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.