Schwimwehr, the Seventh!

It's bad news for the Vulgarian cavalry. But then, isn't it always? If only they were currently enrolled in a competition focused on acquiring the most disorder in the shortest space of time. Then, they would surely be guaranteed to win an exciting prize. The cavalry charge through the marsh, disordering themselves; their attack is quickly driven back by the defending infantry, disordering them even more; they are then disordered again as they retreat; alas too quickly to pick up their prize. One wonders indeed whether the term 'disorder' might be a strong enough term for the colossal bundle of bedlam that characterises their condition. Luckily, the problem is resolved almost straight away when a volley from the infantry completely routs the Vulgarian cavalry regiment from the field.

Though he has now worked off some of his frustration, it is clear to Saxe-Peste that no further progress will be made on this flank. The Furst decides to shift to a new and more direct approach. 'Grenadiers forward!' he orders, and 'charge!'. 'Hold the line! Hold the line!' shouts Rentall in response. The centre clashes in bloody hand-to-hand combat! (below). Even in Mittelheim, the term 'hand-to-hand combat' generally does involve the use of muskets and bayonets and not actual hands, although there is still rather more eye-poking, hair pulling and wrinkled sack wrenching than would be normal in most Enlightenment tactical military doctrine.

There follows an extended period of mithanthropic mayhem as the Mittleheim murder muppets melee with one another! But to the chagrin of Saxe-Peste, the Rotenburgers fail to make a breakthrough and their line falls back (below). In fact, it's a close-run thing, with one of the attacking units themselves teetering on the brink of routing.

This isn't the only bad news for the Rotenburg commander. General Rentall can't help himself and tests the Furst's temper with even more marsh-related miscreancy. A great bout of confusion overcomes the Rotenburg Landgravial guard, and they find themselves strangely tempted to undertake an ambulatory excursion into the slushy water feature in front of them. The water looks so inviting, what with the delightful crust of algae, the choking toads, and the same smell of gassy flatulence that reminds them of home. They stagger forwards, splashing through the marsh. (Below) Now unable to fire and with portions of the line hanging out in places ripe for an enemy cavalry counterattack, the troops come to a halt right in front of the Vulgarian cavalry.

Furst Saxe-Peste is drinking brandy again. Marshes seem to be on his mind; and also various ways that these geographical features might be forced painfully into Rentall's bodily cavities. It doesn't look good for the Rotenburgers ...