Merkenwig, the Third!

Like a slow tide of thistle porridge, the Wurstburp clansmen flow forwards (below). They have in the main dispensed with firearms. This is for cultural reasons: in Scotland, most combat is conducted with broken bottles in that period after the taverns have shut. However, the Jacobite infantry have discovered that longswords and shields are even better than bottles at dispatching enemies, even if they are more difficult to smuggle into a bar. Because of this, they will no doubt prove to be tough fellows in hand-to-hand combat. 

Seeing the mass of enemy infantry advancing, the Kurlandian artillery is ordered to open fire (below). There is no good military reason for this, of course. Experience in Mittelheim has indicated that artillery has the same battlefield effectiveness as mild double entendre - although the balls are larger.

One interesting development, however, is that there is a notable lack of coordination between the Wurstburp infantry and their cavalry. The former stride manfully onwards, keen to set their steel against the flesh of their opponents; the latter seem happy to sit idly in their saddles, singing mournful Jacobite songs about long-lost combined arms doctrine over the sea.

(Above, top left) The left wing of the advancing Wurstburpers begins to swing to the flank, no doubt to protect it from any interference from the Kurlandian regular cavalry. On the other flank, the Cassock irregulars stay huddled upon their hill. The gap to their front, though, between the enemy infantry and their cavalry is getting really quite wide. This is just the opportunity that any enterprising cavalry might look for - which means, of course, that the Wurstburpers are probably safe.

(Above) The main infantry lines are now in close proximity. There is a rough growl from the Wurstburpers that signals both the impact on their thighs of the chafing of their sporrans but also their desire to close immediately with the enemy and put them to the sword. Ordinary infantry might be tired by their prolonged advance across the battlefield - but not the Wurstburpers. True to their Scottish heritage, the clansmen are always keen to proclaim their willingness, first to walk 500 miles; and then to walk 500 more; just to be the close combat infantry that would fall down at one's door. 

The Kurlandian infantry lower their muskets and prepare to fire: they need a good volley to disorder the enemy and deter them from closing ....

Merkenwig, the Second!

On the opposite side of the field of battle stands the army of the Margravate of Wurstburp. The Margrave, Kasper Johan von Porckenstauffen, is not a man of martial inclinations, and so command of his army is given over to General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski. Often, the general's command is merely notional because of the presence in Unpronunski's headquarters of Margrave Kaspar's nephew, Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen. The Prince, known because of his pronounced and rather rabbit-like front teeth as 'Bunnie Prince Karlie', is the Margrave's heir. Because of this, his opinions on military matters tend to take precedence. The Prince, however, is still in the capital rallying additional forces; so Unpronunski has a rare opportunity to exercise sole command. Alas for him, though, he is not alone at his headquarters.

Unpronunski's reflections on the most efficacious deployment of his troops have been interrupted by the arrival of Horace de Saxe. Brother of Maurice, he is widely regarded by himself as the foremost military thinker in Mittelheim. That he has been reduced to forcing himself upon Wurstburp, the least successful military organisation since novice nuns were forbidden from kick-boxing, is because his presence has not been universally welcomed elsewhere in Mittelheim. Although he is not the only military philosopher in the region, he is certainly, by a long sausage length, the wurst.

General Unpronunski is being subjected to some of Horace's excellent military advice.

'You are neglecting, I think, to address the elephant in the room, General', Horace says.

'Which is, Herr Saxe?'

'Why, the elephant. of course! It's the elephant. Like I said. Who has the elephants? Because the side with the elephants usually loses'.

Unpronunski frowns. 'I don't think that there are any elephants in the enemy army, sir: I certainly can't see any'.

'Or', says Saxe waggling his finger, 'perhaps you only think that you can't see the elephants'.

'Yes, I'm quite sure that I think that I cannot see the elephants, Saxe: because there aren't any'.

'Or, the enemy has just hidden them very well?'

'On that basis, Saxe, isn't it possible that, because I can't see a travelling circus of Portuguese mime artists, the enemy also has a large number of those within its order of battle?'

'Exactly - and, being mimes, they would be even harder to detect. In war, one must expect everything! And then again, also nothing!'

'Well', says Unpronunski wearily, 'this has been very illuminating'.

Partly because it means that he won't have to talk to Horace, Unpronunski sets about issuing orders for the deployment of his troops. Much of this force is composed of the remnants of Jacobite forces from the '45 rebellion. Since these were the survivors of Culloden, one can at least be assured that they have some skills as long-distance runners

(Above) The Wurstburp army moves into place. Orders are shouted and officers beat their men into position. The ex-Jacobites are a wild and fractious lot, their truculence explained in part by an excessive consumption of their national tipple: a libation made from fermented thistles and metal filings, known as Iron Brew.

(Below) The main element in the Wurstburp army are the regiments of ex-Jacobite highland infantry. Their natural fighting spirit, buoyed up by Iron Brew, is further reinforced by their anger at being forced to live in exile in Mittelheim, a place where vegetables proliferate and you can't get a decent bowl of porridge. Pronunski lines his infantry up opposite the Kurlandian musketeers. Whilst the highlanders aren't great shots, having a tendency to snort their gunpowder rather than put it into their guns, they are really quite handy in a hand-to-hand fight. 

(Below) On the right of the infantry, Pronunski has deployed two regiments of his cavalry: Baggin's Hussars and Fitzbadlie's Cavallerie. These troops have been deployed in line as a way of blocking any attempt by the enemy Cassock horsemen to their front to work their way around the flank of the Wurstburp advance. In addition, should it be necessary, the Wurstburp cavalry stand ready to attack and sweep away the poor quality Kurlandian irregular horse.

The left of the Wurstburp line is held by the Fitzinnisholl Horse (Below). These stand opposite all three regiments Kurlandian regular cavalry, and so Pronunski has supported them by deploying both batteries of his artillery. They won't hit anything of course; but the smoke that they make might be useful.

When all is ready, there is a moment of relative calm. Then, to the skirling of pipes and twirling of thistles, Pronunski orders the Wurstburp attack to commence! Someone in the highland regiments kicks a haggis forwards towards the enemy and then, with a roar of 'See You, Fritz!' the main body advances! 

Merkenwig, the First!

Wherein the army of the Margravate of Badwurst-Wurstburp under General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski encounters the forces of the the Duchy of Kurland, commanded by Grand Duchess Catherine.

Monday is rarely anyone's favourite day. For many in the civilised world, it is the first day of the working week; and so signals that point of the greatest distance from a lovely Sunday lie-in. For those in Mittelheim, it often signals the end of one working week and the immediate start of the next. Thus, it unhappily combines the discontent experienced by those who do not have a day off, with the feelings simultaneously of mutiny at the prospect of having to do it all again. In the Margravate of Badwurst-Wurstburp, however, there is yet another reason to feel that this day is a rather a sub-optimal one: a suprise attack by their neighbours to the north, the Duchy of Kurland. Mobilising the army, the Wurstburp commander, General Bazyli Atonin Unpronunski has been ordered to sweep the invaders back across the border. Or, if a broom doesn't work, to actually fight them.

Heretically for many within her own country, the Grand Duchess had taken up the burden of commanding her military forces. (Below) At her headquarters, Grigori Savvinos, a recently arrived notable, has been established as the army's chief of staff. Savvinos' qualifications put him well ahead for this role of any native Kurlandian: he can read and write, and he does what he is told.

The Kurlandians have advanced cautiously, and have occupied the area in the vicinity of the Wurstburp village of Merkenwig. It stands amid open terrain, marked by a low hill or two, and small woods: so, much like the forest terrain that has featured in other recent battles. As a student of military history, Catherine has realised that nothing says that one means serious military business like deploying an army in a big, long line. And so, to rueful shaking of heads from her Kurlandian subordinates, she orders her troops deployed into a big, long line (below).

Catherine has deployed her army between the two hills that stand either side of Merkenwig village (above). The Kurlandian irregular cavalry, three sotnias of Cassock horsemen, hold the left flank (below). Of course, being Cassocks, they don't really 'hold' the hill, so much as mill around on it looking lost. If the hill were smaller, and more mobile, they would try and steal it; if it were more attractive, and more mobile, they would try and carry it off and ravish it. But as it is, since the mound doesn't fall into either of the two categories, the irregulars hang around, non-plussed.

In the centre, the infantry are deployed. One regiment holds the village; two are held in reserve; the remainder form a firing line between the village and the Cassocks. The reserve infantry are the army's conscript troops. Catherine hopes that their role will be more in an observatory capacity, since if they actually have to fight it will be a sign that things aren't going altogether to plan. 

To the right of the village, the Duchess has decided to mass all three batteries of her artillery. This is a decision that some sceptics might argue is already an exercise in reinforcing failure. Having one battery of artillery is bad enough: but placing three in close proximity only increases the chances of some embarrassing failure on the part of technically-minded social inferiors.

Finally, holding the right, Boris Katsonov commands the Kurland regular cavalry. He himself is attached to the Berndt-Lippe Carabiniers. Catherine's army watches at the Wurstburpers form up on the other side of the field. Notwithstanding the poor record thus far of their Wurstburp adversaries, many of the Kurlandian officers are sceptical about their chances in the coming encounter. Real wars are fought by men; badly, it is true - but can one really have full confidence in a commander who is largely immune to being kicked between the legs?