Klosentheim the third

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!'

Klosentheim, the First!

Wherein the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, under General Redmond Barry-Eylund, encounters the forces of the Sanjak of Zenta, commanded by General Taras Bulbous.

'There they are!' says General Redmond Barry-Eylund, commander of the Bachscuttel army. 'There they are, Bohner. Look at them all!'

The General's aide de campe, Major Bohner, raises his telescope and surveys the enemy.

The general and his escort sit atop a small hill near the village of Klosentheim. The Bachscuttel army, advancing tentatively after their narrow defeat at Falkenhelle, has now encountered a new and unexpected adversary, blocking their way - the Zentans!

'What of the composition of their forces?' asks the general.

'There's quite a lot of them, sir', says the major. 'I can see Borat irregulars, bowmen, janissaries, Albanians, Giezza tribesmen, delli cavalry, sipahis, four Nazgul, It, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, and some bloke whose second name might be Farage'.

'We can certainly buy that last fellow off', says Barry-Eylun, snorting. 'Have the scouts returned?'

'Yes sir, but ...'

'Excellent! What sort of terrain are we facing?'

'Rough terrain, sir: seems to be two hills, four forests, rough ground, a ploughed field, and the urban area of Klosentheim. However ...'

'Splendid! Splendid!' snorts the general. 'I feel good about this! We just have to triumph in the scouting, and then I go on the defensive! I intend turtling so hard, they'll have to change my name to General Leonardo Donatello Raphael Michelangelo!'

'But, sir ...'

'Because, you know, the Zentans are tricky, tricky, tricky! So many irregulars that they wriggle around one's flanks, and, before you can say "where's my wallet gone?" they're all over you!'

'Alas, sir ...' sighs Bohner ruefully.

Barry-Eylund's jaw drops. 'We lost the scouting contest again?'

The major nods.

'No! No! No! Give me that telescope!' says the general roughly. He looks at the dispositions of the enemy troops. 

'What! What!' mutters Barry-Eylund. He then turns to Bohner. 'So, major, correct me if I'm missing anything, but there are nine terrain features...'

'Yes, sir'.

'And we've managed to secure one hill ...'

'Yes, sir'

'And they've got everything else ...'

'Yes, sir: one hill, four forest features, the town, some rough ground, and a ploughed field'.

'And they've lined the whole lot of them up into one big defensive position, which is now infested with irregulars like fleas on one of my fusiliers'.

'It would seem so, sir' says Bohner sadly. 'We're going to have to attack'.

Barry-Eylund takes some snuff to calm himself down. 'I'm out of ideas, Bohner. Here, hand me some military theory. Let's see what advice it might contain'.

The major reaches into his satchel and hands him a slim volume.

'"Mes Gueules de Bois"' says Barry-Eylund, reading the spine.

'A most useful work by the strategist Horace de Saxe, sir'.

Horace de Saxe, Maurice's brother, fancies himself as a military theorist . He is, it has to be said, one of the best strategists out of those who are brothers to Maurice de Saxe and whose first name is Horace.

The general flicks through it. 'Do we have any pantomime cow outfits?' he asks.

'I don't think so, sir'.

'Well, that renders most of the first five chapters irrelevant', says the general despondently.

'We could retreat, sir' says Bohner hopefully.

'Wait, wait!' the general suddenly says. 'This page gives me an idea!'

'That page, sir? It seems to be blank'.

'Best part of the book', replies Barry-Eylund. 'Now, give me the telescope, and let's see the Zentan deployment. I have an idea ...'  

Bunny's Too Tight to Mention!

'Have you spoken to the Fenwickian ambassador recently?' asks Casimir with interest.
'A little, my lord', replies Radu Pasha. 'They are certainly keen to have more help in the war - he was very, very solicitous'.
The hospodar nods. 'Was he oily, then?'
'Positively self-basting, sire. And very keen to tell me tales of his previous employment. Did you know that he's actually Prussian?'

'Prussian?'
'Yes, Dread Lord. He was caught up in one of Frederick's terrible tempers. He fled the capital to escape an orgy of enthusiastic beheadings known as the Berlin Hairlift'.
'You don't say?' 
'And then, according to his account, he spent a little time in Vulgaria before being expelled'.

'Expelled?'

'Indeed, lord. Apparently, he killed a French vampire with a baguette'.

'Hmmm', replies Casimir. 'It must have been a painstaking process, I would guess'.

Outside, there is the sound of approaching feet.

'Ah, this must be him', says Radu, before clearing his throat.

The doors are flung open, pages enter, and a large blare of trumpets sounds.

'The Fenwickian envoy, Wolfgang, Graf Hotkreutzbahn!' announces Radu Pasha.

'Ambassador, with this visit you are really spoiling us', says the hospodar.

The Graf bows low. 'Your highness! Greetings from George, King and Emperor of All the Fenwicks, and Also Gelderland, if he can Just Have a Coronation'.

Casimir nods. 'Now, Radu Pasha has indicated that your visit here might not just be a social call?'

'My lord! Dread Lord! Very Dread and Most Benificent Lord! What you say is true! In the spirit of fraternal cooperation, what with us being allies and all, my monarch asks if you would be open to the suggestion that you might order your army to intercept the forces of  the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel!' 

The hospodar considers this. 'Well, I could, I suppose. But perhaps my troops could just bask a little longer in their success against the forces of the Margravate of Wurstburp'.

Hotkreutzbahn bows again. 'A wise choice, my lord', he says. The ambassador, however, is a capable fellow, and also an ambitious one. There is a great deal of social climbing that he feels that he needs to achieve. His family was 'upwardly mobile' in the sense that his father had been fired from a mortar. Hotkreutzbahn's plans include a different trajectory: one, for example, that doesn't involve being catapulted from the mouth of some siege artillery. 

'A wise choice, my lord', he repeats. 'But perhaps not the most, ah, heroic option. The Bachscuttel forces are tired, disordered, and also the forces of Bachscuttel: an attack by your troops would surely result in a legendary victory'.

Casimir considers this. 'Hmmm, but I do like the idea of a bit more basking'.

The ambassador gestures urgently. 'But now, surely, is the time to seize the initiative! We need to make Prince Rupprecht sweat!'

Radu Pasha shrugs. 'Just force him to stand up, then - that should do the trick. Or show him some salad. And also, don't call me Shirley'.

A sly look then crosses the face of the Fenwickian ambassador. 'My lord, wouldn't an immediate assault upon General Barry-Eylund also solve the problems caused by your irregular troops?'

'Are there problems?' asks Casimir.

'It is so, great lord!' says the Graf. 'Why, they have been up to all sorts of no good in the diplomatic quarter: stealing, pretending to be English, setting fire to houses ... and people, and the things they've been doing to the poor rabbits ...'

Radu looks at Casimir and shrugs resignedly.

'And then', says the Graf continuing, 'there were the terrible fights when the rabbits struck back'.

Radu can feel the hospodar's eyebrows rising.

'Struck back?' the pasha says.

'Indeed, pasha, indeed. A horde of wily rabbits is now fighting a black hops campaign against the Borats on the streets of Nehrenvar!'

'Is this true, slave?' says Casimir to Radu.

Radu cowers. 'There have been some ... incidents. Ambassador, can't you just buy them off with some ... uh ... carrots?'

Hotkreutzbahn looks shocked, and Radu immediately recognises his mistake: as a Fenwickian, the ambassador could never knowingly handle a carrot, let alone distribute them'.

Casimir sighs. Everyone in the hall immediately goes silent. A sigh from the hospodar often can be essentially the same as an execution drum roll. 'There can't be many other rulers in Mittelheim who have to put up with this sort of thing', he says bemusedly.

'They do have those monkeys in Bachscuttel', says the ambassador.

'True, true', nods Casimir. 'And I suppose they're also ruled by a donkey'.

'Command me, lord' cries Radu, abasing himself.

'Very well, ambassador. I agree! Radu, order our troops to march! Fall upon the Bachscuttlers, defeat them, and make sure that there are terrible casualties amongst our rancid irregulars! My honour demands it!'

'Your will, my hands, lord' cries Radu.

'Huzzah!' shouts Hotkreutzbahn. 'Let battle, or an implausible Mittelheim facsimile of it, commence!'

Holding Back the Ears!

Meanwhile, in Nehrenvar, capital of the Sanjak of Zenta, Hospodar Casimir, 'The Shadow of God, God's Umbrella, and Also Possibly His Hat', waits patiently as his naval commander, Admiral Akbar, delivers his latest report.
'It's a trap!' croaks Akbar. 'It's a trap!'
Casimir nods. 'Thank you, Admiral: an interesting summation of our maritime affairs. Quite similar to your last report, but there we go'.

Casimir eyes Akbar resignedly. It's fair to say that no one who was appointed an admiral in an entirely landlocked country like Zenta was likely to be especially marked by ambition, energy, and enterprise. If he could, Casimir had often thought that he'd like to especially mark him instead with a large mallet. Akbar, alas, was a favourite of his wife, the Hospodina Eudokia Asanina, and so, like his wife, there was great peril in touching him. 

Casimir was absolute ruler over all he surveyed, a fact that his wife had argued meant that his authority did not extend over those parts of it that he couldn't survey, especially those bits that were under her clothes. This was a great disappointment to the hospodar, who was used to getting his way - several ways, usually. But Casimir had a great deal of respect for his wife. That didn't, of course, stop him from rogering anything that had two legs and compatible accoutrements, but it did mean that he valued her advice and tried to avoid making her angry. Since he was, by his own admission, a violent psychopath who delighted in cruelty, pain, and freestyle dental torture, Casimir has concluded that he should probably be respectful around someone who also knew that, but didn't seem to care. 

It wasn't impossible that the admiral was his wife's lover. But then, as with any relationship between two males engaged in risky and potentially fatal activity, that just gave Casimir a slight feeling of comradeship towards Akbar - something that had led him to give him some actual ships, or rather pedalos, on the palace lake. As Admiral of the Fleet, Akbar spent much of his time conducting pretend maritime encounters between what he called 'the Rebellion' and 'the Empire', in which he was mostly occupied by getting ambushed and then sinking. The rest of the time, he gave little trips to palace children.

'Fine, fine!' says Casimir. 'Akbar, withdraw. But next time, check the depth of the lake. If there's one thing that ruins the atmosphere at a birthday party, it's the screams of drowning children'.

Akbar withdraws, bowing so low that it's possible he's moved to the floor below.

'Who's next?' sighs the hospodar. It's been a long morning.

'An envoy from the Empire of All the Fenwicks, sire'.

'The ambassador?' asks Casimir, his mood brightening. The hospodar has always had a creative relationship with foreign ambassadors, seeing it as one of his responsibilities to ensure that they find their role a stretching one. It's one of the reasons he kept a rack.

'Indeed, my lord. I suspect that he wishes us to take the field against the forces of Saukopf-Bachscuttel'.

'Hmmm, well, how is our army at the moment, Radu Pasha?'

'Worryingly up to strength again, Dread Lord'.

'What, already? I thought we suffered huge casualties amongst the irregulars in our glorious victory over the Margravate of Wurstburp?'

Radu gestures placatingly. 'The problem is that they breed like rabbits, sir', he says. 'Not least because they often breed with rabbits'.

'With rabbits?'

'Yes, sire. Apparently, if you grab them by the ears ...'

'No, no, no - this won't do!' cries the hospodar. 'We've got to get rid of more of our irregulars! Imagine the cost of maintaining them! Imagine the smell! Imagine the moral injury!'

'Well, my lord, let's hear what the ambassador has to say ...'

Fruity Fraud!

'Madame!' says King George of Fenwick pointing, as he always seems to do, 'having explained the problem facing us, what might be your suggestions, given the quite extraordinary sums that we are paying for what you have termed "professional military education", and what seems in practice to involve excessive drinking, late nights, and large payments by concerned parents?'
Lady Katherine Timsbury of Steventon considers the problem. 'Well, my lord, I'd love to provide some suggestions, but there seem to be three immediate challenges that stand in the way of me providing you with a solution to your difficulties, ' she says, gesturing.
'First, and please don't take this the wrong way, but the premises that you have allocated to this outstation of my institution of learning are, one could say, 'sub-standard', but could also be described in the vernacular as something that 'sucks the sweat off a dead man's balls'. She pauses.

There is shocked silence from both King George and Councillor Werner von Wormer. Rare are the occasions in Grand Fenwick when any woman has been heard to utter the words 'balls', 'suck', 'donkey' or 'sub-standard'.

Grand Councillor Wormer coughs. 'Well, madame, no doubt we could provide your institution with facilities more appropriate to the quality of education that you are delivering.' He looks about the premises that the three of them are in. 'But, I have to ask, is this dingy basement so much worse than the educational infrastructure that you are offering your students in London?'

Lady Timsbury considers this. 'In some respects, no: I mean, the rats are less aggressive given their high teaching load, and the catering benefits from our innovative strategy of outsourcing.'

'Outsourcing?' says George. 'Aren't there rumours of cannibalism?'

'Only amongst the slowest and poorest students, ' says Katherine reassuringly. 'And the word "cannibalism", I should say, is very triggering. The college much prefers the phrase "occasional nibbling"'.

Wormer nods. 'If you can provide some sage strategic advice to us, my lady, I'm sure that we can solve this first problem. What, then, is the second?'

Lady Timsbury gestures expansively. 'Well, you should know that our institutional focus is now concentrated upon a merger with one of our rivals.'
'A rival?' says Wormer with interest.
'Indeed', replies Lady Timsbury. 'Cranberry Agricultural College'.
King George frowns. 'Cranberry Agricultural College? But is absorbing a fruit producer into your university necessarily an effective way to bolster your credentials in professional military education?'
Lady Timsbury nods sagely. 'There are some wonderful synergies between my college's focus on warfare and Cranfield's focus on organic fruit,' she says reassuringly. 'Combined, our new institution will be able to procure the very sharpest of kiwi fruits and the most intimidating of mangoes. Trust me, the college's courses on professional military education can only benefit from the addition of the most dangerous forms of stone and citrus produce.'
'Seems reasonable,' says the king, whose main experience of dangerous fruit thus far has been in the form of excessively large melons. 'But what of the third distraction?'

Lady Timsbury shakes her head sadly. 'Bah, our courses have been badly affected by the widespread use of Ape Interpretation in the written work.'
'AI?' says Wormer. 'Those Bachscuttel Christmas monkeys get everywhere! How can you tell that our officers are availing themselves of this new and nefarious opportunity for educational exploitation?' 
Lady Katherine grimaces. 'Well, there are the crayon pictures of bananas. And also the smoking musket: the footnotes.'
'Are the monkeys making them up?' asks the king.
'No, mainly they are literally notes consisting of feet', replies Lady Timsbury. She exhibits an examination paper with a small monkey footprint at the bottom.
'Well, madam, surely crude pictures of bendy fruit and grubby footprints should make it easy to distinguish the work of small monkeys from that produced by aristocratic military officers?'
'Of course it is - the monkeys are so much better. But every so often it can be difficult to tell. I mean, look at this answer to the question "Describe the principal stages of a regular siege according to the system of Vauban. Why are parallels and saps employed?"'
'It seems, madam, to be a crude picture of a man's genitals.'
'So you would think! But if I turn it this way ...'
Wormer nods. '... possibly a banana - indeed, I see now your challenge. You could viva them. Test their detailed knowledge of military history, theory, and campaign design.'
Lady Timsbury frowns. 'It would give too much advantage to the monkeys.'
King George nods. 'What about military simulations and games of war?'

Lady Timsbury snorts. 'By no means! Such approaches have already been widely discredited in Mittelheim!'

'A knotty problem!' comments Wormer. 'But madame, our problem is significant! Despite our victory, the Bachscuttelers are now advancing. Barry-Eylund is poised energetically to pounce in the attack!'

Lady Timsbury snorts. '"Poise?" "Energetic?" "Attack?" Are you sure? Because that doesn't sound very much like him.'

'It is so' cries Wormer. 'The poor state of our army has encouraged even General Barry-Eylund to press his luck!'
'Pffft!' expostulates Katherine. 'Then get an ally to intervene! Ask the Zentans - they're expendable!'

Wormer and King George look at one another. 'Madame, I think that you might be on to something ....'