered by their efforts, much of it caused by laughing at those of their adversaries who, in their panicked disintegration, end up sitting on their hats, an activity that is like being given a colonoscopy by an unqualified and unsympathetic rhino.

(Above) General Bulbous decides to exploit the opportunity and orders his elite palace sipahi cavalry to launch an immediate and furious charge, stirrups in! Unused to seeing horses that aren't a long, long way away, and/or reading doctrine manuals, the guards look worriedly as the wall of steel and horseflesh bears down upon them! Still, these are guards, the very elite of the Bachscuttel army: what could go wrong?

Klosentheim the Fourth!

The Bachscuttlers advance with the same speed and grace as a sloth with food poisoning and painful corns (below). While Barry-Eylund, being a Great Captain, is able to keep up with the advancing infantry, no other part of his army is able to, and so the cavalry, light troops, and artillery begin to disappear slowly behind the horizon.

Amongst the Bachscuttel artillery comes the sounds of urgent preparations for a barrage of preparatory cannon fire that will be destructive and also, possibly, decisive. Just joking, of course. The only sound that comes from behind the artillery gabions is the creak of sun loungers being opened. Displaying the organisational adaptiveness for which Bachcuttel troops are famous, the troops have repurposed one of the gabions into a barbecue upon which they roast some local wildlife. Later, it will turn out that what the troops thought was a boar was actually just a short Frenchman. But what they lost in terms of diplomacy, they gained in terms of flavour, so it probably all evened out in the end. 

(Above) Thanks to General Barry-Eylund's tedious attention to the rules of war, some of which he likes anyway to invent, there is no gap around which the Zentan light cavalry can flow to flank the advancing Bachscuttel line. Also, the general has stolen the tape measure.

Amongst the Zentan defenders on this wing, a certain realisation begins to dawn: there's quite a lot of irregular cavalry on the right flank, and not much, actually only one unit in fact, of the sort of troops able to fire. (Above right) That unit moves up through their compatriots and takes cover in the woods, but it still means that, once the enemy infantry line is closer, there's going to be an exchange of small arms in which the Bachscuttelers will have muskets, and the Zentan irregulars are just going to have, well, their very small arms. Inventive though the irregulars are, fruity hand gestures are likely to be less effective in combat than smooth-bore munitions.  

On reflection, it's probably the case that the Zentans are best in attack, where they can deploy to exploit their enemy's weaknesses. General Taras Bulbous realises that his irregular infantry are poorly deployed for the Bachscuttel assault. Never a man afraid to show his balls (the possession of which, in the Zentan harem, can never be taken as a given) he orders much of his irregular infantry into march column (below).

Trusting to the power of their silly yellow hats, Bulbous hopes that his light infantry can dominate the battlefield and reposition themselves before the Bachscuttel firing line can establish itself in a decisive position. To be fair, given the state of Mittleheim military theory, it isn't immediately obvious that a focus on hats wouldn't deliver a decisive military advantage, given that most of the armies in the region consider that the wearing of underpants is the mark of an elite soldier.

(Above) General Bulbous weighs the military situation. Alas for the slaves who have to support his palanquin, the military situation weighs a lot less than the general himself. Bulbous has committed himself to a low-fat diet. But this seems to comprise of quite large quantities of Turkish delight. Sourced from a strange woman in a sleigh, this fat-free but calorific treat means the centre of gravity of the Zentan army lies somewhere surrounding the general's belly button. (Above right) The palace sipahi cavalry await the advance of the enemy infantry. With the elite regiment in front, Bulbous hopes that a cavalry charge might be able to break the Bachscuttel infantry line.

(Above) The Bachscuttel infantry line presses forwards. Can the Zentan irregulars reorient themselves in time? Can they actually spell the word 'reorient '? Or should it be 'reorientate'? And what about the words 'in time'? And is modern infantry combat really about spelling anyway? All of these important questions will be resolved in the next episode! Unless, of course, they aren't.

Klosentheim, the Third!

There are several reasons why General Redmond Barry-Eylund is widely known as 'Der Turtle Koenig'. One is his facial features; others are his love of salad and slow-moving women. But the main reason is the general's preference for military postures so passive that they make even the word 'defensive' sound dangerously risky. It is a mark of Barry-Eylund's tremendous testudinal tendencies that he is able to turtle, even when he is supposed to be attacking.    

The great threat posed by the Zentans is that their hordes of irregulars get around the Bachscuttel flanks as the latter try to advance. Thus, Barry-Eylund has decided that he will attack in the centre and on one flank, whilst refusing the other. The choice of which flank is easy. With Klosentheim nestled between two woods and with a large chunk of rough ground to its front, it makes no sense at all to go that way. The general decides to refuse his right.

(Above) What Barry-Eylund does on his right wing, though, is so much more than just a refusal. In deployment terms, it is the equivalent of being offered an amuse bouche at a party and then, instead of declining politely with the words, 'Alas, no - delicious, I'm sure, but oysters with liquorice and custard really aren't my thing', saying instead 'I hate you, I have slept with your wife and your mother, and I have shot the rest of your family. And no to the oysters'.  This flank is not just refused; it is spurned, denied, rebuffed, declined, and then thrown out.

(Above) The general deploys his artillery so far back that a single violent cough might push them off the edge of the battlefield.

(Above) The cavalry, including a unit of mercenaries, covers the rest of this flank and links the main infantry line to the artillery. Their job is to deal with any Zentan threat as the Bachsctuttel infantry advances and the gap between the infantry and artillery consequently increases. (Below) On the other flank, the troops are pushed as far to the left as they are allowed. 

(Above) Both units of Bachscuttel light troops are also placed there in case they might be useful  - an outcome that would surely be novel.

If an actual turtle had ever been put in a hat and uniform, and made to command an army (which in Mittelheim might not be an historical impossibility), this is how they would advance - like a timid toad in a crash helmet and a fluorescent jacket. With a nod from Barry-Eylund, drummers strike up the advance, and the Bachscuttel line begins to move!

Klosentheim, the Second!

On the Zentan side, and to the far right of the Bachscuttle position, lies the small village of Klosentheim. It sits between two woods, and there is rough ground a little way in front of it. (Below) This flank seems to be held by three regiments of irregulars, whose job, no doubt, is to ensconce themselves in the trees in front of them and make themselves a thorough nuisance. Some of them have silly hats, a sure sign that the Zentans feel this flank is important.

(Below) In front of the village, General Taras Bulbous has positioned both his units of janissaries and both his batteries of artillery. The latter have been entrenched. Behind them are two more regiments of irregular infantry, one of which, since this is an important tactical position, is also equipped with silly hats. One of the janissary units is of elite quality - they have never actually fought a combat, of course, but they have watched so many other Zentans do so and die horribly, that they naturally feel superior.

(Below) The woods and rough ground make Klosentheim, the objective of this battle, a tough proposition. 

Barry-Eylund snorts. 'Well, we can't go that way. It's like Agincourt, but without the picnic area. Forest to either side, rough ground to the front. No, that won't do!'

(Above, left) The Zentan general, Taras Bulbous, has positioned himself on this flank. (Below) The Zentan centre is composed of a hotch-potch of cavalry. Both units of palace sipahis occupy the open ground. Two units of irregular cavalry hold the nearby hill. Behind them, more irregular infantry mill about: some angry Albanians and some Borat tribesmen. If the intent is that they are there to shoot any slacking cavalry, pour encourager les autres, then this is likely to fail because the infantry don't speak French. 

(Below) Finally, facing the Bachscuttel left, four more units of irregulars, one being infantry and the others cavalry. They wait, a slavering, bovine-witted collection of disparate ethnic groups and poor personal hygiene, to swarm out of the forest and insinuate themselves around the flanks of the advancing enemy. 

(Below) Having decided to defend, Taras Bulbous waits in his strong defensive position. 

'It's not too late, sir', says Major Bohner to Barry-Eylund. 'I could still see if we've got some pantomime cow outfits'.

Barry-Eylund shakes his head ruefully. 'It's too late for that, major', he says. The general lost his last battle by spending too long in what he likes to call 'shaping operations' but that others might call 'arsing about'. 'No, we have to attack quickly! Here are my orders - deploy our troops!'