Here Today, Gone to Barrow!

War, as any worthwhile military philosopher might note, is a complex business. Amongst these many complexities is the vexed question of how one might define victory. For some, victory is a matter of the degree to which political objectives have been achieved. For others, victory essentially is an imagined condition: it is defined by the perception of key constituencies, shaped by such things as salient events and pre-existing prejudices. In Mittelheim though, neither of these metrics is particularly useful. The attainment of political goals presupposes that a war does indeed have some kind of rational purpose, an assumption that cannot be applied here. In Mittelheim, war is like tying a puffin to one's hat - entertaining in a strange kind of way (unless one is a puffin who doesn't like hats); but not something that serves much practical purpose. Pre-existing prejudices would also be another poor metric of success, since prejudices are about the only thing that Mittleheim has in abundance; other than, perhaps, a fear of soap.

None of this is terribly useful for Captain Dreihumpe, who needs to be able to spin this military escapade as a victory, whatever the actual outcome. Dreihumpe is willing to take what he can get. (Above) Whilst one of his grenadier companies is furiously rendering parts of the approach trench uninhabitable, his second force is now fighting a desperate melee against defending musketeers. The rewards of success here would be the ability to push farther down the line of the enemy entrenchment, with all of the prizes that that would deliver.

(Above) These potential prizes consist of a second group of enemy pioneers, along with the defending Nabstrian guns. They not a very good prizes, of course. No Nabstrian pioneers could really be described as a desirable reward. However, there might be some kind of vague satisfaction to be had in slaughtering them all and so saving the world from their particular brand of shovel-related slackness.

Sadly, and not really unpredictably, this victory is not to be. With a set of die rolls so dismal they might as well be a long caravan holiday in Rhyl, the grenadiers comprehensively lose the combat. Half their number are lost to death, wounds, or tactical fainting. (Above, bottom) Seeing the way things are now trending, the captain recalibrates his scale of success and firmly grasps a nearby wheelbarrow. As a metric of success, stealing the enemy's wheelbarrow isn't perhaps the most convincing - but it's better than nothing. Possibly. (Below) Testing their morale, his troops reject the option of an heroic death through fighting to the last man, and decide instead to test their cardio-vascular skills in a spineless sprint to the rear. Throwing aside their muskets, the Fenwickian elite bleat like sheep and turn homewards.

Alas, it transpires that their fitness leaves quite a lot to be desired. (Below) The routing grenadiers cannot escape and are shot, captured, or change sides; or, more likely, are captured, change sides, and are then shot. Looking on, Dreihumpe's remaining grenadiers recognise that they are, like a bear that has sat on a particularly large bee's nest, in quite a sticky situation. To be fair, they have made some progress in rendering the approach trench uninhabitable. Dog hair and syrup have been lavishly distributed across any surface that might act as a seat or bed. Especially tricky crosswords have been left in places impossible to miss, and no means left to erase any wrong answers.

As his remaining grenadiers put the finishing touches to their handiwork, Dreihumpe jogs past, the hideous squeals and groans hopefully coming from his barrow and not his knees. A difficult choice faces the captain. He can take a chance for his country and launch his remaining troops in an immediate charge upon the still disordered enemy musketeers. Such an attack would be extremely risky, but would offer the options of death or glory. Or, he could slink off into the night. It isn't of course, really a choice at all ...