Spare a fort!

In the gloom, at the very furthest extent of visibility from the bastion, Gelderland jagers take careful aim at the foremost of the Fenwickian cannons. This process, in accordance with normal Mittelheim drill manuals, involves pointing their weapons in the direction of the enemy; closing their eyes in case of any nasty sparks and flashes; and then flinching heavily at the upsetting "bang!" sound that happens when they pull the trigger. Red-orange flames ripple in the darkness. With choking screams, partly of pain, but also mixed with some understandable surprise, both of the artillery crew fall to the ground dead. Such accuracy is remarkable: indeed so remarkable, that in explaining their death at that very moment one couldn't rule out of the equation the possibility of a lucky suicide pact on the part of the cannon crew or the effects of a sudden attack by angry, and somewhat larger the normal, killer badgers; the latter two instances being at least as likely as being hit by Gelderland jager - perhaps more so.

Colonel Ernst Leopold von Rheinfunkt, commander of the assaulting forces, would no doubt be pleased at the result - if, that is, he could see the effect of this early fire. Which he can't. So he isn't. Instead the colonel, having been, as a result of a nasty head wound received at the Battle of Wobbling Dog, relieved of much of his skull, and therefore also his hair, brain, cognitive capacity, one eyebrow, and all of his self-doubt (but having gained, as some recompense, the militarily useful qualities of single-mindedness and an ability to speak in a quite passable Welsh accent), orders forward his Pandurs.


Rheinfunkt is not, it is fair to say, terribly optimistic at the chances of this assault. The conditions are not propitious: it is dark; the bastion is high; and the garrison already is laying fire down upon the attackers. Besides, the colonel was never convinced that Pandurs were the best troops to have included in Gelderland's initial attack, it being clear at least to him that monochrome bears,  although endearing, would not necessarily be better at storming enemy defences than, say, grenadiers equipped with muskets and grenadoes. Still, Rheinfunkt was willing to give it a try, his head wound having made him, in a quite literal way, extraordinarily open-minded.

In the confusion occasioned by the darkness, the Pandurs rush forwards. They are keen to get this all over with, take their pay, and return to their Balkan homelands as quickly as is practicable. Like many outsiders, the Pandurs have found Mittleheim to be an unsettling place. They are used to living in places where things are rather more certain than they are here: places where men are men; women are women; and men who look like women are clearly labelled in order to avoid any embarrassing social faux pas. There are shouts of 'Ladders forward! Up the wall!' followed soon after by such plaintive cries as 'I can't get it off my head!' and 'This looks rather dangerous - wouldn't it be safer to do it when the light's better?'

Atop the bastion, Dreihumpe realises that the key to a successful defence is getting the main part of the garrison out of their comfy billets and onto the walls. This he achieves in the nick of time partly by appealing to their patriotism and partly by stealing their skittles. Bullets from the enemy jager whizz past out of the darkness. To either side, groups of Pandurs carrying, or in most cases wearing, ladders are rushing forward out of the gloom. With all of his troops now manning the defences, the chances of resisting the initial enemy attack now seem much better. But these are Fenwickian garrison troops. Above the smell of gunpowder Dreihumpe can also smell the disturbing stink of fear. Actually, Dreihumpe reflects, it might just be the whiff of armpits. But in the deeper notes of the choking reek he can detect terror, and also fruit notes, with a cheeky tannin finish.

'Remember men!' shouts Dreihumpe above the crackle of musketry. 'Always, always, always, hold your fire until the enemy is at the closest possible range!'
The captain then pauses.
'On the other hand, perhaps it's "never, never, never hold your fire until the enemy is at the closest possible range": I cannot recollect. Still, whatever, I think that what we all need to consider when the enemy are in the vicinity is the possibility of firing.'

xXx

On the walls of Pippin Fort, Captain-Governor Schroedinger-Skatt leans dangerously over the battlements, peeering into the distance. In the dark, in the distance one can see muzzle falshes and the faint echo of shouts. 

'What's going on?' asks the Governor, in frustration. 'Are we winning?'

'No sir,' replies a nearby ensign. 'We are being roundly defeated. Our men are huddled weeping, like children, and the enemy are already victorious, having overrun our positions with little difficulty at all.'

The Governor looks aghast. 'But how can you tell in darkeness? Have you seen these things?'

The ensign shakes his head. 'Oh no sir - I can't see a thing. I just thought that, extrapolating from the past, that that was probably the most likely outcome.'

'So you can't be sure!'

'I could add some heroics, sir - if it would make you feel better. You know, in the general rout one of our men finds a small child, lost and separated from his mother, and fearlessly pushes him in the way of an enemy bayonet attack, holding up the enemy for a short while.'

'So, you don't think that actual heroics are a likely possibility and that we might succeed in holding the bastion?'

The ensign frowns. 'This is a report sir - not a fairy tale.'