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?