From the Fenwickian headquarters, Captain Fabius Nitwitz wrinkles his nose as he surveys the results. 'Did they fire?' he says to the imperial chief of staff, Giovanni di Tripodi. 'Or did they just light a lot of very big pipes?'
Tripodi nods, philosophically. 'It is typical: one gets excited by the prospect of carnage, but then the troops just let one down'.
'Did they even fire?' mutters Nitwitz. 'Perhaps that isn't smoke - perhaps it's flour. Perhaps what we witnessed was just a great Fenwickian bake-off'.
The Bachscuttel return fire is rather more effective and for a period the battle degenerates into a vicious exchange of musketry, interspersed by frantic attempts to rally off the resulting disorder. By frantic rallying, of course, what we mean is that officers run up and down behind the respective lines of troops informing them that death by musket ball would a mere inconvenience compared with the pain and suffering that will be inflicted upon them by the cunning application of disciplinary badgers if they don't stay in line. Also, the word "degenerates" implies perhaps a higher standard of initial activity then is merited. Perhaps "further degenerates" would be more accurate. Or perhaps "sucks even more mightily". The indecisive nature of this combat is reinforced by the fact that the troops on both sides are of an elite quality, a condition evident less by the quality of the musketry than by the fact that their britches are done up properly.
The larger of the Imperial columns consists of five regiments stacked up one behind the other. To their front, though, their adversaries are bolstered by artillery. Some surprisingly accurate fire from this mixed Bachscuttel force causes the first infantry loss of the battle as the lead Fenwickian element flees. (Below, left) An imperial unit behind marches up to take its place. It too, however, takes some nasty canister right where it hurts.
(Above) The left hand imperial attack column now consists of four regiments, and the right hand of three. Major Bohner turns to Barry-Eylund. 'See my lord!' he says excitedly. 'the enemy batter themselves uselessly against the firm ramparts of our defensive line! I sense a great victory in the offing! See, my lord, the benefits of eschewing the turtle!'
'"Eschewing the turtle"' replies the general. 'It sounds like buying a tortoise a new pair of boots. But, look Bohner, since we are using animal metaphors, let us not count our chickens before they are hatched. Indeed, since these are Fenwickians, the "Spartans of Mittelheim", it would better not to buy eggs from them in the first place; but, rather, to pretend to be buying eggs from them using a large denomination coin so that, when they are trying to find some change, we can kick them in their soft, dangly bits'.
'Right in their earlobes, sir - that's it!' cries Bohner.
'Actually, Bohner, I think I meant a target rather more central to the activity that produces babies'.
Bohner nods enthusiastically: 'Right in their beer, sir! Right in!'
The general gives up. 'Look, I think the point we need to understand here is that this battle is, like the leaning tower of Pisa, very far from being over'.
Indeed it isn't, because, at that very moment, the commanding officer of the splendid, red-coated troops of Bachscuttel's Milchfrau Lieb Garde is struck by a terrible bout of confusion. 'Quack, quack, wibble', the colonel says earnestly to his second-in-command. And, without further ado, the regiment wheels ninety degrees to the right, breaking the Bachscuttel line and moving them into the marsh. (Below, top) Disordered, unable to fire, and now no longer in commend coherence with the remainder of the nearby Bachscuttel infantry force, the guard's contribution to the fight is now that of disdainful observers. As the fetid marshwater begins to seep into their shoes, they stand to attention and make a contribution to the common effort similar to that of all members of the aristocracy throughout the ages - they watch while poorer people crack on with the hard work.
(Above) In front of the guard, the action begins to hot up. More orders, beautifully written and correctly punctuated, issue from the table of chief of staff Tripodi. Some of the orders even include alliteration; some, Japanese Haiku forms. In others, Tripodi, just for giggles, has used iambic pentameter. Not, of course, that this actually produces giggles in the regiments concerned, because the soldiers wouldn't recognise iambic pentameter if it had given birth to them and brought them up for seventeen years in an idyllic childhood on a small farm in Bavaria. Nevertheless, following Tripodi's orders, the lead regiments of each of the two Fenwickian columns give a loud hurrah (or it could be a "No! No!") and charge forwards with the bayonet in an attempt to break the deadlock.
(Above) In front of the red-coated guard, things don't go well for Cavandish - the attacking troops in his right-hand force are roughly handled and flee the field, leaving now three regiments in the attacking column. But this is not the critical combat - more Fenwickians stand behind to take the place of the routed unit. The other combat is more important. The Bachscuttel troops in front are the key to maintaining the integrity of Barry-Eylund's right flank. Though here, too, the Fenwickians are driven back, the victorious Bachscuttlers are left heavily disordered and in a precarious position. In the subsequent exchange of volleys, Barry-Eylund's infantry are broken (below) leaving a major gap in his line!
(Above) With his right flank infantry regiment destroyed, the Bachscuttel cavalry are now exposed to flanking fire from the enemy infantry. The Kurassier von Fliegerweiner, in particular, look like they are about to have an uncomfortable time of things. The battle seems to be tilting now in Fenwick's direction. Barry-Eylund's sang froid starts to become distinctly chaud.
'We are staring into the face of defeat, Bohner' says Barry-Eylund grimly. 'I can see right up its nose'.
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