Pie Me a River!

Fecklenburg enters Rupprecht's chambers.

'It is I, sir, your chamberlain, bringing a courier with news of the latest battles!' he cries.

Prince Rupprecht, to his chamberlain's relief, seems to be commodeless and fully entrousered.

The prince looks up, startled.

'Blinking flip, chamberlain!' he cries. 'What possible reason could you have for interrupting my studies?' 

'News from the front!' Fecklenburg hesitates, turning to the courier. 'What's your name again?'

'It's Rupprecht!' says the prince.
'Not your name, sire, his'.
'But I don’t know his name, Fecklenburg: which is why you should announce it'.
'My name is Colonel Xavier Ritter von Nittedaun, my prince', says the officer.

'No, no, no!' cries Rupprecht, 'don't tell me, tell him,' he says, pointing at Feckenburg. 'He's the one who has to introduce you so that I know who you are'. 

In the garden of good arguments against absolutist forms of government, Rupprecht was undoubtedly the largest and most swollen melon.

'My I introduce', says the chamberlain, 'Ritter Nittedaun, fresh from General Barry-Eylund's headquarters'.

The prince's eyes narrow. 'It's bad news, isn't it', he says.

The Ritter shifts nervously. 'How can you tell, my lord?' he asks.

'There are three reasons', says the Prince holding up his fingers.

'I think, sire, that that is only two fingers' says Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht nods. 'These aren't the reasons; these two fingers are just how I feel about being interrupted by you. As to the reasons, well, first, it's always bad news; second, Fecklenburg has strategically placed you as an obstacle to impede me getting at him; and third, it's always bad news'.

'My lord, I think that you repeated one of them', says the Ritter.

'Look at my fingers, Ritter', says the Prince. 'Look at my fingers'.

Rupprecht sighs. 'Well, let's have it then'. 

The courier takes despatches from his pocket, clears his throat, and then explains the long and lamentable course of the battle of Falkenhelle.

' ... and so', finishes the Ritter, 'our army has withdrawn in good order, but may, even now, be menaced by the forces of Zenta'. He finishes. There is a long silence. The colonel peers at the Prince. 'Is he dead ...'

'Chicken pie!' coughs Fecklenburg.

'Spread the gravy!' cries Rupprecht, waking up. 'Where? Who?'

'You may have rested your eyes a moment, sire' says the chamberlain.

'No, no! Not I! There was a defeat. And some death. Terrible! You see these - tears: a river of tears from my eyes!' the prince points.

'Are you sure, sire, that that isn't just perspiration from the enormous pie that you consumed for your lunch?'

'No! No! No!' cries the prince vehemently. 'Well, yes! Probably. Somewhat. But mixed in with the perspiration are tears of anguish. A military defeat!' Rupprecht winces. 'I'm numb'.

The Ritter nods. 'Indeed, sir - the awful losses'.

'No. no. no. I think that my buttocks have gone to sleep. Anyway, there must be something that we can do to arrest our decline as a military power?'

Fecklenburg nods. 'My lord, I await your suggestions - you intimated when we entered that you were studying?'

'Yes, chamberlain', replies Rupprecht. 'A book on strategy!' He fishes under his chair for a while and then flourishes a volume triumphantly.

The prince is not noted for his enthusiasm for reading. In the main, his excursions into literature begin and end with the works of the writer Sven von Hassell, one of the pen names of Jonathan Swift, and the tales of his exploits on the Lilliputian eastern front.

Fecklenburg examines the book and sighs. 'Sire. This is not a book on strategy - it is, rather, a book on strudel'.

Rupprecht snorts. 'Strategy, strudels, what's the difference - they both begin with an "s"'.

'Sire', replies Feckenburg, 'I think that the differences might quickly become apparent if one planned to rely upon delicious flaky pastry as the means to align disparate military actions towards a common objective, amidst the chaos and friction that defines the nature of war. But then', he gestures to the book, 'I cannot claim to be an expert on strudel'.

'Exactly!' snaps Rupprecht. 'You're not! And I think that there is a solution to our problems through the use of a pie!'

'Sire, what is it?' asks the Ritter.

The prince frowns. 'Well, it's a baked dish consisting of a filling enclosed by pastry, or sometimes with pastry only on the top or bottom'.

'No, my lord - the plan', says the chamberlain.

Rupprecht snorts in exasperation. 'So I must rescue our country from defeat by coming up with a solution? Fine! I can do it without any problem at all by applying my many talents! Am I the cleverest ruler in the region? Probably not. Am I the handsomest? Maybe not. Am I militarily the most experienced? No. But ….' Rupprecht pauses. 'However ...' He trails off.

'Well put, sir', says Fecklenburg . 'I shall act on your plan immediately!'

'You will?' says the prince. 'Did I actually say something planny?'

'You alluded, sire, elliptically, and no doubt intentionally, to a brilliant plan'.

'I did?'

'Why, yes. And may I commend you on the flexibility you have shown in your approach to pies, given that you have stretched your interests to embrace rolled pastry made from very thin dough wrapped around a filling and baked until crisp and flaky.'

'A what a what?' asks the Prince.

'Strudel, sire - you have literally just read a book on the topic'.

'Have I?' Rupprecht nods his head sagely. 'Well, Fecklenburg, I am not monogamous in my pie attachments. I would describe myself as "pie curious'".

'Anyways, now that my genius has delivered a plan to you, it's time for more government activity. Bring me my commode!'

'Are you sure that this is really the time ...' asks the Ritter.

'All movements are improvements, colonel'.

Fecklenburg sighs. 'I don't think that that's what they meant, my lord'.

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?