It Smells Like Something's Pied in Here!

In Pfeildorf, Prince Rupprecht's chamberlain is deep in conversation with a military courier carrying dispatches. The courier seems rather exercised.

'I have been trying all morning to gain an audience with the prince', he says tetchily. 'Why chamberlain, have you been denying me access?'

Rupprecht's chamberlain, Leopold von Fecklenburg, sighs wearily. 'Sir, I have been denying you access because the prince is not ready to receive you. And when I say that he is not ready to receive you, I say that, not to delay or inconvenience you, but rather to save your sanity and faith in human nature'.

'What is our prince doing in there, then?' says the officer. 'And how can you think that it is more important than these despatches, straight from the battlefield?'
'It is lunch time', replies Fecklenburg. 'Which in any other part of Europe would be no occasion to fear for one's marbles. But this the the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, and there is activity related to that room that no mortal may gaze upon unscathed'.

'He's not Morris dancing, is he?' asks the courier.

'No', says Fecklenburg. 'The pope has expressly forbidden that. But it's worse. So much worse that you are like to go instantly blind upon entering'.

'I could keep my eyes shut'.

'Mere eyelids alone will be no sufficient protection'.

'Well, I could walk in backwards'.

'That won't help with the smell'.

'The smell?'

'Yes, the smell. Although the word "smell" is wholly insufficient to describe the suffocating miasma of noxious smothering fug that you will encounter if I let you into that chamber too early'.

'It can't be that bad. I mean, I've visited Portsmouth. I could just hold my nose'.

'Not enough, I fear', says the chamberlain shaking his head. 'The residual reek will cause your nose to commit suicide and fall off'.

'But what could the prince be doing that would cause such luncheon trauma to an urgent visitor such as myself?'

'It is not just lunch. The prince is ... embracing the principle of just-in-time logistics'.

The courier nods. 'Well, excellent. Our military supply service is ....'.
'No, no - when I use the phrase "just-in-time logistics", what I mean is that he is eating pies whilst sitting on his commode'.

The courier pauses in horror. 'Is there a ... practical purpose to such a pursuit?'
'I suppose it is a form of ... time and motion study'.

'Time and motion?'

'Yes, Prince Rupprecht claims that it makes him more efficient. On the principle, he argues, of "one in, one out"'. Fecklenburg checks his pocket watch. 'But, well, it might now be safe. The prince had stopped laying siege to his commode by late morning'.

'Two hours ago?'

'No, late morning last Thursday'.

'That's quite a long time ago'.

'Which is exactly what the last visitor said'.

'The last visitor?'

'Yes. It took almost an hour to talk his nose off the ledge'.

'Perhaps I should leave and come back in a few years time ...'

'No, sir, perhaps it is now about time for you to enter. For the prince will be keen to see you'.

'Will he?'

'Yes, of course. Your news of the latest battle will provide yet more information for his keen mind to devise, after long hours of exhaustive study, the perfect grand design to enable our state to triumph in this clash of strategies'.

'Really?'

'No, of course not. He'll fall asleep; and then, when he wakes, he'll have you executed for bringing him bad news'.

'I really think that I might want to come back later - perhaps in a decade or two, after he has died'.

'No, no - in you go. I mean, what's the worst that could happen ...'

Falkenhelle, the Last!

Committed to the principle that there's no military situation in Mittelheim that can't be materially worsened by the addition of horses, the Fenwickians seek to exploit the Bachscuttel open flank in front of Falkenhalle itself by wheeing their cavalry and moving forwards (below).

On this flank, the Fenwickian defenders of Falkenhelle have easily held off the Bachscuttel troops to their front, and the Bachscuttlers resort to using sheep as the main element in their attack. This is, of course, a baaa-d idea.

This being Mittelheim and not, say, Sparta, Barry-Eylund's solution to this threat is rather prosaic - he simply refuses his flank (below). Interestingly, the unit of mercenaries (in green) in his attacking army is still alive. This is unusual, since mercenaries tend be the first of the offal thrown into the sausage-fest that is war in this part of Europe. The Fenwickian cavalry finds itself stymied. Or they would, if the word 'stymie' could be used in their presence - which it can't because, even if it's not actually a double entendre, it sounds as if, after three pints of ale, it could be.

(Below) Holding the centre of the Fenwickian infantry line, Marshal Cavandish's headquarters is in a rather exposed position. The noise of the enemy musketry rouses the marshal from a short nap. Giovanni di Tripodi, currently performing the function of Chief of Staff, looks on at the situation with a surprising amount of sangfroid. Having spent so long as a notable in the Wars of the Mittelheim Succession, almost nothing now surprises him. Almost nothing, since there was the incident with the Fenwickian tavern wench, the three-pounder regimental artillery piece, and the tub of lard. 

 

(Above) The marshal climbs from his bed down into the glutinous mud. He checks his pocket watch and surveys the skies. With one final order to 'Do nothing. Extravagantly.' He then climbs back into his sleigh of somnabulance and drifts off. The Fenwickians have spent quite a lot of the battle passing, and doing nothing, on the, as it turns out, very prescient observation that their enemy never misses the opportunity to miss an opportunity to really get stuck in. Although no one could ever say the phrse 'stuck in' because, you know, this is Fenwick. 

And with that, night finally falls! (Above) The Bachscuttlers have run out of time! Cursing, Barry-Eylund orders his troops to retire back to their encampment. As is now clear, his earlier escapades with his irregulars cost him too much precious time, frittering away the later opportunity to exploit the sad state of the Fenwickian infantry line.

The Fenwickians sustain their reputation for success, and gain two EPs. Bachscuttel gains 1 EP, plus another for having inflicted Carnage upon their adversary. 

Marshal Cavandish has lost four regiments of trained infantry. Two of the remaining three trained infantry units are promoted to Elite. Neither of his conscript infantry improves.  His conscript cavalry unit has watched others not falling off their horses sufficiently that it has become trained.

In General Barry-Eylund's army, the Milchfrau Lieb Garde once again has been broken, although it can be re-raised quite easily because Bachscuttel has an almost endless supply of chinless aristos that can't distinguish between a wine bill and an enlistment document. The unit of broken irregulars can be replaced with the simple expedient of conscripting woodland animals and small items of furniture. 

None of the Bachscuttel army can be bothered to use their experiences to improve themselves, and Kershaw, Earl of Brent, does a runner. For Barry-Eylund, it's been that sort of day.

Falkenhelle, the Seventh!

 ... anything is possible, but just not necessarily probable. No residual Christmas spirit is evident in the treatment of the forlorn Fenwickians. Before one can say 'XXXX', the attacking unit gets a rough New Years' handling, and as a consequence collapses and routs from the field (below).

Flush with a newfound confidence brought on by this success, and also quite a quantity of excess festive libation, Barry-Eylund commits two of his regiments to a bayonet charge. Whilst the Fenwickian morale is being slowly worn away, time is passing all too quickly, thanks to the Bachscuttelers having spent altogether too long on their early irregular antics.

(Above) In go the attacking troops! The results are positive for the Bachscuttel forces. One enemy unit is destroyed utterly, and the other, though it survives, is just a mouse's 'Boo!' away from routing.

Marshal Cavandish continues to focus his efforts on wasting away the time available to his adversaries. Many times, he simply 'passes', snuggling down in his bed and focusing on snoring his way to victory. To Barry-Eylund's frustration, yet again a bout of confusion strikes one of his regiments, which pirouettes through some of the other troops (below). 

(Below) With the afternoon now beginning to give way to evening, The Bachscuttlers redouble their attack. (Below) Desperate to split the enemy infantry formation, another assault with bayonets is launched on the enemy! This Fenwickian unit connects the two other portions of Cavandish's infantry line.

'Hold the line!' cry the defenders! 'Grenadiers forward!' yell the attackers! (Below) The Fenwickians again are defeated, and their morale hangs in the same sort of precarious fashion as Prince Rupprecht's britches when he takes strenuous exercise - although for Rupprecht, the word 'strenuous' encompasses almost any activity that doesn't involve a knife and fork.

(Above) It's never a good sign in warfare when one's military headquarters finds itself in the front line. Marshal Cavandish, however, views the situation with equanimity. Partly this is because he is asleep. but partly it is also because the sun is about to set.  The issue now is which will give out first - Fenwickian morale or Bachscuttel's time?