Omen Pigeon!

On the southern border of Schrote, Baron Hunchmausen is encamped with a force of Gelderland troops. His task is two-fold. First, he is here on hand in case any unforeseen circumstances arise relating to the Emperor's coronation. Second, his force is waiting to rendezvous with a party of Vulgarians, who are escorting the pretender, Herr Michael Agorn, from the dungeons of Rotenburg to the dungeons of Vulgaria. It is not an accommodation upgrade. To facilitate the latter, Hunchmausen is accompanied by a Vulgarian liaison officer.

“Remind me, why are we doing this again, Shir…Tzir…Cer…”
“Czernázmije, Herr Baron”
“Erm yes, of course, of course Schur…”
“Czernázmije, General Hünchmausen”
“Yes! Yes! I know! I know! I’m not an imbecile..”
A slight cough from the Vulgarian attaché might, to an unsympathetic observer, have indicated his disagreement.
“…it’s this umm, you know, this umm, thingy…” von Hünchmausen trails off.
“Herr Baron?”
“Well? Why have I got to do this?”
“You mean, inspect the troops, Herr Baron?”
“Yes, that!”
“Surely even in Gelderland it is usually expected of a commander, General? You know, to see that the men are in good fighting order, looking after their equipment and most importantly that your stirring words will raise their morale Herr Baron?”
“Oh well, if you insist.”

A few minutes later sees Hünchmausen mounted and beginning to make his way down the line of the Ostmarck Regiment, pausing to speak to various soldiers.
“Ostmarck eh?”
“Sah!”
“Well in my experience there’s only two sorts from Ostmarck, steers and ... larger steers; which one are you son?” The soldier looks uncomfortable. “I’ve got my eye on you my lad!”
The Baron moves on. The next soldier looks even more uncomfortable. “Why are these men so fat? Why have I got a fat army? You there, chubby! Pull your stomach in! And you there, yes you! Chin up fatty! Chins up! Yes, both of them!”
“It’s, well it’s glandular sir!” exclaims the reddening soldier.
“Bandy words and legs with me will you! You swine! Sergeant Major, arrest this man and have him keelhauled!”
The Sergeant Major steps forward after receiving a pitying look from Czernázmije who is watching the farcical spectacle from a safe position behind Hünchmausen. He opens his mouth, looks about to say something but noticing the vigorous head shaking of the lean Vulgarian, promptly closes his mouth and prepares to march the now sobbing private away. 

“It’s not my fault Sarn’t Major, honest, I’ve always been big boned! My mum always said I…”

The by now empurpled Baron, looking like an advertisement for apoplexy, is about to scream his displeasure when the tableau freezes as a huge white and grey gobbet of avian effluvia splatters, dolloping its way down from his shoulder across the crimson magnificence of his uniform. The parade holds its collective breath as a circling pigeon not content with one outrage on Hünchmausen’s dignity has the effrontery to land cooing on the Baron’s ornate, imposing but frankly preposterous headgear. Oh, Horror! Before the Sergeant Major can stop him the “big boned” private exclaims the ancient Gelderland proverb: 

“If a pigeon with you shares his muck, All the day you’ll have good luck!” 

For, Gelderland being Gelderland, the unexpected receipt of absolutely *anything* free of charge is regarded as the most auspicious of omens and now the men of the Ostmarck Regiment can only stand awestruck before their General: clearly, truly the anointed of Heaven, destined to lead them to greatness and victory! And a substantial cleaning bill.

"Excellent!", says the baron. "I think I've really got the hang of this".

"The pigeon, Herr Baron", says Czernázmije. "It is carrying a message!"