The Guns of Naverhon, the Final!

Alas for the Zentan cause, the janissaries continue to treat the battle like a long weekend away. Having done some additional sightseeing to the rear of the Albanian positions, the slave-soldiers clearly conclude that a sight definitely not worth seeing would be the enemy firing line. Some of the Albanians rally and push forwards again. Others recommence their fire upon the lead unit of Pandurs (below).

The Zentan commander is understandably frustrated at his inability to get his best troops into the fray. Various colourful metaphors are uttered; hand gestures, not all of them supportive or child-friendly, are also made; and some frustration is evinced over the rules of war. 

(Above) Nevertheless, the Albanians continue to fight on manfully. More Pandurs tumble to the ground! (Below) The Pandurs' morale, never terribly high, crumbles at the sight of blood. They flee the field, leaving the remaining engineers dangerously exposed!

(Below) Alas, the Albanians are unable to take advantage of the situation. The engineers manage to run backwards before the Albanians can open fire on them. More mercenary infantry move up and open fire on the Zentans.

Any plan that relies for its success primarily on the efforts of  Zentan irregulars is never likely to be one in which the chances of success are high. Given the continual failure of the janissaries to move or act, the performance of the Albanians has been commendable. However, without the help of the Zentan elite troops, the chances of Zentan success were always going to be lower than a hedgehog's gonads. 

(Below) Many hits are inflicted, and the remains of two platoons of Albanians rout the field.

Having lost more than half their troops, the Zentans find themselves having to test morale. They fail, of course, as is the Zentan way and the attacking force must now retreat! The engineers are safe!

The Guns of Naverhon, the Fourth!

War, as a rule, is known to be quite a stressful activity. It's not, of course, the most stressful human experience. That accolade would be reserved for those circumstances in which one has been asked that sort of particular question by one's partner in which a fate worse than death might come from giving the wrong answer: questions such as: 'Do you think I should I wear the green or the blue?'; or, 'Do you think I'm putting on weight?'; or 'Do you think that my sister is attractive?'

Nevertheless, and not withstanding the physical harm that can also come from giving the wrong answers to the previous questions, war is generally a worrying state of affairs. There are the physical traumas that result from being hit by musket shot or cannon balls; the mental traumas that derive from discovering that not all of the latter have been fired by the enemy; and the moral dilemmas concerning whether, as a good Mittelheim Christian, one should bayonet civilians and then set light to them; or whether they should instead be lit and then bayoneted. Having said all of this, there is one kind of warfare that it much less taxing, physically, mentally, and morally: and that is Zentan Janissary warfare. Zentan Janissary warfare has more in common with such non-military pursuits as sleeping, drinking coffee, or going on holiday. 

And so it is that, as the Zentan struggle to kill or capture the enemy engineers intensifies, the main concern for the janissaries seems to be whether there will be sufficient sun loungers available: a question of concern given that their enemy are Germans. (Below) The Albanians have driven back one of the units of Pandurs. Another unit sidles outwards along the road, trying to cover the engineers. The unit that has been driven back rallies on a nearby hill.

(Below) The mercenary musketeers are now unobstructed by the Pandurs. Using formed fire they pour volleys into the Albanians: although, in reality, applying words such as 'formed' and 'pour' would probably be stretching the meaning of those words somewhere near breaking point. The mercenaries are 'formed' in the sense that they are noticeably more clumped together than the Pamdurs; and they 'pour' fire in the same way in which something that was recently happening quite slowly is now beginning to occur a bit faster: like the panic that might start seizing a gentlemen when he realises the consequence of saying something like: 'Well, you know, as it happens your sister is actually quite saucy'.

(Below) The Albanians take more casualties and one of the remaining units is forced to retreat from the edge of the woods. The dilatory janissaries have now managed finally to get close to the action. One platoon is now behind the wood containing the Albanians, a position that they have reached in their search, no doubt, for a quieter stretch of beach in which to unwind.

(Below) The rallied unit of Pandurs now move up again. Their intention is surely to advance to the left of their compatriots and so extend the screen of troops that will protect the remaining engineers as they attempt to exit, stage left.

 With the remaining engineers close to escaping, surely now is the time for the Zentan janissaries to step up and demonstrate their elite status!

The Guns of Naverhon, the Third!

The Zentan's janissary dysfunction continues. Try as the Sanjak's commander does, he just can't get his slave-soldiers up. (Below) The Albanians have moved to the edge of the wood, and they are at least on the right side of field of battle to cause some mischief to the engineers, if they can reach them.

(Below) Whilst hanging around in woods and skirmishing from a distance is probably the Albanian way, there is quite a lot of open ground to cover if they decide that it might be necessary to close with their adversaries.

The Zentans decide to open fire, and a contest of musketry begins. It's a rubbish contest, of course: Albanians versus pandurs is the military equivalent of an under ten's recorder contest. The wily Zentans then decide to switch targets and focus on the slowest of the groups of engineers. A few hits are sufficient to rout the latter and they quit the field! (Below) the surviving engineers cower behind the mercenary firing line.

The Zentans switch targets back to the enemy pandurs. As the firing continues, the accumulation of casualties begins to have an effect. (Below) One unit of Albanians recoils back into the woods. More significantly, however, the lead platoon of pandurs takes hits and then routs backwards.

(Above, right) Suddenly, there is a large hole in the Rotenburg line, and the lead element of engineers is now exposed!

The Guns of Naverhon, the Second!

Fate smiles upon the Rotenburgers; gormlessly, perhaps, but favourably, nevertheless. As the Zentan troops hang around, admiring the local scenery, the mercenaries are able to begin executing their plan; although the word 'plan' might be stretching the meaning of the speculative guesswork that underpins their activities.

(Above) The engineers start making their way off the road. Behind them, the pandurs and musketeers attempt to form a firing line; or a firing wiggle at the very least. This line will provide cover as the engineers make their way up towards the road exit.

(Below) The pandurs are masking the fire of the musketeers, of course. The musketeers use the opportunity to form a two-deep formation ready to fire by ranks.

The Zentans continue to dawdle, handing the initiative to the mercenaries. (Below) As the engineers bathe in the luxurious safety of the cover of their infantry support, the pandurs begin loosing volleys off into the woods to their front.

Most of the casualties are squirrels, of course, but the odd Albanian is also taken out. The Albanian wounded are unlikely to be well treated if they are captured by any of the woodland animals. 

(Above) On the other flank, a platoon of musketeers and the remaining pandurs form up ready to fire. The pandurs find themselves a handy wall to hide behind. Thanks to the dilatory behaviour of the Zentan janissaries, things are already beginning to look a little difficult for the Zentans. Still, there's plenty of time for the mercenaries to knock loudly upon the door of Mr Cock Up. 

The Guns of Naverhon, the First!

In the wild northern reaches of Zenta, near the village of Naverhon, we turn our gaze to a small encampment of Rotenburg mercenaries. These fellows have long been employed in the service of Hospodar Casimir, their skills being applied to the production of high technology weapons; although the term 'high technology' mainly refers to the height of what has been produced, rather than its sophistication. A prime example of this are the WMD, or 'Wagons Moste Destructive', that have been produced by adding cannons to ox carts. This blending of artillery and sub-optimal transport has had the effect of producing a weapons system that makes the cannons less accurate and the wagons slower. It has also made the ox even more truculent by giving them the self-confidence that comes from access to small-bore artillery. 

At this moment, some of the mercenary artificers are standing around one of their latest creations.

'What's this?' asks one, with interest.

''My latest creation', replies another. 

'It's very small', adds a third.

'Indeed, that's the point. It is a miniature mortar produced according to a design drawn up by my grandmother'.

'Miniature weapons designed by your grandmother?'

'Why yes - I call it "Nanotechnology"'.

This scholarly exchange of views is interrupted by the sudden sounds of drumming. Alarm! Alarm!

(Above) A little way to the east, Zentan troops seem to be approaching. By the silly cut of their caps and the sourness of their demeanor, these must be janissaries. Taken from their parents at the age of seven and then converted to Islam, these troops are just as angry as one might expect if one were looking at ex-Mittelheim children who have suddenly been prevented by their new religious strictures from drinking strong alcohol.

The general air of military indiscipline is reinforced by the arrival of some Albanian mercenaries. (Above) To describe these troops as badger-biting loonies would be to have caught them in one of their rare moments of quiet reflection. 

(Below) The Rotenburg mercenaries exit their tents and begin to try and form up.

'I don't understand', says one. 'Why are the Zentans suddenly so angry with us? I thought they liked us?'

'Hmmm', replies another. 'I had noticed the mood changing over the last day or so. Didn't you see those lasses yesterday who mouthed obscenities at us and then drew a finger slowly across their throats, before pointing at us'.

'I thought they were just saying how much they liked us', replies the first. 'My wife often does the same thing when I come back late from the tavern'.

The Rotenburg mercenaries consist of two parties of engineers, two platoons of Rotenburg Pandurs, and one platoon of Rotenburg reserve infantry. Being poor quality, ill-disciplined sweepings from the sort of prisons where even the cockroaches suffer from depression, these troops are a cut above the usual Rotenburg soldiery.

The mercenaries try and put themselves into some kind of order. (Above, right) The engineers are the key troops. In order to succeed, the engineers must exit from one or both ends of the road.

The mercenary commander decides to try and shepherd the engineers to the west. In the trees to the front, the Rotenbergers can hear the sound of angry Albanians. The is indistinguishable from just hearing the sound of Albanians. The Pandurs and infantry begin to try and form a firing line behind which the engineers can shelter. 

Meanwhile, a third platoon of Pandurs appears. They have been hanging out with the bears in the woods. It is clear that one issue of importance to the battle is whether these Pandurs can get to the scene of the fight before the janissaries do ...

 

You've Nailed Him to His Perch!

'As you requested, my lord Casimir: behold! The Rotenburg ambassador!' cries Radu Pasha, gesturing.
There is a moment of silence as the assembled court look at the contents of the floor in front of them.

'Hmmm' says Hospodar Casimir finally. 'He doesn't look very well'.

'Has he lost some weight?' asks Sihirbaz Agha, the Sanjak's Chief (and to be honest, only) Scientist. 'He looks a bit peaky'.

 'He's dead', says the Hospodina Eudokia Asanina. 'He is, to use the English vernacular, "brown bread". Indeed, given how very dead he looks, one might say that he is "seven-seed multi-grain bread"'.

'Are we sure?' asks Sihirbaz. 'Because I had a long conversation with him yesterday in the gardens'.

'He's dead', says Radu Pasha sighing.

'No, he's just resting ...' replies Sihirbaz vehemently.

Radu snorts. 'Look, I know what a dead ambassador looks like; and I'm looking at one right now!'

'No, he's not dead: he's definitely resting!'

'Well, if he's resting, then we should wake him him up!' says Radu. 'Wake up mister ambassador, I've got a lovely cuttlefish for you!'

'There!' cries Sihirbaz. 'He moved!

'No he didn't!' says Radu. 'That was you poking his head with your foot!'

'He's resting!' insists Sihirbaz.

'Wake up! Wake up! See?' replies Radu, thrashing the ambassador with his stick.

'I think he was just waking up when you stunned him with your cane' insists Sihirbaz.

'No!' cries Radu. 'This ambassador is demised!'

'He could just be pining ...'

'He's not pining! He has passed on!'

'Pining for ... some fjords'.

Radu gesticulates. 'He's not pining for some fjords! This ambassador is dead! He's a stiff! He is an ex-ambassador!'

The hospodina raises an eyebrow. 'Cease this! Look at him: he's shrunken, naked, skeletal, and also, and this should be a reasonably strong clue, he's not breathing'.

'He could be breathing softly', says Sihirbaz, unwisely persevering.

'I doubt it', say Eudokia, 'because he hasn't got a nose'.

Sihirbaz sighs. 'He's dead: and I thought that he was just a good listener'.

'This is inconvenient', snaps the hospodar. The assembled courtiers, minus the hospodina, shift nervously. Whilst the phrase "this is inconvenient" doesn't sound much like the phrase "I am unhappy, and I intend to manifest this mood by skinning all here assembled alive, before then dipping them in a pot of chilli salt", in Casimir's court the two sentences were functionally identical. 'I wished to inform him of my intention to massacre the Rotenberg mercenaries currently stationed in my territory', continues the hospodar. 'But now I can't'.

As has been noted in an earlier edition of this modest publication, it had been the case that Rotenburgers had been employed to aid the Sanjak in its search for technically sophisticated weapons. This had never delivered much of use. The equipment produced by the Rotenburgers was indeed technically sophisticated; as opposed, that is, to being actually sophisticated. The northerners had seemed incapable of producing anything that didn't either spontaneously combust or result, on construction, with a product in which several small, but as it would transpire, quite important, unidentified parts were inexplicably left over. Flat-pack wooden artillery did indeed reduce many of the challenges of military logistics; but the weight and roundness that caused such problems in transportation it turned out also made quite an important contribution to their ability to project large metal cannonballs. The Rotenburg artificers simply declared this discovery to be 'some inevitable bumps in the road' before going back to playing cards and drinking port. Even after some of them were subjected to a few inevitable bumps on the head with some wooden clubs (none of which were flat-pack) it was difficult to induce in them any real sense of urgency or, indeed, competence.

'Goodness, husband!' says the hospodina tartly. 'It cannot make a jot of difference if one declares one's intentions before the ambassador or not. I'm sure it will be quite as much fun to surprise the Rotenburgers and massacre them in their beds. We are, after all, at war with Landgrave Choldwig!'

'Hmmm', replies the hospodar, mulling this over. 'I suppose it increases the chances of capturing some prisoners. And entertaining them would pass the time whilst we waited for the Vulgarians to besiege another town. Where are they heading?'

'By all accounts, they are moving their forces by river to Bachscuttel'.

'Excellent! I really don't like Prince Rupprecht: and it doesn't help that there is so much of him to dislike'. Casimir looks at the remains of the ambassador. 'You know' he says philosophically, 'I think I prefer the ambassador like this. He's much less argumentative'. He peers forward. 'Is that a hole in the back of his head?'

Radu pasha also leans forward. 'I think it is indeed my lord'.

Casimir nods. 'And what do you know - he's also much more open-minded'.

My Grandfather's What?

'Your wooden clock!' says chamberlain Fecklenburg with evident relief. 'You wanted to show me your large wooden clock. Thank goodness!'
'Yes', replies Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel quizzically, 'what did you think that I said?'
'It ... it doesn't matter, my lord. It really doesn't matter. Suffice it to say that my morning has improved significantly'.
'Well, there it is!' says Rupprecht, pointing.

'Splendid, sir: although, and forgive me for being picky, but there don't seem to be any numerals on the clock-face'.

'Oh no', replies the prince dismissively. 'If there were numbers then the clock would actually tell the time; and then I would have to concern myself with un-princely things such as being on time. And then, before you know it, I'd have schedules, programmes, appointments. I have', says Rupprecht waving his hand generally in the air, 'a post-temporal mindset'.

'You mean you're late for everything'.

'Not at all, Fecklenburg. As a prince, I am never late: everyone else is just inconsiderately early'.

'Quite so, my lord', bows the chamberlain.

'While we are here, sire, it would prudent to talk about some matters of state.' There is an audible groan from Rupprecht.

'Sir, here I need to be frank', continues Fecklenburg.

'No!'

No?

'No! I have trouble enough remembering your name without you trying to change it. You can't be Frank; You’ll just have to remain Fecklenburg'.

'No sir, I mean that we must be honest about ...'

Rupprecht blows a raspberry. 'Look, I appreciate your honesty in opening up to me about wanting to change your name; but the answer is still no. Anyway, if you were going to change your name then it has to be a name I can remember: like Rupprecht'.

'But that's your name, sir'.

'Hmmm, you're right: and if we were both Rupprecht then that would be very confusing. Well, I suppose I could change my name to something else that was easy for me to remember: like Fecklenburg'.

'My lord, then I'd be Rupprecht and you'd be Fecklenburg. Imagine the problems ...'

'You're right. Well, then perhaps you could be Rupprecht, and I could be Frank?'

'Sire, I think that we have drifted from my original intent. In fact, it's less a drift, and more a vigorous paddle. I simply wanted to say that I think that, respectfully, things on the frontier are likely to get a tad difficult'.

'A tad? Is that bad? It sounds bad; or at least the tone of your voice leads me to think that it's bad'.

'Sir, I fear for our frontier towns. It seems likely that the Vulgarians might have a go at them'.

'But why would the Vulgarians come all this way and lay siege to one of our towns?'

'Well, sir, probably because they have all of this siege stuff and they want to use it again'.

Rupprecht snorts. 'Well, let them come. Our towns are locked up as tight as my mother's virtue'.

'Exactly sire: almost anybody might be able to get their hands on our bastions'.

Apres Moi, Le Deluge!

The Wurstburp defenders watch their Vulgarian adversaries paddle disconsolately around in their muddy trenches. Sickness spreads through the latter's army. Trench foot, trench nose, and trench belly button lay many of the besiegers low. Morale plummets: appalling weather, dysentery, misery - this isn't warfare; it's an English bank holiday.

(Above) There is sally port in the defences of the town. Ruminating on the exposed state of the Vulgarians, there are signs that a sortie might be being considered by the defenders: these signs include the movement of troops; the shifting of supplies; and the uttering of airy and utterly non-specific enquiries such as 'Where's the section in the rules on sorties?'

In the meantime, the Vulgarians try once again to infiltrate a spy into the fortress. Having failed in her designs the first time, the spy re-enters the town in the form of a bat: a form that looks quite a lot like a middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo, leaping up and down and flapping her arms. Equipped with nothing more than a cup,a tall hair-do, and a cleavage that would past muster as an impressive toast rack, she moves rapidly through the streets, intent upon reaching the Wurstburp granary.

There are many words that might be used to describe this means of ingress into a enemy fortress: 'unorthodox' might be one; 'unwise' would be another; 'unhinged', might also suit.

Sadly for her, the spy runs into a patrol who have been ordered to be on the look out for anything unusual. Even by the poor cognitive standards of Mittelheim sentries, tall women flapping their arms, crying "I fly! I fly!" are generally recognised as being somewhat out of the ordinary.

'That's, ah, somewhat out of the ordinary', says one sentry to his comrade as he watches.

'But, is "somewhat out of the ordinary" the same as "unusual"?'replies his comrade. 'Because we've only been told to look out for the unusual'.
'Is that too narrow a remit for a patrol in a town under siege?'

'Hmmm, well, I suppose we could have a chat with her and see what she's doing out at night'.

'Madame, upon what business are you about the town at such a late hour of the evening?' 

The spy turns. 'Away! Away!' she cries. 'I shall mesmorrrrrize you! Brrrrrrrrr!' she waves her hands around in front of the sentry's face. 'These are not the bats you're looking for'.

The two soldiers look at one another. No enemy spy could surely be as rubbish as this? On the other hand, this is Mittelheim ...

'Madame, I think you should come with us ...' they say. And so, another great Mittelheim exercise in skulduggery comes unstuck! 

In Mittelheim, once in a lifetime events can be relied upon to happen weekly. And so it is again. As Lackwitz strips off his coat and shirt in preparation for another heatwave, the heavens open again and another unprecedented storm engulfs the battlefield. Almost all of the Vulgarian positions are plunged nose-deep in muddy water, driving the defending troops out of their trenches.

There's only so many times that Lady Luck can kick the Vulgarians in their dangly bits before they conclude that she isn't just playing hard to get. After a month of siege operations, the Vulgarians have nothing to show except a dead enemy spy and a lot of fungal foot infections. The besiegers have had enough.

Defeated by the weather, which, let's face it, was always likely to be a more wily adversary than any Mittelheim army, the Vulgarian troops are forced to retreat. The Wurstburp ranks are then left to deal with a strange and disorientating feeling: the feeling of victory. Suspicious of this feeling, and worried that the warm glow might simply be a temperature brought about by the early stages of typhoid fever, the troops of the Margravate revert to a mind-set with which they are more comfortable: bitter recriminations, finger-pointing, and morale-boosting beatings. 

The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the First Parallel!

One can tell immediately in Mittelheim military campaigns when a bout of 'decisive action' is about to ensue. Clear signs include the sound of kettles being put on to boil, the unmistakeable rustle of pyjamas being retrieved from napsacks, and the whiff of naive optimism that presages the firing of cannon. 

(Above) Wurstburp gunners, clearly inexperienced in war, fire their batteries in an attempt to inflict casualties on the Vulgarian sappers. This has the usual effect: a few of the enemy stand up and ask 'what was that noise?'; the remainder continue playing cards.

(Above) The saps begin to approach the Wurstburp glacis. Upon the walls of the town, Captain Lackwitz surveys the weather prospects.

'I sense a heatwave in the offing, gentlemen', he says to some nearby staff. 'Relentless sunshine; unending drought; heat-stroke; shortages of water; swarms of locusts'.

No sooner has he uttered this commentary than fat raindrops begin to fall from the sky. 

For the Vulgarians it had all seemed now to be going swimmingly; which is ironic, really, given that it now starts to rain. A lot. Such a deluge of water has not been seen such Wilhelm of Gelderland got stuck in his bathtub and had to be extracted through the use of an artillery hoist and the very liberal application of lard. Many of his servants never recovered their sight. 

(Above) The blue markers indicate flooded positions. The Vulgarians in the respective fortifications are displaced by the weight of watery intrusion. There is much grumbling, searching for hats, cloaks, ducks, and any other accoutrements that might repel the wearying sheets of rain that fall from the skies.

(Above) Days are wasted as troops try and bale out their flooded positions. The only consolation is that an event so random and unprecedented as this ferocious storm is surely a once in a lifetime event. Of course, that depends upon whose life we're talking about ... 

Is that a Transverse Sap in Your Britches, Or Are You Just Pleased to See Me!

It's more helpings of siege spaghetti all round! (Below) The Vulgarian sappers dig forwards slowly. Clearly of the opinion that second parallel's are just for girls, they seem intent on sapping all the way to the enemy glacis. What they might intend to do there is anyone's business: but it's pretty certain that Vauban wouldn't approve.

Things begin to heat up. Already, as Vulgarians, morally exposed, the sappers also add an equivalent degree of physical exposure as well. (Below) Having zigged when they probably should have zagged, some of the sappers are exposed to enfilade fire from the enemy ravelin and bastions.

The defending artillery miss, of course. But it's the principle that counts: these are sappers, not slappers, and they should know better than to flaunt their dangly bits in full view of the enemy.

Rain falls, slowing down the progress of the attacking forces. But with a few days more effort, the Vulgarian troops seem to be making some additional progress.

(Above, left) The Vulgarians construct a battery emplacement at the end of one of the saps. If they can deploy some guns in this position, then they will be in range to conduct battering fire on the Wurstburp walls. It's all to play for: if you like games that are slow, dirty, and low-stakes, that is. Now would be the time for some decisive action!

Feel the Weight of my Gabions!

Pacing themselves, the Vulgarian troops are still behind the first parallel (below). Their siege guns remain silent. This has exactly the same effect on the enemy as if they were actually firing, but uses up a lot less gunpowder.

More sappers begin digging (below). The aim, of course, is to establish a second parallel and new artillery positions closer to the enemy walls. Or so one might think if one were unfamiliar with warfare in Mittelheim.

As the sappers advance, they they get closer to the enemy and also further away from the support of their own troops. Deciding it is time to do something to discomfit their enemy that is more active than just hiding their dice, the Wurstburpers launch a trench raid! Two companies of grenadiers are committed to the attack and each company targets a sap!

(Above) One company storms forward!

'Attack! Att...' cries the commander.

'It's fine!' say the sappers. 'We surrender'.

'But we haven't actually attacked you yet!'

'No, really - it's fine. We don't need to go through the whole rigmarole of desperate hand-to-hand combat. Let's just say we've lost. Take us back to the fortress so that we can have a rest and a lie down'.

'But ... wouldn't you be ashamed to have put up no meaningful resistance?'

'No, not really'.

'But wouldn't you feel unmanly?'

'We're Vulgarian sappers. Even the rats bully us'.

'Well ... fair enough: but it's all rather disappointing. I was hoping for a tough fight and a glorious death'.

'Maybe later, when we've had some lunch?'

'Fair enough. Here, let me help you out of the sap'.

'Lovely'.

In the other sap, things go less well for the grenadiers (below). With two sapper companies present, the odds are more even, and these sappers seem much tougher, and also quite angry. There is a sharp and dirty punch-up, only distinguishable from the average Vulgarian night out because this affray has no musical accompaniment. The grenadiers are driven back with loss.

Operations continue. As they develop their saps, it is clear that the Vulgarian approach to siege operations has something of an Italian inspiration. Alas, this inspiration is less Trace Italienne, and more Spaghetti Bolognese (below). 

Instead of a pushing forward the saps and then digging trenches to create a second parallel, the Vulgarians start to connect their saps into a warren of siege passages. Whilst this seemingly rabbit-inspired digging configuration no doubt presages some nefarious 'Black Hops' operations and it also saves time, it doesn't necessarily support the most organised approach to assaulting a fortress. There is a reason that Vauban conducted sieges according to the sober principles of engineering, and this wasn't just because he was killjoy know-it-all. 

To the rear of the Vulgarian positions, the army's physicians are already busy (below).

'Ow! Ow!' cries the patient.

'Stop being a baby!' says one of the doctors. 'What did you expect? This is an amputation not a tickling contest!' 
'An amputation? But I only sat down here for a rest!'

The two surgeons look at one another. 'Well, that's a trifle embarrassing for us. But look at it on the bright side: you'll save a lot of money on shoes'.

Carry on Spying!

"Espionage": the realm of cerebral skullduggery. Or so it is in other places. In Mittelheim, cerebral skullduggery tends to be the preserve of grave diggers, since espionage requires skills for which most Mittelheimers are poorly suited - skill, wileyness, an ability to read road signs. Alas, with the guns of both sides being at extreme range, the belligerents decide to save their limited supplies of powder and to look instead for other ways to annoy their adversaries. For reasons best explained by inexperience, over-optimism, and too much port, they decide simultaneously to employ spies to cause disruption and dismay to their enemies. 

From the sally port of the fortress, a mysterious figure slips out into the night and makes his way stealthily towards the enemy trenches. His intention is to sow dissension in the enemy troops and to cause some of them to desert ...

(Above) A mysterious stranger swathed in a grey cloak presents himself to one of the Vulgarian regiments.
'Halt mysterious stranger swathed in grey who has just presented himself to our regiment!' cry some Vulgarian sentinels. 'Who goes there?'
'No one important or remotely suspicious', replies the figure. 'I merely come here, looming out of the night, mysterious and swathed in grey, to ask you "have you ever considered the advantages of deserting your regiment and quitting the field of combat?"'
The sentinels look at one another. 'No, not really', they reply.
'Fair enough', replies the figure. 'You can't blame me for asking'. He turns to leave.
'Hang on a minute', says another sentry. 'Are you a spy?'
'Er, no?'
'Then why have you wearing a badge that says on it "I'm a spy"?'
'Dammit! I forgot to take it off!'
There is a short struggle and the fellow is taken off to be shot. Given the standards of vulgarian marksmanship, this is a long and painful death, especially given that the head is not really a vital appendage for any Mittelheim soldier.

Meanwhile, in Munchausen By Procksi, a figure sidles carefully through the darkness (below). The streets are eerily quiet, not least because painting up civilians is boring. This winsome wench is a remarkably talented Vulgarian spy. Or so one might think by her credentials.

'Madame!' cries a nightwatchman, looming out of the dark. 'Madame! Why are you out at this time of night? There is a curfew in case of attempts by our Vulgarian adversaries to infiltrate our defences with spies!'

'Vell' replies the lady in a husky voice. 'It not verrrry likely dat I am Vulgarrrrrian spy. Just a lonely girrrrl looking for da grrrrain depot vot I can put dis bomb in'.

''Ha, ha, ha, ha, madame', chortles the guard. 'Yes, that's very funny, now just you run alo... oh, hang on - that does actually look like a bomb that you're holding!'

'Not da bomb!' says the lady defensively. 'Just da biiig irrrron pudding! But ...' and here she leans forwards, 'but you haff such a long and warrrrm thrrroat. Let me kiss you ...'

'Madame, I couldn't! Never! I'd die first! Oh, go on then ...' he says. 'Ow! You bit me!'

'Not to be big baby!' says the woman sternly. 'Now, you underrrr my spell!'

'I don't think I am ...'

'Hold dis big irrron pudding vhile I light it!'

'I don't think that's the ...'

'Now, all good: you take to grrrain depot'.

'But, you've just lit my ...'

'Now, I turrrn into bat and fly avay!'

'Madame, you're literally still here in front of me ...'

'I fly avay!'

'You're walking backwards whilst flapping your hands ...'

'Avay! Avay! Avay!'

'You're still walking backwards, madame, and you're just lowering your voice to give the impression of distance'. 

'Pffft!', says the lady. Hiking up her dress, she sprints off into the night.

The sentry puts the bomb down and starts hurriedly slapping his shoes which the mysterious lady has set light to. Then, he looks at the fused iron sphere at his feet. He looks around; shrugs; and rolls it into an alleyway, before wandering off.

With a score of 'Dead Spies - 1, Useful Impact - 0', the siege continues ...

That's a Lovely Pair of Bastions You've Got There!

Captain Carl von Lackwitz stands upon one of the bastion defences of the town of Munchausen-By-Procksi. He has been conversing with several Wurstburp engineering officers. Coming from the technical services, these fellows are better educated than most, indicated by the fact that they can read (even if they do often have to mouth the words), and that they can dress themselves in the morning.
'That was an unusual speech that you gave to the men earlier, Lackwitz', says one.

'Really?', replies Lackwitz, leafing through the pages of a book.

'Yes - quite ... ah, left field. One might normally expect that a speech designed to bolster the morale of the troops and encourage them to fight doggedly to the last man would contain a selection from the usual sort of familiar themes'.

'What themes, sir?'

'Well, you know, the stuff about bolstering morale and being encouraged and fighting doggedly to the last man'.

'I sought to appeal to a different aspect of the men's temperaments. Which elements did you find surprising?'

'Well, there were more references to cheese then I expected', says the officer.

'And also', adds another, 'that part that covered your disappointment at the contents of your Christmas stocking'.

'But what about the part where I told the men that, even if they all died, I would still be likely to survive and get promoted?'

'Probably not as inspiring to them as you might have hoped'.

'Bah - well, cobblers to them: they will probably all get bayoneted by the Vulgarians anyway'.

'Yes', replies the third officer. 'Yes - I think it was probably phrases like that the reduced the impact of your speech. Still, the walls here are strong and we still have hope whilst the enemy have not yet begun to bombard the walls.' 

'Especially', says Lackwitz gesticulating at his book, 'especially since you have access to the newly re-drafted version of my book on war and strategy!'
The engineers look at one another, shifting nervously. 'Actually, Lackwitz, you've already read us several sections of it and I don't think that ...'
'"War"', cries Lackwitz striking a pose. '"is a continuation of polygamy by other means".'
There is momentary silence.

'Are you sure that "polygamy" is the best word?'

Lackwitz frowns. 'Well, I did originally go for "pottery", but in the end I wasn't sure. Perhaps there is another "P"word that would fit?'

'Parrot!' expectorates one of the engineers.
'Peregrine!' cries another.

'No, no, I ...' replies Lackwitz.

'Porcine!'

'Perambulation!
'Pederast!'
'This is taking an unfortunate turn. I just want another another "P" word'.
'Wet shoes!'
'That doesn't begin with a "P"!'
'In my case it does: I can never aim straight!'
'Potato!'
'Policy?'
'Ah, now there you have something!' says Lackwitz nodding. '"War is a continuation of potato by other means"'.

(Below) On the other side of the fortress, flags are visible in the covered way. Unusually, these are regimental colours and not flags of surrender. But there is of course plenty of time yet. From the fortress, it is evident that the Vulgarians have not been idle. 

(Below) The Vulgarian sappers have been digging with the same enthusiasm that Mittelheim street urchins might apply to picking their noses: an extensive, careful excavation; the production and difficult transportation by wheelbarrow of unpleasant and muddy detritus; occasional pauses to view with satisfaction the quantity and quality of material removed; occasionally eating some of it to see what it might taste like.

Vauban himself noted the scientific basis for siege warfare, a basis that should allow the prediction of the exact moment when the besieged town will be forced to surrender. In this case, and at the current rate of Vulgarian progress, the fall of Munchausen will take place 42 days hence, at dinner time, at some point between the dessert and cheese courses. This being a Mittelheim military operation, though, why would the belligerents confine themselves to the patient application of military doctrine when they could instead tit about with other hare-brained schemes ...