Jangthof, the Final!

General Unpronunski shakes his head. 'No Prince Karl, we are not exchanging clothes with local peasants, slipping away from the battlefield, and then joining a circus'.

Karl shrugs. 'It is by far the best option'.

'It is morally wrong', replies the general. 'It is cowardly and unprofessional. Also, look at those peasants - I am not wearing that skirt'. 

Prince Karl scowls. 'Well then general, the most immediate threat is that of further enemy musketry applied to our massed attack columns. We must commit our infantry now before they are destroyed by the enemy's lethal volleys'.

'Very well', nods Unpronunski. 'Adjutant, issue the orders. Prepare the men for the advance - or at least those few of our musketeers that are indeed real men: the rest will just have to follow'.

Looking on, general Unpronunski realises that this is the decisive combat of this battle and that he must make use of every advantage available to him. Calling forwards adjutant von Hardtpumping, the general instructs him to find the last of the Wurstburp clerics and to send him in support of this attack.

'Herr cleric!' says Hardtpumping, reining in his horse. 'You are commanded to advance in support of this attack! Go hence! Inspire our men to prodigies!'
'Uhhhh', says the startled cleric uncertainly, hurriedly pulling on his vestments. 'Uhhhh, but I'm rather new at this! I've never done this sort of thing before. Actually, I haven't even finished reading the manual', he says, pointing at his copy of the bible. 'I really haven't got much beyond chapter two. You know, the, uh, creating and resting bits; and then the bits with the garden, and the nakedness, and the, uh, fruit'.
'Forwards, sir!' shouts the adjutant urgently. 'No shilly-shallying! Our need is both pressing and immediate!'
Hurrying towards the sounds of battle, the cleric prepares himself for this make or break Wurstburp combat ....

(Above) Three Wurstburp battalions advance forward into the assault. One confronts the Rotenburg Legion Britannique; two others are thrown against a unit to its flank. Though the situation is serious for the Rotenburg troops, their position improves when their grenadiers are called forwards, tipping the balance of the combat in their favour. In the distance, however, the Rotenburgers espy the Wurstburp cleric. Fearing that a wrathful God might turn them into pillars of salt, or peanut butter, or some other unwelcome condiment, there are cries of fear from the Rotenburg troops, and a great wailing, and the uttering of a very great quantity of colourful metaphors.

'Just to clarify, sir', says one of the Wurstburp subalterns to the cleric whilst simultaneously pushing some of his soldiers back into line. 'Just to clarify - so, Cain was in a forest on the way to see his grandmother and he was wearing a red hooded cloak?'
'Oh yes' says the cleric, hunched slightly to make the smallest possible target for musket balls. 'And then Cain says "But what big eyes you've got grandmother ..."'
'Um', says the officer. 'I'm not entirely sure that that is a story from the bible ...'
'Who's the cleric here?' says the cleric, loudly. 'Who's the expert?'
'And the trail of breadcrumbs and the gingerbread house?'
'It's all in there, soldier', says the cleric, tapping his bible.' Perhaps,' says the cleric pointedly, 'you aren't a real Catholic.'
'But I am sir; I promise you ...'
'Perhaps, you're a Lutheran ...'
The subaltern blanches. 'No, no, sir ...'
'Or ... a Calvinist ...'
'Upon my honour, sir ...' splutters the officer in rising panic.
'Or English ...'
'No, no, no - I just didn't know that the story of Cain and Abel had three little pigs and a fairy godmother ...'
'Burn the witch!' howls the cleric.

Inspired by the cleric, perhaps, and certainly aided by the fact that they outnumber their adversaries two-to-one, the right-most Wurstburp attack is successful, the Rotenburg regiment being driven from the field in rout. Alas for Unpronunski, the other combat is less successful. The Legion Britannique put up a great fight.
'Steady, men!' shouts their commanding officer, Colonel 'Kevin', as the Wurstburp regiment advances towards them.
'Righto, sir!' shout the men. 'You know', adds one, 'your voice is quite high for an infantry officer, sir'.
'Is it?' replies the colonel, suddenly lowering his voice three octaves. 'Is it?'
'Also, sir, is that ... mascara you're wearing?'
'No, no, no' replies the colonel, his voice lowering a further two octaves and sounding now like a Yorkshireman with a sore throat gargling with some particularly husky gravel.
Already somewhat disordered before the assault, the Wurstburp attackers are driven back and break. (Below) With losses equal, this is not the success that Unpronunski hoped for or needs. The margravial infantry are now in an even more weakened state, and are lashed again by lethal Rotenburg volleys.

The remaining Wurstburp infantry begin to buckle. With the officers and NCO's dead or wounded, the rank and file begin to contemplate a speedy exit.
'I'm off', says one musketeer.
'What about the rest of us?' says a second.
'Yes', says a third. 'We're comrades - you can't leave us behind. There's no "I" in rout.'
'There could be', says a fourth. 'I mean, we're all illiterate. So there could be an "I" in it.'
'That's right', says the second. 'And a "D" and a "T" and a.. a.. "£"'.
'A "£"'? Now you're just showing off'.
'Look', says the first. 'Look around us. We're finished. It's time to go - none of us asked for this; none of us are volunteers. We've all been conscripted unwillingly'.
Another nods. 'I'd just nipped out for a quick piglet'.
'I'm Vulgarian', says another.
'I'm a barmaid', says a third.
'Actually, I volunteered', says a fourth.
'Volunteered?' say the others. 'Are you an idiot?'
'In a literal sense - yes. For I am the village idiot of the small hamlet of Kleine Popthardt'.
'Well', says the first, 'you've certainly confirmed your cretinous credentials'.
'Written them in big letters', says the second. 'A "D" ... a "T" ... and a "£"'.

(Above, right) The Rotenburg infantry quickly storms Jangthoff hill. The only defenders are a weakened battery of Wurstburp artillery.
'Drive off the enemy!' shouts adjutant Hardtpumping to the battery.
'Drive off the ... ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh - you're being serious', say the artillerymen.
Whilst it might well be that it takes two years of serious technical study to become an artillery officer, it's clear that these fellows skipped the classes on physics, mathematics, geometry, and firing cannons; and majored instead on falling over, sprinting, and learning how to surrender in eight different languages. They prove to be about as much inconvenience to the attacking infantry as a heavy lunch.

(Above) Though his losses are not great, Unpronunski fears that victory is now beyond his grasp and that further fighting will merely see his remaining infantry slaughtered by superior Rotenburg musketry. Sadly, he orders a withdrawal. Furst Augustus, pleased simply to have achieved a success, is happy to allow his adversary to retire unmolested.

As they watch Prince Karl gallop furiously from the field, Unpronunski and adjutant von Hardtpumping seem surprisingly philosophical about things. Although they have lost two regiments of conscripts, three others seem to have learnt enough from this battle to have been raised to the status of 'trained'. Indeed, one of the regular regiments seems now to have put on sufficient weight that one might consider them to be of 'elite' quality. There is also another, unexpected, benefit from this battle. As the general watches his troops retire, a horseman suddenly gallops into his headquarters, his horse all a-lather.
'I am Robert de Casside' says the notable. 'And I have come to join the victorious Rotenburg army!'

Hardtpumping pulls a face. 'Yes, but you've made a terrible mistake this isn't ... ooof!' he says as Unpronunski digs him painfully in the ribs.

'Welcome, my lord Robert', says Unpronunski. 'Welcome to the Rotenburg army! I think you'll enjoy yourself here tremendously!'