Now Wash Your Hands!

Brevet Brigadier General Ernst Leopold von Rheinfunkt, commander of the forces besieging Fort Pippin, groans inwardly. Returning after surveying the latest progress of his troops, who should he see outside of his tent than Horace de Saxe. To say that the general is displeased is something of an understatement: he would rather have bumped into an amorous plague-carrying French mime artist than the self proclaimed genius and philosopher of war, Horace. Worse, afflicted by that most tedious of encumbrances, a sense of social etiquette, Rheinfunkt is unable to do what he really wants to do (which is to saw Horace in half with a blunt butter knife whilst slapping him around the face with an angry otter) and instead feels compelled to go through the motions of polite behaviour.
(Below) 'My lord Horace', says the general, gesturing unenthusiastically towards his tent. 'Will you not join me and share a glass of port?'
Saxe shakes his head whilst adjusting his blanket. 'Oh no, I've been in', he replies. 'I'd give it a minute', he says, wrinkling his nose and wafting his hands. 'Perhaps a few minutes, actually'.
'That's ... that's my headquarters tent', says Rheinfunkt, appalled.

Horace pauses. 'Headquarters? Really? Well, ah ... then ride with me', he says shooing Rheinfunkt away from the tent. 'It is a fine night for some conversation and reflection'.
'It's about to rain hard and it's very cold', says the general, unconvinced.
Horace nods. 'So much the better. We shall ride and talk about the old times, and then I'll tell you a story about your headquarters tent that might surprise you; but I think, in a few days, that you will laugh about the strange vicissitudes of war, and the entirely understandable problems in correctly identifying commodes'.
Rheinfunkt gestures towards his tent. 'But I need access to my travelling trunk'.
'A trunk?', replies Horace. 'In the corner?'
'Yes. A large wooden trunk'.
'Is there ... anything valuable in it?'
'Well, yes - my father's old campaigning coat: an irreplaceable heirloom of immense value to me'.
'A blue campaigning coat - that could perfectly understandably be mistaken for a seat cover?'
'Blue, yes'.
Horace winces. 'Is it ... washable?'

(Below) Successfully diverting the general away from his tent, Horace engages Rheinfunkt in harmless conversation. 'Well general, that was quite an explosion we caused'.
'We caused it?', says the general suspiciously. 'I thought that it was an accident. I gave no orders for an attack'.
'Oh yes', says Horace in conversational tones. 'My engineers blew up a nunnery'.
The general blanches. 'You ... you ... blew up a nunnery?'
'Indeed, general', replies Horace. 'Of course, I was trying to blow up the wall. But we rather underestimated the distance. The men had had an extra ration of leech brandy and got a wiggle on. And then what with misplacing my ruler there was some ... ah ... misapprehension of the distances'.
Rheinfunkt gesticulates, horrified. 'You. Blew. Up. A nunnery?'.
'Yes, but don't worry - our intelligence indicates that there were no nuns in it'.
'Thank the Lord', says the general, in relief. 'Thank the good Lord'.
Horace nods. 'Yes, that's the funny thing: apparently it was filled to the rafters instead with baby orphans'.

'Baby ... baby ...', Rheinfunkt is lost for words. There is something about his demeanor, though, which begins to give Horace indications that perhaps the general is taking the news less well than anticipated: the spittle, for example; the contorting of his face; the loading of his pistol and the pointing of it at Horace's forehead.
'One can't make military omelettes', says Horace placatingly, 'without breaking a few orphan eggs. I used the best of my military judgement in the circumstances'.
'Used your judgement!' utters Rheinfunkt in a strangled tone. 'Used your judgement? But ... you don't have any judgement, military or otherwise! If you had judgement, you wouldn't have joined the Gelderland army! In fact, you wouldn't even be in Gelderland! I don't employ you to exercise judgement - you are an officer in a Mittelheim army: I employ you to do what you are told! Badly. And then to do it again equally badly when I tell you to!'
Horace begins to realise that things are going badly, and that he hasn't so much poked the bear than, as it were, slathered his nether regions in honey and bounced them repeatedly on the bear's nose. 
Rheinfunkt continues, his voice rising. 'We've blown up a building full of orphans, Saxe! What will people say! This is the Enlightenment! One can't just go around blowing up orphans - at least, not without a watertight scientific justification!'

As Rheinfunkt becomes increasingly agitated, as does his grip on his pistol, there is the sound of an advancing horseman - it is messenger!
'Sir! Sir!' cries a messenger. 'The enemy are assaulting our third parallel!'