Falkenhelle, the Fourth!

General Redmond Barry-Eylund has, as many would attest, a range of acknowledged faults. He is, for example, a cheating, lying bastard; though, to be fair, he does always remember his mother's birthday. One thing that he couldn't be accused of, though, is a failure to analyse his options: indeed, there are few commanders out there more able to put the word 'anal' into analysis

The general has considered three options. Option one: a cavalry attack on his right. Alas, given the angles, the Fenwickian artillery, with their artillery academy training, would have an opportunity to drill his advancing horse with more holes than a Swiss cheese. Of course, a Swiss cheese would actually ride a horse better than his cavalry. But dairy produce is unlikely to fare well in close-quarters combat. Option two: march his infantry forwards straight away, and trust to the effectiveness of his troops' musketry. Alas, the Fenwickians have lethal volleys, and so the Bachscuttelers would be at a disadvantage, helped by the Fenwickian's 'special green dice'. These green dice are definitely not dodgy. Option three: advance his light troops into the woods to their front, turn the enemy flank and then advance his infantry.

The general plumps for option three. Unfortunately, this means that the first Bachscuttel orders are sent to the irregulars. No battle that begins with an advance by irregulars is likely to engender much faith in the eventual outcome.

The irregulars advance (above), encountering a flock of sheep. If it were possible for Barry-Eylund to catch the sheep and put them in uniform, he would certainly sack his irregulars and use the farmyard animals instead. (Below) Marshal Cavandish can be seen checking the rules of war: a useful activity when Barry-Eylund is around, since the latter tends to view rules like a pirate code: more a set of guidelines around which to structure the drinking of rum.

(Above) The irregulars continue to advance towards the woods. With his line becoming stretched, much like the necks of his light troops if they don't do what they're told, his main body also advances towards the enemy in order to head off some potential command and control problems. Barry-Eylund also hopes that this will increase the moral pressure on his enemy, fixing them in place - although nailing their feet to the floor would probably be a surer bet.

(Above) The Bachscuttel irregulars head into the woods. To the top left, a third line, second-rate, Fenwickian unit is detailed to begin the time-consuming task of wheeling to meet the threat. This more or less sums up the first portion of the battle. A lot of careful manoeuvre - or arsing around, depending upon one's perspective - then ensues in which Barry-Eylund seeks a manoeuvre advantage and Marshal Cavandish seeks a better sleeping position. Time bleeds away.

(Above) Finally, Barry-Eylund has his irregulars where he wants them: or almost where he wants them, since the best place for them would probably be in a bath. Deployed in the woods, the irregulars are no worse than their conscript adversaries, and there are twice as many of them. It's time for the irregulars to do what irregulars do. Well, not the main thing that they do, because then they would have to go back to prison. But the other thing that they do, which is to dart elusively amongst the foliage, skirmishing vigorously and wearing the enemy down. Then, they can wheel, and before you can say 'irregulars all over your flanks' there will be irregulars all over the Fenwickian flanks!

Irregulars making a useful contribution to the battlefield? Who'd have thought it!

Falkenhelle, the Third!

The forces of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel begin to deploy. In Bachscuttel military doctrine, though, 'deploy' is very much a synonym for 'shuffle', 'mill about', or 'self abuse', so that the movement of General Barry Eylund's troops might make a European military professional wince, and any adversary think that it was probably likely to be their lucky day. The general herds his unwilling troops into some semblance of a line, according to the plan that he has concocted.

The Bachscuttlers have come off worst in the preliminary scouting. Thus, Barry-Eylund finds himself the attacker. Attacking is an unfamiliar and very unwelcome mode of action for the Palatinate's generalissimo. The general, widely known as Der Turtlekoenig, is a commander who much prefers the comforting embrace of defensive terrain. Indeed, his main quality as an officer is his ability to bend the laws of physics, and also quite a lot of the actual rules, to shove his whole army into the tiniest space available, and then tit about there until the game ends.

Barry-Eylund deploys all of his infantry, nine regiments (including one of mercenaries) on his left flank. Just to the front, one can see on this woodcut (above) a hill. The general has chosen a battlefield with a hill right in the middle: thus, whichever side of the battlefield that the enemy deploys their artillery, the guns will find their arc of fire blocked in any attempt to fire upon the other. This is just the sort of tedious bed wettery that makes Barry-Eylund so unpopular. On the far left (above, left) the general places both regiments of his irregulars. If Barry-Eylund's plan involves using those troops, then the Palatinate has probably already lost the battle.

(Above) On the far right, Barry-Eylund arrays his three regiments of cavalry. It's best just to keep them out of the way, where they can't be fired upon by the enemy artillery and where they can't get themselves into any trouble. Positioned here, it's clear that the general intends that these troops should protect the flanks of his infantry. Or at least, that they should plausibly look like that's what they are doing. Doctrinally, in the Palatinate's military thinking, cavalry is really just a way of keeping the most dangerously inbred of its military elite out of situations that might stretch their capabilities, which is really any situation that doesn't emphasise dribbling or molesting geese.

Finally, Barry-Eylund places his three batteries of artillery in a position linking his infantry to his cavalry. The guns are dug in, meaning that they are unlikely to move. But that's fine, because moving artillery would impede their ability to do what they do best, which is not firing.

With his forces deployed, Barry-Eylund commences his attack! It can't be a propitious situation when the first element of his army to move is his irregulars ....

Falkenhelle, the Second!

The Fenwickian army marches smartly into position according to the dispositions outlined in Marshal Cavandish's orders.'Smartly', though, in Mittelheim is mostly a synonym for 'slovenly'; and also 'blubbery'. The Fenwickian deployment therefore is smart relative to the usual Mittelheim standard; a standard that would make the word 'slovenly' feel poorly dressed and badly postured. As the troops file to their appointed places, they move like a collection of orangutans with back problems and a bad case of piles. 

To the left of Falkenhelle, Cavandish deploys all four batteries of his artillery (above). These fellows are trained in Fenwick's Artillery Academy and so are worthy of rather more respect than your average Mittelheim fire support. Dug in behind bastions and positioned behind a marsh, these troops are well protected against any saucy attempts to ride them down. Much will be expected of them in the coming encounter, though no one could tell them this, since the use of the word 'coming' in Fenwick would earn one ten years' hard labour; and then another five years for using the word 'hard'.

(Below) On the far left, the Fenwickian cavalry are deployed. One regiment of elite are on the right, and a regiment of conscripts are behind. Positioned here, the cavalry are ready to do what Mittelheim cavalry are best prepared for: to smoke some cigars and make jokes about poor people. 

In command of the cavalry is Theodore Creasey, who has a preternatural mastery over vegetation. Troops under his command can move unimpeded through difficult terrain. As a superpower, it's perhaps not quite up there with being proof against bullets or being able to fly; and also, he seems to smell strangely of hemp. But this is Mittelheim, and one has to take what one can get. Deployed in the open, and with quite a lot of openness to their front, it's not quite clear how Creasey will be able to apply his unique talents. But who can tell what dangerous vegetables might be thrown their way in the ensuing battle?

To the right of the village, the whole of the Fenwickian infantry is deployed in three lines (above). At the back are two regiments of conscripts. The remainder of the troops are trained. For some reason not unrelated to the choices of Cavandish's adversary, General Redmond Barry-Eylund, there is a ploughed field inconveniently positioned amongst the Fenwickian troops. No doubt this feature will be completely irrelevant in the unfolding encounter.

(Above) The army of the Empire of All the Fenwicks is now fully deployed. There is a commotion in the distance. It could be a travelling freak show; or, perhaps, a herd of Welshmen grazing upon leeks. But no - by the terrible smell and the strange profusion of body hair, it is clear that the army of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel has arrived!  

Falkenhelle, the First!

Wherein the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, under General Redmond Barry-Eylund, encounters the forces of the Empire of All the Fenwicks, commanded by Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish.

We return, dear readers, to encounters upon the open field of war: an activity altogether more suited to the soldiers of Mittelheim than sieges, since the former requires less of the tedious study, inky small-mindedness, and ridiculous attention to detail that in Mittelheim is known as pedantry and that in the rest of Europe is known as military professionalism. On the battlefield, one is free to express oneself more fully, and also, of course, to run off more quickly in the confusion.

Here, we find ourselves upon the eaves of the forest of Pupsforst, near the small hamlet of Falkenhelle. The hamlet itself is now full to bursting, overrun by the troops of Fenwick.

(Above) The tiny village consists mainly of what the original estate agent portrayed as 'a perfect family home, built in the rustic style, with interesting period features. The annex is suitable for keeping pigs'. Alas for the purchasers, the annex turned out to be the house; and whilst the animal pen did indeed have some excellent period features, the period in question was some considerable time before the birth of Christ. Most of the inhabitants tired of residing in dwellings with roofs that look like lawns, whose main modcon was hot and cold running slugs, and where the heating was provided by flatulent farm animals. Thus, the villagers are not entirely unhappy at the presence of the Fenwickian army. There is some hope amongst the populace that the unruly troops will engage in some home improvements by burning the place down. 

Marshal Cavandish is deep in conversation with his aide de camp, Captain Fabius Nitzwitz (below). An enemy army is nearby - the troops of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel - and a battle is in the offing.  Cavandish has a reputation as a man keen to conserve his energy, an attribute that explains the main feature of his headquarters (a large bed), and his attire (a nightshirt and nightcap). Spending much of his time asleep does not seem to have materially affected his quality as a commander, and his army has performed exceptionally well in the recent wars. Indeed, they are known widely as the Spartans of Mittelheim. Spending time asleep and not actually giving orders also allows the marshal to reduce the stress involved in commanding Fenwickian troops, not least because it increases the chances of avoiding any double entendre.

The problems caused by the Fenwickian sensitivity to double entendre have already been commented upon in this august* publication. Its military ramifications have been profound. Nowhere in Fenwickian doctrine, for example, does it allow troops to penetrate, drill, mount, or insert. Fenwickian units cannot be ordered to undertake an early withdrawal, or a full frontal assault, or go in hard, or inspect their weapons. Nor can one include in any orders issued to the troops words such as jam, wobbly, pair, dangly, or wibble. Luckily for their monarch, King George, however, this does not seem to have impeded their military effectiveness on the battlefield. Even if Cavandish has largely been reduced to issuing orders in picture form, and many of those seem to be crude pictures of his genitals (or generals - it's possible he was misheard), his army is really very effective.

Now, crayon in hand, the marshal is drawing his orders and deploying his troops for battle! 

* Or October, depending upon when you are reading this.

Corpse d'Armee!

In Pogelswood, capital of the Empire Of All The Fenwicks, King and Emperor George XIII waits in a rather shabby anteroom of his palace. With him is Johan von Schmeligbad, Minister of Toast, Breakfast-Related Bakery Products and War. Schmeligbad's costume is rather finer than normal, on account of him being newly made a bishop.

'Excellent, Schmeligbad', says the King, 'You look just the ticket. Have you been doing your homework as I ordered: boning up on all things religious?'

'That, sire, ... would be an ecumenical matter', replies the bishop slowly.
'Superb!' says the king. 'We'll soon have everything in place finally for my coronation and formal recognition as King of Gelderland! And yet, I feel a sense of disappointment, Bishop. A feeling that can only presage a meeting with my son'.

There is a knock at the door. It is indeed Prince Joachim, who enters and bows low. 'Father, you wished to see me'.
'No, but I felt that I had to, however ... there is something different about you, Joachim. Looking at you, I somehow feel less annoyed and exasperated. I can't quite put my finger on it'.
'Exactly, father', says Joachim ruefully. 'Because there's nothing for anyone to put their fingers on. My codpiece has vanished!' Joachim has long been infamous for his choice of alarming anatomical accoutrements.
'Exactly that!' cries the King with pleasure. 'Your dismal doom-winkie has disappeared!'

Joachim sighs unhappily.

'Son, is this a sign that you are growing up? That you are maturing? That you might yet make a contribution to this family beyond that of  terrifying the clergy?'

'Not this clergy!' says the bishop, making the sign of the cross.
'No, father', says the prince. 'No. This state of affairs has arisen because of the application once again of Ape Interpretation'.
The King shrugs. 'All of the other monarchs have been doing it? Surely I, as prospective ruler of all of Mittelheim, should be expected to embrace the monkey magic that is AI'.
'It's stolen my codpiece, father. It has pinched my princely protruberance'.
'But no, not so!' interjects the bishop. 'I can still see it, God protect me'; he once again makes the sign of the cross.
'No', says Joachim, sadly. 'Look more closely, and you will spy that those chimp chumps seem to have confused my royally rigid retainer with the corpse of a dead man lying in the corner of the room'.

King George turns and peers across the room. He nods. 'How extraordinary! Well, now that's not good. Do we know who he is?'
Joachim shrugs. 'I mean, I suppose, in a sense, he could be construed as the human personification of my codpiece?'
George turns to the bishop. 'Is that theologically, philosophically, or indeed actually, possible?'
The bishop huffs and blows for a while. 'That ... would be an ecumenical matter', he replies eventually.
'Yes, well, I suppose it might be', admits the king. 'But why is he dead?'
'I might surmise, sire', replies the bishop, 'that he found out that he was the personification of your son's genital jewellery. I cannot imagine that for anyone that would be a rewarding discovery. I would seem to be, I wager, a most perverse form of penal servitude'.

'In any case', continues George. 'Let us take advantage of the absence of your cursed crotch-rod, and talk of important affairs of state'.

'I feel strangely unbalanced' says the prince absently, wiggling his hips. 'My weight distribution is all out'.
But at least everything else is all in', replies his father testily. 'Everything is inside your brotches as God intended'.

'Amen', adds the bishop.

A sudden groan emanates from the supine form upon the floor.

'He is alive!' cries the bishop. 'A miracle!'

'A miracle I didn't kill myself tripping up on this, sir!' says the fellow, standing. He has in his hand something that is either Joachim's codpiece, or a pervy pirate's peg-leg. 'I come with a message from Marshal Cavandish's army!'

 

Pie Another Day!

Chamberlain Fecklenburg is attending Rupprecht at his breakfast. The prince seems to be about to consume an enormous pie sufficient to feed a family of twenty.

'Are you on a diet, my lord?' enquires the chamberlain.

'Indeed, Fecklenburg', replies Rupprecht. 'Indeed, I am. I have concluded that, since I as yet have no issue, I should be more careful with my health: at least until the succession is assured by an heir'.

'A wise, if surprising, conclusion, sire'.

The prince gestures to himself. 'My body is a temple, chamberlain'.

Fecklenburg nods. 'Then can I commend you, sire, on your very extensive outbuildings; and also the troop of monkeys that might well live in your belly-button. But you do not seem to be consuming your pie, my lord'.

Rupprecht nods, gloomily. 'I have a pie, Fecklenburg; but I don't appear to have a table to put it on. You couldn't come here and bend over could you?'

'Sire', says the chamberlain, shocked. 'Such a thing is surely beneath your chamberlain!'

'No: I think it would be above you, chamberlain, on your back'. He nods at the pie. 'Come now - you would not deny your prince?'

'My lord, there are important matters of state that need to be discussed!'

'But my breakfast is cooling rapidly! I like my pies like I like my women, Fecklenburg - hot!'

'And covered in gravy, sire?'

'No!' says the prince. He pauses. 'Not generally, at least'.

'My lord, if you might put aside your repast for a moment! Our Nabstrian allies have been defeated in their attempt to storm one of the Kurlandian border fortresses. This means that the Grand Duchess Catherine's army can remain in the field against us'.

'Which field? If it's a field far away from us, then we can just leave them there while we stay in the palace here. Unless it's a field with pigs in. Then, obviously, our state must annexe it!'

'My lord, it is a figure of speech - I mean that they are still actively campaigning against us'.

'But why? What have I ever done to annoy my neighbours, Fecklenburg? I am a gentle and placid man, who desires only to feel the gentle caress of peace ...'

'What have we done to annoy our neighbours, sire?' says Fecklenburg slightly incredulously, as he reaches to a bookcase, removing a volume. The prince doesn't seem to be listening.

' ... to rest amidst the ample bosoms of harmony; to rub my face in them; and then, to squeeze ... ouch!' The prince snorts as a large and heavy volume is plopped into his lap.

'My lord', says the chamberlain, 'here is an account of our foreign policy over the last thirteen years: it contains some clues, I think, as to why, if we are not the most hated country in Mittelheim, that's only because some of the inhabitants haven't met us yet'.

'But I think under my stewardship that we have been very measured in our policies; reflective; judicious ...'

'You might wish to skip the analysis of the substance of our foreign policy, my lord - it constitutes one short paragraph of chapter one - a chapter which, coincidently, consists of one short paragraph - and move onto chapter two: foreign policy failures'.

'Chapter two seems to take up the whole of the rest of the book ...'

'Indeed, sire. Also, you might also want to consult some of the entries in the Index, in particular entries under 'F' such as 'Failure', 'Farce', and 'Flatulent'; also 'B', for 'Battle', 'Buffoon', and 'Blubbery'. 

'Does it mention pigs?'

'Look under 'P' for 'policy''.

'Pigs seem to be the only entry under Policy'.

Fecklenburg shrugs resignedly.

'My lord, there seems every likelihood that our army will soon be engaged in a battle! If not Kurland, then, in all probability, Fenwick-Gelderland!'

'The army of Fenwick-Gelderland?' says Rupprecht, sounding concerned. 'But I do vaguely remember that their army is quite good'.

'The Spartans of Mittleheim, sire. In recent years, entirely unbeaten'.

'So how will we beat them, Chamberlain? Through bold manoeuvre?' 

'Bold manoeuvre? By General Barry-Eyland? Der Turtlekoenig? It seems unlikely'.

'Perhaps he could cheat? You know how he likes to invent new rules'.

'Well, obviously, he'll cheat, sire. But perhaps he needs something else in this hour of need?'

'He could cheat ... more?'

'Well, obviously he will cheat more, sire. But perhaps something else as well?'

'Oooh - I wonder what it could be?'   

Bogorovsk, the Final!

And so, dear reader,we reach the final crescendo; nay, climax; nay denouement; nay, horse, in the struggle for control of the Kurlandian town of Bogorovsk! It has been a rollercoaster ride, thus far: a crap rollercoaster, of course, with squeaky wheels, low speed, and a small child in the car behind vomiting loudly into the footwell.

(Above) As with the other side of the siege, the Nabstrians here have made good progress with their saps and artillery positions. Three such positions, one newly placed, are on the glacis and ready to commence breaching fire upon the bastion to their front. Luckily for the Kurlandian defenders, only one artillery battery has been brought up by the Nabstrians.

(Above) The attacking and defending guns exchange fire, to no great effect. But it is now that Retchin launches upon this flank, his great military innovation: a sortie. That sorties have not been a feature of previous Mittleheim siege encounters has many explanations: a lack of imagination, perhaps; a lack of aggression; and also, a lack of rules. But Retchin is a commander of a new stamp: aggressive, and, having not seen the new rules, entirely ignorant of any of the problems of such an enterprise. A man who knows no fear about attacking because he genuinely knows nothing about how one goes about doing it. He launches two sorties: one against the enemy battery, and the other against the pesky enemy sappers!

(Above) The Kurlandian infantry rises from the covered way! The Nabstrian battery fires at close range with grape. Alas, it would appear that it's the fruit and not the artillery munitions, because the attacking regiment suffers no great damage and swarms over the emplacement, bayoneting the gunners and, in the Kurlandian style, once they find the holes, ravishing the Nabstrian artillery pieces.

The Kurlandian invalid battalion assaults the Nabsiran sappers. Or at least, one might label it a charge in the same way that one could declare a cat to be a lion: it's about the right sort of species, even if the details are rather different, especially if one were to try and put one's head in its mouth. The charge involves more squeaking than one might expect, the noise coming from bath chairs, and also the wooden pounding of false legs rarely heard outside of a pirate reunion. (Above) Knackered old has-beens though the attacking infantry might be, their drooling horde overcomes the defending Nabstrians, who are wiped out!

(Above) Embarrassment alone might at this stage have signalled a Nabstrian withdrawal, but the rout of the sappers breaks the morale of von Rumpfler's army. The defending Kurlandians have won! General Rumpfler writes dispatches home claiming a successful diversionary action against the Kurlandians. He claims to have suffered low losses, which isn't entirely wrong given how short many of his troops are. General Retchin declares a glorious victory, the largest for the Duchy in living memory: although, given how much the Kurlandians drink, 'living memory' is basically around four hours. Retchin further adds to Kurlandian military doctrine by declaring the utility and necessity of defensive sorties, even if he's still not clear exactly what they are.

Bogorovsk, the Seventh!

Lady Luck clenches her fist at General Rumpfler, and then. gently extends her middle finger. Thanks to his decision to keep his guns off the walls in the early stages of the siege, Retchin still has most of his artillery left. If one combines this fact with Rumpfler's unfamiliarity with the concept of enfilades, then suddenly, possibilities emerge for some Kurlandian successes!

(Below) The right-most Nabstrian battery takes flanking fire from the bastion and is annihilated! No programme of Professional Military Education, however expensive, is adequate defence against a 24lb cannonball up the jacksy.

In addition to being enfiladed, the Nabstrian artillery lacks infantry support: not surprising, given that the Nabstrian foot can see the state of the artillerymen's jacksies. Retchin siezes the moment, or at least, something that seems like the moment, although it might actually be his nose, and decides to conduct an activity never before attempted by Mittelheim forces - a sortie from the fortress! Kurlandian veterans nod their heads judgmentally. A sortie requires things hitherto unheard of in Mittelheim siege battles: rules for sorties, for a start. But Retchin has come prepared with his own set of rules for such an activity - rules which are no doubt fair, balanced, and in no way dodgy. Choosing to attack at dawn, because it seems like the dramatic thing to do, he orders his troops forward. 

Retchin withdraws his guns from the bastion and then orders General Barfolovamisev to attack. (Below) One of the latter's regiments of musketeers forms a column of assault and surges forward! Though the defending artillery is entrenched, it is outnumbered and taken in the flank. The battery is quickly overrun.

(Below) Lady Timsbury of Somerton considers the unfolding situation. Whilst many might attribute the Nabstrian difficulties to some faults in the placement and support of the siege batteries, she is quite clear that the real foundation of their problems is the lack on the part of the Nabstran gunners of real engagement with their post-graduate written work. Sharper analytical skills and a grasp of international relations theory would no doubt even up the brutal hand-to-hand combat. Sadly, it's clear that the gunners haven't been doing their homework, and they are cut to pieces. On the plus side, though, Lady Timsbury always makes sure that she gets paid first. Perhaps what the Nabstrians are in need of is a really extensive, and as it happens expensive, programme of remote learning. Remote, in that the student is sent to live for six years in a hut on a small Baltic island, where the only conveniences are hot and cold running slugs, and even the halibut leave poor reviews. In such places, one lacks the distractions that stand in the way of really intense study, and also of going mad.

(Below, left) The woodcut shows the results of the impact of the second of Barfolovamisev's attacks. His other musketeers have attacked from the covered way, driven back the enemy sappers, who flop uselessly in the open, and then, thanks to the limited visibility imposed by the early hour, retreat, unmolested by enemy defensive fire, out of carving back to the covered way.

(Above) The situation at this portion of the siege has been transformed. Moreover, the Nabstrian morale is now rather low - so, about normal, then. All now hinges on events at the left-most bastion: events, dear reader, that we shall now turn to. Who knows what stories of heroism, enterprise, and daring-do we might encounter? It's not impossible, though, that if you are an experienced observer of Mittleheim warfare, you might just be able to guess.

Bogorovsk, the Sixth!

The Kurlandian battery opens fire. (Below) Alas, however, the gunners are too well steeped in the doctrines of Mittelheim artillery. This is a doctrine which seeks to surprise the enemy and, to be fair, their own troops, by missing all the time and rarely ever inflicting any casualties. This wrong-foots the enemy, laying them open to more effective forms of attack such as tickling or pillow fighting.

Still, for General Retchin there are surely a range of other interesting and effective options. Or so one might think.  Although the enemy artillery is on the glacis, and so too close to be the target of a trench raid, the enemy saps are not. A company of Kurlandian grenadiers, accompanied by a unit of sappers, launches a bold attack upon the enemy supporting trenches, seeking to fill them in (below).

Alas, the only thing that gets filled in is the sappers themselves. There are, in life, many sad sights to be seen: the weeping of a child; the howl of a hungry hound; an English penalty shoot-out. But there are surely few things sadder than seeing a trench raid defeated by a trench that has no enemy troops in it whatsoever. One can only surmise that the Nabstrian works were inhabited by some particularly doughty badgers; or some very long and surprisingly elastic worms. Whatever the reason, Retchin again finds himself lounging on the sofa when Mister Cock-up comes calling.

Things don't improve, however.

(Above) The Nabstrian batteries reload and pound the bastion. Clearly poorly trained, they hit their target, rendering irrelevant their carefully husbanded pillow cases.

On the other side of the siege works, things aren't much better either.

(Above) Before one can say "This is likely to sting a bit", Nasbtrian sappers have popped no less than three artillery positions on the glacis. Worse, Rumpfler is able to move up three batteries to occupy these new positions. The defending batteries fire but have the predictable effect - which is to say Jacques Merde.

Worse, the busy Nabstrian sapper companies then plop two more emplacements in front of the Kurlandian bastion. From these positions, Rumpfler's artillery will be able to commence breaching fire. At so short a range, and with a target that is literally larger than a barn door, some of their fire is bound to hit. You'd think.

And so, as General Retchin makes up a bed for Mister Cock-up, the situation for the defenders looks dimmer than a Guard's officer on a foggy morning. 

Bogorovsk, the Fifth!

Of course, the sappers are cut to pieces. And then, to compound Rumpfler's problems, the Kurlandians launch yet another trench raid, but this time with two companies of grenadiers! Now, their target is the other sapper company on this flank. However, the defenders are supported by infantry in a nearby trench. The Kurlandians really believe that they have got the hang of raiding trenches. Which, one might suppose, isn't so surprising, given that the process of a surreptitious nighttime manoeuvre that ends in a quick act of messy violence is quite like most Kurlandian marriages, except that trench raids are better paid.

Surprise! (above) Overconfident and overweight, after a sharp tussle, the grenadiers are forced to withdraw, but without serious casualties.

(Above) General Retchin has yet to wheel forward his fortress guns. At the moment, he feels that the enemy is still too far away. He needs targets that are nearer, and preferably quite fat and tall; and also, if possible, with a round aiming point marked on their bodies. However, the moment for their deployment might be arriving.

(Above) In front of the other bastion, the Nabstrian sappers have now made their way onto the glacis. For the troops, there is a moment of disappointment when they find that there is no French ice cream here, but this disappointment is compensated for by the fact that they are now too close to the fortress walls for the defenders to be able to launch trench raids against them.

The enemy troops in the covered way are those of Baron Felix Kraptin, and consist of a regiment of veteran invalids and a regiment of local militia. These defenders are probably better than no garrison at all, although opinion might be somewhat divided on this point. From his position behind the second parallel, however, Horst, Freiherr von Friedegge, understandably fancies his chances if it comes to a storming action.

Quite quickly, the Nabstrians begin to get mit it, and put in place the makings of some offensive positions. As any Mittelheim officer could tell one, third parallels are for girls - the sort that keep wanting to talk about feelings, emotions, and an even division of household chores. Best just to jump straight to building batteries. (Above) One position is quickly established at close range to a bastion. (Below, top) Then, on the other wing, two more are put into place!

Rumpfler also sends his one-time paramour and now dangerous spy, Nora Hindquarters, into the fortress. She successfully sows discontent amongst the population with tales that the outer defensive works are made of earth, and not frozen dairy products, and that tales of chocolate flakes there too, are mere fantasies. (Above) Retchin manages to deploy his guns forward - the Nabstrian defensive fire misses and the Kurlandians poise, guns loaded, ready to fire ....

Bogorovsk, the Fourth!

Like a Mittleheim waistband, the Nabstrian works creep inexorably outwards. Each of Rumpler's pioneer companies is put to creating its own sap (below). If there is one thing that Mittelheimers have a reliable knowledge of, not least because it is forms such an important part of their culture and culinary heritage, it is mud. Wriggling gleefully in the filth, the troops tunnel their way through the earth like moles on their way to a hot, but poorly lit, date.

Having learnt from the experience of previous siege operations, the Nabstrians have identified the risks involved in being too cavalier in pushing forward unsupported saps. As a result, and most disappointingly to the Kurlandian defenders, the next flurry from the sappers brings forth a set of trenches (below).

In a rare moment of coordination, the supporting infantry is able to move up almost straight away (above and below). This provides the sappers with support in case of an enemy attack. Kurlandian infantry continues to wait in the covered way. They have not yet decided to take their lives (and probably a range of saggy body parts) in their hands, and move up to the firing step, a position from which they can both fire and be fired upon.

Siege warfare, however, is in many respects about geometry, angles, protractor-thingies, and, you know, paying attention to where one's troops are relative to the enemy guns. (Above top) Whilst the Nabstrian infantry are safely protected in their trenches from enemy fire to their front, this is not the case in relation to another enemy battery (out of wood cut and to the right) that is now in an excellent position to fire right down the side of their defences. This is what is known in other parts of Europe as an 'enfilade': in Mittleheim, though, this sounds rather too much like 'lemonade', and for Mittelheim gunners risks confusing serious artillery work with fizzy beverages. Thus, the Kurlandian gunners prefer to refer to what they intend to do as a 'spank you with my gun'. 

It is a sound spanking that they mete out. A barrage from a heavy battery on a flanking ravelin skips munitions right down the trench, routing the defenders (above), although the comments from the defenders that they have 'spanked the Nabbies with their balls' seem unlikely to appear in the official history of the action. 

Barely pausing to goad the Nabstrians with some ripe and inventive allusions to their mothers and their proclivities towards cavorting on hot dates with moles, the defenders then compound the damage by launching a night trench raid with one of their grenadier companies (above)! What Rumpfler needs is some early luck that will bloody Retchin's nose, and, metaphorically, stuff some moles up his nostrils (not least to remove the temptation from the Nabstrian mothers). Can the sappers drive off the small attacking force? I mean, probably not, but you never know: the grenadiers might get lost, or tired, or get attacked by irate and horny moles whose dates have failed to turn up.

Bogorovsk, the Third!

The Nabstrian forces begin the process of sapping forward, intent on creating a third parallel. The general has four sapper companies at his disposal, one company of miners, and fourteen regiments of infantry, including two of grenadiers and one of guard infantry. Four regiments are under the command of Michael von Pfannensteil, scion of one of the great military families of the burgravate; General Heinrich von Zwöllen-Glantz commands the grenadiers and guard; Baron Florian von Meyer-Fleischwund commands three regiments of musketeers;  Horst, Freiherr von Friedegge commands the remaining four regiments, all of musketeers.

(Above, right) Rumpfler has established three main battery positions. He has five siege batteries, two heavy batteries, and two batteries of mortars. The mortars and one heavy battery are placed in the first parallel, with the remainder divided between two batteries in the second parallel. The general is a firm believer in the Christian principle of 'women and children first'. As such, he intends that both batteries of mortars will bombard the town, to terrorise innocent civilians and, if the Gentle Lord wills it, to set them alight. 

At this early stage, though, the general declines to fire, saving his powder for later. Instead, as his sapping commences, Rumpfler decides to commit one of his spies in order to spread unease amongst the population.

His choice is Roderigo the Spaniard (above). What led Roderigo to Mittelheim is a mystery. But this big, butch, bearded, ex-blacksmith is a master of disguise. A smudge of lipstick, a quick change of clothes, and a twist of his chorizo, and Roderigo is ready to undertake any manner of subterfuge. Or so Rumpfler hopes. 

Alas, Roderigo has made a fatal mistake. Sent to foment unhappiness amongst the population of Bogorovsk, he has chosen an entirely unsuitable ensemble -  a rococo style robe à la française, with a fitted bodice, elaborate trimming, and a full, pleated skirt supported by petticoats. The problem is - it's just too good. The style in Kurland this season is the same as every season - robe à la badger tres rough. Roderigo has made the same mistake as many Europeans trying to blend into Mittelhein: he's too competent.

Needless to say, Roderigo stands out like a Nabstrian spy in a rococo style robe à la française, with a fitted bodice, elaborate trimming, and a full, pleated skirt supported by petticoats. Quickly identified as an enemy agent, he is executed and then interrogated: an order of events that the Kurlandian secret police later begin to recognise may not be optimal.

News of Roderigo's demise is met with the necessary solemnity for someone who has given their life for the Nabstrian cause. 'What a loser!' snorts General Rumpfler angrily. (Above) Having expended one of his three spies, the general orders his sapper companies to continue with their efforts. Each company continues to dig forward: two on the left and two on the right, giving Rumpfler the sort of operational flexibility that mirrors his moral elasticity.

Bogorovsk, the Second!

The Nabstrian army has set its quite inconsiderable might against the walls of Bogorovsk.  The town is one of Kurland's major industrial centres, though the word 'major' here is rather a relative concept. Bogorovsk is certainly more industrialised than the surrounding area; but the same could probably be said of any house in the region with more than two pieces of cutlery. In the white heat of Mittelheim industry, the major products of Bogorovsk's nascent factories include spoons, iron nostril straighteners, and clockwork wheelchairs for mice.

(Above) Which is all to say that the town is strangely well protected given its risible contribution to the Kurland economy. The governor, General Retchin, has at his disposal four fortress artillery batteries, two heavy batteries, one light battery, and a battery of mortars. The fortress batteries are not as yet deployed upon the town's bastions. Having heard the lessons of previous Mittelheim sieges, the general has determined that exposing his batteries too early will simply make them targets for the enemy guns, and ensure that the enemy is so far away that they will not make useful targets. 

In addition to the guns, Retchin has six infantry regiments, divided into three brigades. One of these, commanded by Baron Felix Kraptin, consists of a regiment of veteran invalids and a regiment of local militia. The militia (above) are volunteers - a term which in Kurland simply indicates any individual worse at running than a recruitment sergeant. Brigade Kraptin is hardly an elite formation, and so is likely to form more of tripwire than a reliable defensive line. What it might succeed in tripping up, though, is open to question, unless the enemy mainly consists of mice in clockwork wheelchairs.    General Pyotr Ticklikoff, dressed in a dashing yellow uniform, commands the garrison's converged grenadiers (above, top). The remaining three regiments, all musketeers, labour under the command of Count Alexei Barfolovamisev, a septuagenarian goat worrier who, it turns out, is surprisingly spritely for his age - something that routinely disappoints his pet goats. The bulk of the troops are sent to the covered way, whilst the grenadiers and two companies of sappers remain in the town itself.

With this deployment, the Nabstrians then begin their attack!

Bogorovsk, the First!

Gauging the weather, dear readers*, this must be summer. Gauging the smell, this must be the border town of Bogorovsk in Kurland. Gauging the competence of the besieging force, this must be the Nabstrian army.

Testing the power of the law of averages, General Hieronymous von Rumpfler has decided to confront once again the troops of the Grand Duchy of Kurland. This time, though, he has besieged the enemy within a town, a condition that should reduce the enemy's mobility and allow the Nabstrians to leverage one of the key strengths of their army - their ability to move mud from one place to another destination that is quite close by. Utilising this skill, the besieging army has already managed to construct the first two parallels of their siege lines.

Content with the progress thus far, Rumpfler has found time to meet various important personages attached to his headquarters (below). One is Bishop Munschrugge, who has come to bless the efforts of the Burgravate's army. This is an activity that, to an outsider untutored in religious doctrine, might seem functionally the same as getting wildly hammered on the general's store of port, and then exposing his buttocks to passers by, on the basis that the Good Lord blesses those who turn the other cheek. Also here, however, is Lady Katherine Timsbury of Steventon, an advocate of something known as 'professional military education'. If we move closer, we might be able to hear the conversation ...

'And so, general, I think that I have demonstrated the great value that might accrue to your army if you signed up to the King's College's extra special programmes for the education of military officers'.

'But Lady Steventon, is it not the case that you have been selling these courses to our adversaries?'
'Of course - my institution takes its ethical responsibilities very seriously'.
'So, you would be against war, and conflict, and violence, and things such as that?'
'No, no: it's just that we sell to both sides so that we cannot be accused of unethical favouritism'.
'Well, how much are these courses?'
'I would be embarrassed to say, sir'
'Well, that's very ...'
'But I'll happily write it down here on a contract ....'
'How much? Jumping Jesus', the general blasphemes. 'That's as much as I spend on port in a month!'
'Well', says Timsbury, coyly. 'Perhaps, under the circumstances, I might do you a special deal'. She crosses out something and then writes something else.
'Jesus pole-vaulting Christ!', exclaims Rumpfler. 'That figure is higher than the first one!'
'Well, sir, there's been a sudden jump in demand'.

'But my army is large', says the general. He watches two of his sappers hit one another with shovels. 'And the need is very great. How can you possibly find sufficient tutors to begin the education of my army?'

Lady Steventon produces a pistol. 'Well, general, if it bleeds ...', she cocks the pistol, '... it can teach. Just give me a cart, some restraints, and directions to the nearest village'.
'There's also the additional work', says Rumpfler. 'My troops are already busy'. He gestures to some sappers who are experimenting with which end of a shovel seems a more efficient mechanism for moving soil. 'How will they have time for this process of education?'

'You may have heard', says Lady Steventon, 'of the new-fangled technique of Ape Interpretation?'

'AI? Yes, madame. But you can't mean that ...'

'Indeed, sir - you can just get the monkeys to do the donkey work. Or the donkeys to do the monkey work - I don't suppose that it matters'.

'But won't the fraud be exposed when you mark the work, madame?'

'Mark the work? ha, ha, ha, ha ... oh, you're actually serious'. Lady Katherine strikes a solemn pose. 'At the King's College, we feel that marking work is a judgmental and inequitable process that crushes the creative faculties of our students. So, we gently drop any written work down a set of stairs and let God sort them out'.

'That doesn't seem quite right', says Rumpfler. 'I mean, it seems quite wrong ...'

'I think', says Lady Katherine, 'that one of the many advantages of taking our courses would be that you would begin to understand that everything is contested and just a matter of perspective - except, of course, our prices'.

'Well, excellent', says Rumpfler. 'I think that with some quality postgraduate professional military education, we have a ninety per cent chance of success!'

Lady Timsbury watches as one of the sappers begins to eat the dirt that he has just shovelled.
'Ninety per cent seems quite high, sir ...'

* I use the plural more in hope than certainty.

Salade Days!

'I fear, sir, that I seem to have won again', says Chamberlain Fecklenburg sadly.
'Fie and tush!' cries Prince Rupprecht of Bachscuttel. 'And also, bugger it!' he throws his cards aside. 'Poker isn't a real man's game anyway. Snap - that's what alpha gentlemen play these days'.

Fecklenburg shrugs. 'My lord, you still haven't settled the debt that you owed me on our last playing of Snap'.

'Bah!' retorts the prince sourly. 'How much do I owe you?'

'Bavaria', replies the chamberlain. 'And also Poland, depending upon the rules of inheritance and who it is that dies first'.

''Hmmph!' says the prince. 'Add it to my tab! Anyway,' he continues, after a pause, 'I've got another game that I think I shall play with you instead.'

A look of alarm passes across the chamberlain's face. 'It's not a painful game, my lord?' says the chamberlain in alarm. 'You're not going to suggest that you play me at chess?'

'Oh no, no, no, no!' says the prince quickly. 'Although ...' he stops and thinks. 'No, not this time. The new game that I have is a collectable card game where players battle using decks built from a vast array of spells, magical abilities, and vegetables'.

'Vegetables, my lord?'

'Yes - it's called 'Radish: The Buggering'. Would you like to play it with me?'

'No, sir. I really, really would not', says Fecklenburg firmly. The chamberlain frowns. 'But who could have invented such a game?'

'Donatien Alphonse Francois de Salade', replies Rupprecht.

'That great French pervert?'

'Yes', replies Rupprecht. 'The Marquise de Salade! The things he did with cucumbers', the prince continues, admiringly.

'Anyway, Fecklenburg', continues Rupprecht, 'wasn't there something that you wanted to tell me, before I so comprehensively defeated you at cards?'

'Indeed, sir', replies the chamberlain. 'I was trying to report to you that our allies, the Burgravate of Nabstria, have invaded Kurland!'

'But, Fecklenburg - haven't they already fought the Kurlandians?'

'Yes, sir. But they have now sought to regain the initiative by besieging and taking the town of Bogorovsk'.

'But they lost against the Kurlandians - why would they want to take them on again?'

'On the basis, I presume my lord, of "In for a penny, in for a pound"'.

Rupprecht frowns. 'But why would they be exchanging English money if all they want to do is fight?'

'No, my lord - it's an aphorism. Like "A bird in the hand is worth two in a bush"'.

Rupprecht snorts. 'But should I be putting my hands in bushes? Because, you know, I seem to have got into a lot of trouble for doing that in Austria'.

'No, my lord, an aphorism: it is a ...'. He looks at Rupprecht's thinking face - a sight only distinguishable from the bottom of a farting cat because the latter is less hairy. '... it is an irrelevance. All you need to know, my lord, is that our allies are attacking a Kurlandian border town'.

'Well, excellent. I think that the Nabstrians probably have a one hundred per cent chance of success!'

'They are Nabstrians, my lord. One hundred per cent seems quite high ... Sir, why are you taking out those vegetables ...'

'To try out the Marquise de Salade's game. Now, let me give you this aubergine ...'

'I think I'd like to leave now, my lord'.

Mathematically Invalid!

Rupprecht is reviewing his most recently raised infantry regiment, Infantry Regiment von Leck.

The prince frowns as he surveys the troops: a collection of decrepit, broken-down, ill-favoured, tree-dwelling primates that have been forcibly squeezed into a uniform: often, it would appear, into the same one. 

'Well,' says Rupprecht loudly sighing, 'this is a problem'.
'Indeed, sir', agrees his chancellor, Leopold von Fecklenburg, who is accompanying him.
'Yes', continues the prince. 'If the war continues much longer, how will we be able to sustain this superior quality of recruit going forward?'

'My own thoughts exactly, sir. There is, however, one other problem'.
'Are they Welsh?'
'No, my lord. I think that the problem becomes clear if one counts their limbs and then divides this by the number of bodies. Received wisdom would suggest that 'four' would be the desirable answer'.
Rupprecht frowns. He begins the process of applying his knowledge of mathematics.
Fecklenburg leaves, has a leisurely lunch with coffee, and then returns later after a cheeky brandy.
'I've got it!' cries Rupprecht. 'Five! They've all got an extra arm! But aren't troops with five limbs actually an advantage?'
'My lord, I think that you have perhaps made an error in your calculations. It is indeed a complex process of mathematics, requiring as it does both addition and division. But I think you'll find that the problem is that the answer is only approximately four, a total which is achieved only by some rounding up'.
Rupprecht shrugs. Well, if they're missing a leg or two, then wouldn't rounding them up be quite easy? I mean, how far can they get?'
'No, my lord. It's not just a leg or two. Some are missing arms - see the empty sleeves; and many have had to replace their lost legs with wooden stumps'.
'So they have fewer than four limbs? I don't see that as a particular problem. I mean, slightly less than four leaves quite a lot of leeway. I think we're fine until we're in the 'one-and-a-half average' range'.
'Less than two limbs per man? My lord, there are many attributes commonly ascribed as desirable in a modern infantryman. And I'm sure that an unspoken one would be that they have four limbs. Less than two would complicate their ability to perform key military tasks such as standing up or putting on their trousers'.
'Fecklenburg, it could be an advantage. They say the Devil makes work for idle hands ...'

'I don't think that removing the hands, as well as the arms that attach them to their bodies, is the answer'.

'I don't understand why this regiment has such a high body to limbs ratio, chamberlain'.

'It is an invalid battalion, my lord. These men are veterans who have given years, and many body parts, in your service'.

'And they've signed up again, Fecklenburg? I am touched - the honour, the courage, the loyalty!'

'And also, sir, the poverty and the desperation'.

Rupprecht nods, seriously. 'How very moving. I feel, in a way, morally responsible ...'

'And also, sir, actually responsible, since they have no other means of obtaining a living'.

'Well, Fecklenburg, welcome them to my army - if the term "army" is wholly appropriate, given the empty sleeves that I see. And then send them straight to the front as fast as their stumps will allow!'

Ape Interpretation!

The Yum Kipper War continues to rage throughout Mittelheim. Amidst the escalating violence and suffering, it should surely befit all serious-minded Enlightenment rulers to consider best how peace and order might be restored and how justice and prosperity can be delivered to the peoples of this region. This means, of course, that Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel is fast asleep. Chamberlain Fecklenburg stands in front of the prince.

'Waaah! I didn't do it!' cries the prince, suddenly awaking.
'Didn't do what, sire?' asks Fecklenburg.
Rupprecht wipes away the dribble from his lips. 'Whatever you've come to complain about, Fecklenburg. Unless it's good news, in which case your congratulations are a justifiable recognition of my skills in masterly inactivity.
'Are you alright sir?' replies the chamberlain.
'You startled me, chamberlain! Stop sneaking up on me!'
'I knocked for ten minutes, my lord, before entering'.
'Well, knock louder!'
'I came in anyway, my lord, and have been loudly singing our national anthem for ten minutes, in the hope of rousing you'.
'And I didn't wake up?'
'No, sir. Although you did join in with the chorus'. 

The prince seems about to say something but then stops suddenly and looks around.
'Fecklenburg', says Rupprecht finally, 'the traditional woodcuts of our exploits seem to have been replaced by some form of painting!'
'That is true, sire. One of the Christmas monkeys turned out to be rather skilled with a paintbrush. We have kept him; and his artistic perspective on our exploits, I thought might be an interesting contrast to our usual illustrations. I have called the process "Ape Interpretation", or AI'.
Rupprecht surveys things curiously. 'Interesting, chamberlain. Your green base seems to have become a carpet'.
'Yes, sire'.
'And also, Fecklenburg, you seem suddenly to have grown a moustache'.

Fecklenburg touches his upper lip. 'Odd, my lord. And also, your gout seems to have disappeared'.
'Why, yes! This is pleasing, but also disturbing. What other things might suddenly appear, or', he looks down worriedly, 'suddenly disappear? Anyway, why have you disturbed my princely executive time?'
'There is news, my lord. Some of it is good, and some of it is bad. Which would you like first?'
'Is this a trick question, Chamberlain?
'No, sir. Some of the news is good and some is bad, and you might like to have that delivered to you in a specific order'.
'It's definitely a trick, Fecklenburg. I'll give you one answer, and then you'll say something that makes it look like I should've given the other answer, and it will make me look stupid!'
'I don't think that trick questions are necessary to prove that, sir'.
Rupprecht pauses, that portion of his brain concerned with analysis, a vestigial growth attached to the parts used to calculate the size of his breakfast, tries to work out if he has been insulted.
'I think, sir', says Fecklenburg, moving swiftly on, 'that you're overcomplicating what should be a straightforward interaction'.
'It's a trick question! Like when you asked me if I wanted breakfast, and when I said "yes" it turned out that it was lunch time!'
'I think, my lord, that that's not a comment on your intellect but rather a result of your extended temporal and intellectual somnambulance'.
'Exactly what I mean! I didn't need an ambulance at all'.

'Indeed, sir. Well, let me give you the news in a random order, then. The bad news is that our allies, Nabstria, have been defeated!'
Rupprecht frowns. 'Booo! This is very bad news indeed. This is quite the worst news I've ever heard! The Nabstrians are close and valued allies! And the good news?'
'It's that our allies, the Nabstrians, have been defeated'.
'Hurray! That's the best news I've ever heard. We hate them!'
'Quite so, my lord. But their defeat, and that of our other allies, the Margravate of Wurstburp, leaves us very exposed. I have ordered the raising of new troops! On that note, I thought that you might wish to review the newest regiment in your army'.

Rupprecht considers this. 'Why not, Fecklenburg! In any case, we had better leave before your Ape Interpretation causes your moustache to disappear and my gout to return!'