Klosentheim, the Last!

The drums of war now reach a crescendo! This being Mittelheim, it actually sounds more like a bongo solo. (Below, top) Try as they might, the Bachscuttel musketeers cannot hit the large unit of Zentan sipahi cavalry to their front. Perhaps they are intimidated by the size of their opponent's lances, or maybe the enemy seems so easy to hit that the musketeers believe that there is a catch of some sort. It's not like Mittelheim soldiers to overthink a situation, though, so it might be that there is a simpler explanation: they are terrible shots that couldn't hit a barn door if they were lying underneath it. The sipahi look on at their enemy's aim-free antics with the same look of incredulity as Bachscuttel Christmas chimps might have watching the Bachscuttel troops trying to run a tea party.

(Above) It's not all good news for the Zentans, though. Seated on his palanquin, General Taras Bulbous begins to notice the sudden dearth of friendly troops between himself and the enemy. The other Bachscuttel guard regiment, the Tchokolet-Feyer Garde, has dispatched the irregulars to their front and advance menacingly towards the Zentan headquarters.

'The enemy! The enemy!' cries the general, pointing.

'The enemy?' cries his aide.

'The enemy!' replies Bulbous, with extra emphasis.

'The enemy!' agrees his aide.

'I keep saying that!' cries General Bulbous. 'What do you think I'm saying, you moron? "Custard slice"? Come on! Let's get mobile! Get me out of here! Punch it, pig boy!'

Cursing the fact that he cheaped out and went with only the eight-slave palanquin, when he should have gone with the twelve (with spoilers and a roof-rack), Bulbous retreats! His headquarters is overrun, but the general escapes unscathed. The Bachscuttlers loot the headquarters, which seems to contain more than the expected quantity of Turkish Delight and nipple-clamps. Thankfully, the Bachscuttlers have very limited imaginations, and quickly move on.

With his irregulars now circling slowly down the waste-pipe of defeat, Bulbous is keen to save his elite sipahis. The cavalry do an about-turn and swiftly head towards safety. Imam Fatih accompanies them, removing some of their disorder with amusing tales of the time that his invitation to the palace mixed up 'Fatih' with 'Farty', which made for a surprisingly tense carriage journey with some of the other guests.

Bulbous leaves another sting in the tail for General Barry-Eylund. To make it even harder for the Bachscuttlers to pursue the cavalry, a strange marsh is discovered that wasn't on the map (above). Demonstrating the measured, reflective, and philosophical demeanour for which he his famous, Barry-Eylund launches into a tirade of apoplectic abuse, in which the inventive use of Turkish Delight and nipple clamps is merely the amuse-bouche to a longer list of anatomically challenging and definitively illegal ways in which other inanimate objects might find their way through various means up General Bulbous' backside.

(Above) Through a combination of fire and movement, the Bachscuttel line routs the infantry in the Zentan centre, leaving only a couple of disordered cavalry units to keep Bulbous' army together.

(Below) On the Zentan right, Bulbous' irregulars continue their attempts to beat the enemy off (not something that could ever be said in Fenwick, of course). But, in a sad case of projectile dysfunction, their limp volleys inflict little damage. In this case, it does matter, and they can't try again later.

Finally, with most of the remaining front line Zentan units in a parlous state, the Zentan commander offers his enemy Honours of War. Barry-Eylund, still perspiring heavily from his earlier outburst, agrees, and the battle comes thankfully to an end. A Bachscuttel victory! 

None of the participants improves their quality as a result of the battle. Zenta receives one Epic Point for fighting the battle, but expended one in order to draw more cards. Bachscuttel gains two Epic Points.

Klosentheim, the Sixth!

Guard infantry! Surely they are the pinnacle of military skill, daring, and professionalism! A paragon of combat competence! A force that the rest of the army can look up to! Or so one might think. On this battlefield, however, they are actually something that one could look down upon; in a quite literal sense, given that the Milchfrau Leib-Garde have been squashed flat by the hooves of the Zentan palace cavalry. The Bachscuttelers are comprehensively defeated (below).

To be fair, the regimental history will be able to state quite categorically that the unit did not rout from the field. But this is only because, after the comprehensive trampling that they received from their enemies, they have about the same mobility as a dining room rug, and also about the same height. The remnants are rolled up and removed from the battlefield.

Barry-Eylund seems unfazed and continues with his plan. This is because he only has one plan, and he intends to continue executing it until he has achieved victory or killed all of his men. In Bachscuttel this is known as 'using one's initiative'. (Above, top) Troops from the second line have filled the gap created by the flattening of the Leib-Garde. The whole Bachscuttel infantry line has been pushed up close to their enemies.

(Above) General Bulbous responds by applying one of the cardinal principles for success in Mittelheim warfare: if it worked last time, try it again, harder. He orders his palace cavalry forward once more in another attempt to break the Bachscuttel line. To give them a bit more oomph, they are accompanied by one of the army's clerics, Imam Fatih. Fatih has already had some experience of the Zentan style of warfare. It is a style that usually favours the bold drinking of coffee, and then sudden strikes against portions of the enemy that look quite short, weak, or preferably asleep. But this time, Bulbous is really going for it, stirrups in and clerics out.

(Above) Alas, this time it doesn't work, and the fresh enemy infantry, with their grenadiers forward, drive the sipahis back. It's a nasty situation: the cavalry are perilously disordered, the enemy infantry are levelling their muskets for a volley, and Imam Fatih has pulled something badly in his Turkish delight.

Klosentheim, the Fifth!

(Below) The Bachscuttel infantry continue their advance. Far to the rear, their cavalry support waits stolidly, snoring. The riders, that is, rather than the horses. Some of the horses are contentedly chewing grass,. Others are idly leafing through Bachscuttel military doctrine for some clues on why, despite their employment in what should surely be the most dangerous, exciting, and decisive of the battlefield arms, their chances of death or serious injury have turned out to be quite a lot less than your average cart horse; even those employed in the transport of Fenwickian melons. Whilst history seems to suggest that combined arms warfare might be the stronger mode of tactical combat, General Barry-Eylund likes to plough his own furrow; then take that furrow and plant pragmatic European battlefield experience; before covering it with horse manure and letting it die in the dark. From the general's actions, it seems his philosophy that it's better to throw his troops in, one combat arm at a time. It's a simple life.

(Above) The Bachscuttel infantry line begins to close in, and musket fire is exchanged. The Zentan irregulars in theory have a range advantage, but Barry-Eylund negates it through 'careful calculation,' a phrase which in his headquarters is a euphemism for the tedious application of a ruler and the tactical calling of a lunch break.

(Above) On the Bachscuttel left, two regiments of elite infantry duel Zentan irregulars ensconced in the woods. Though the Zentans are of dubious quality, they outnumber their adversaries. The Bachscuttel grenadiers struggle to find their enemy: is that a Zentan behind that tree? Or a large squirrel? Or a large squirrel carrying a Zentan? Or a tree with a hat? Or a squirrel in a hat carrying a Zentan?

(Above) The second Bachscittel line has begun to swing outwards to cover the right flank. Luckily for Barry-Eylund, thanks to command and control problems, the Zentan irregulars facing them are still in march column or, as it is more commonly termed in the Sanjak's drill manuals, a conga line. At the very back of the line, the Zentan janissary auxiliaries can only gnash their teeth in frustration. Even if they turn the power of their silly hats up to eleven, they are still too far from the enemy to terrify their enemy. 

Indecisive exchanges of fire continue for a while. General Barry Eylund then decides that it is time to try and regain the initiative. Charging irregulars is always a dicey business, what with their ability to evade. But, lacking any other good ideas, he trusts in luck and the poor state of the Zentan footwear. He orders both of his guard regiments to charge (above)!

(Above, left) One unit of Zentans manages to evade, and scuttles back behind their cavalry. (Above, centre). The red-coated Milchfrau Lieb-Garde, however, catch their silly-hatted opponents and give them a good bayoneting. The Zentans rout. The guard, however, are now quite disordered by their efforts, much of it caused by laughing at those of their adversaries who, in their panicked disintegration, end up sitting on their hats, an activity that is like being given a colonoscopy by an unqualified and unsympathetic rhino.

(Above) General Bulbous decides to exploit the opportunity and orders his elite palace sipahi cavalry to launch an immediate and furious charge, stirrups in! Unused to seeing horses that aren't a long, long way away, and/or reading doctrine manuals, the guards look worriedly as the wall of steel and horseflesh bears down upon them! Still, these are guards, the very elite of the Bachscuttel army: what could go wrong?

Klosentheim the Fourth!

The Bachscuttlers advance with the same speed and grace as a sloth with food poisoning and painful corns (below). While Barry-Eylund, being a Great Captain, is able to keep up with the advancing infantry, no other part of his army is able to, and so the cavalry, light troops, and artillery begin to disappear slowly behind the horizon.

Amongst the Bachscuttel artillery comes the sounds of urgent preparations for a barrage of preparatory cannon fire that will be destructive and also, possibly, decisive. Just joking, of course. The only sound that comes from behind the artillery gabions is the creak of sun loungers being opened. Displaying the organisational adaptiveness for which Bachcuttel troops are famous, the troops have repurposed one of the gabions into a barbecue upon which they roast some local wildlife. Later, it will turn out that what the troops thought was a boar was actually just a short Frenchman. But what they lost in terms of diplomacy, they gained in terms of flavour, so it probably all evened out in the end. 

(Above) Thanks to General Barry-Eylund's tedious attention to the rules of war, some of which he likes anyway to invent, there is no gap around which the Zentan light cavalry can flow to flank the advancing Bachscuttel line. Also, the general has stolen the tape measure.

Amongst the Zentan defenders on this wing, a certain realisation begins to dawn: there's quite a lot of irregular cavalry on the right flank, and not much, actually only one unit in fact, of the sort of troops able to fire. (Above right) That unit moves up through their compatriots and takes cover in the woods, but it still means that, once the enemy infantry line is closer, there's going to be an exchange of small arms in which the Bachscuttelers will have muskets, and the Zentan irregulars are just going to have, well, their very small arms. Inventive though the irregulars are, fruity hand gestures are likely to be less effective in combat than smooth-bore munitions.  

On reflection, it's probably the case that the Zentans are best in attack, where they can deploy to exploit their enemy's weaknesses. General Taras Bulbous realises that his irregular infantry are poorly deployed for the Bachscuttel assault. Never a man afraid to show his balls (the possession of which, in the Zentan harem, can never be taken as a given) he orders much of his irregular infantry into march column (below).

Trusting to the power of their silly yellow hats, Bulbous hopes that his light infantry can dominate the battlefield and reposition themselves before the Bachscuttel firing line can establish itself in a decisive position. To be fair, given the state of Mittleheim military theory, it isn't immediately obvious that a focus on hats wouldn't deliver a decisive military advantage, given that most of the armies in the region consider that the wearing of underpants is the mark of an elite soldier.

(Above) General Bulbous weighs the military situation. Alas for the slaves who have to support his palanquin, the military situation weighs a lot less than the general himself. Bulbous has committed himself to a low-fat diet. But this seems to comprise of quite large quantities of Turkish delight. Sourced from a strange woman in a sleigh, this fat-free but calorific treat means the centre of gravity of the Zentan army lies somewhere surrounding the general's belly button. (Above right) The palace sipahi cavalry await the advance of the enemy infantry. With the elite regiment in front, Bulbous hopes that a cavalry charge might be able to break the Bachscuttel infantry line.

(Above) The Bachscuttel infantry line presses forwards. Can the Zentan irregulars reorient themselves in time? Can they actually spell the word 'reorient '? Or should it be 'reorientate'? And what about the words 'in time'? And is modern infantry combat really about spelling anyway? All of these important questions will be resolved in the next episode! Unless, of course, they aren't.

Klosentheim, the Third!

There are several reasons why General Redmond Barry-Eylund is widely known as 'Der Turtle Koenig'. One is his facial features; others are his love of salad and slow-moving women. But the main reason is the general's preference for military postures so passive that they make even the word 'defensive' sound dangerously risky. It is a mark of Barry-Eylund's tremendous testudinal tendencies that he is able to turtle, even when he is supposed to be attacking.    

The great threat posed by the Zentans is that their hordes of irregulars get around the Bachscuttel flanks as the latter try to advance. Thus, Barry-Eylund has decided that he will attack in the centre and on one flank, whilst refusing the other. The choice of which flank is easy. With Klosentheim nestled between two woods and with a large chunk of rough ground to its front, it makes no sense at all to go that way. The general decides to refuse his right.

(Above) What Barry-Eylund does on his right wing, though, is so much more than just a refusal. In deployment terms, it is the equivalent of being offered an amuse bouche at a party and then, instead of declining politely with the words, 'Alas, no - delicious, I'm sure, but oysters with liquorice and custard really aren't my thing', saying instead 'I hate you, I have slept with your wife and your mother, and I have shot the rest of your family. And no to the oysters'.  This flank is not just refused; it is spurned, denied, rebuffed, declined, and then thrown out.

(Above) The general deploys his artillery so far back that a single violent cough might push them off the edge of the battlefield.

(Above) The cavalry, including a unit of mercenaries, covers the rest of this flank and links the main infantry line to the artillery. Their job is to deal with any Zentan threat as the Bachsctuttel infantry advances and the gap between the infantry and artillery consequently increases. (Below) On the other flank, the troops are pushed as far to the left as they are allowed. 

(Above) Both units of Bachscuttel light troops are also placed there in case they might be useful  - an outcome that would surely be novel.

If an actual turtle had ever been put in a hat and uniform, and made to command an army (which in Mittelheim might not be an historical impossibility), this is how they would advance - like a timid toad in a crash helmet and a fluorescent jacket. With a nod from Barry-Eylund, drummers strike up the advance, and the Bachscuttel line begins to move!

Klosentheim, the First!

Wherein the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, under General Redmond Barry-Eylund, encounters the forces of the Sanjak of Zenta, commanded by General Taras Bulbous.

'There they are!' says General Redmond Barry-Eylund, commander of the Bachscuttel army. 'There they are, Bohner. Look at them all!'

The General's aide de campe, Major Bohner, raises his telescope and surveys the enemy.

The general and his escort sit atop a small hill near the village of Klosentheim. The Bachscuttel army, advancing tentatively after their narrow defeat at Falkenhelle, has now encountered a new and unexpected adversary, blocking their way - the Zentans!

'What of the composition of their forces?' asks the general.

'There's quite a lot of them, sir', says the major. 'I can see Borat irregulars, bowmen, janissaries, Albanians, Giezza tribesmen, delli cavalry, sipahis, four Nazgul, It, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, and some bloke whose second name might be Farage'.

'We can certainly buy that last fellow off', says Barry-Eylun, snorting. 'Have the scouts returned?'

'Yes sir, but ...'

'Excellent! What sort of terrain are we facing?'

'Rough terrain, sir: seems to be two hills, four forests, rough ground, a ploughed field, and the urban area of Klosentheim. However ...'

'Splendid! Splendid!' snorts the general. 'I feel good about this! We just have to triumph in the scouting, and then I go on the defensive! I intend turtling so hard, they'll have to change my name to General Leonardo Donatello Raphael Michelangelo!'

'But, sir ...'

'Because, you know, the Zentans are tricky, tricky, tricky! So many irregulars that they wriggle around one's flanks, and, before you can say "where's my wallet gone?" they're all over you!'

'Alas, sir ...' sighs Bohner ruefully.

Barry-Eylund's jaw drops. 'We lost the scouting contest again?'

The major nods.

'No! No! No! Give me that telescope!' says the general roughly. He looks at the dispositions of the enemy troops. 

'What! What!' mutters Barry-Eylund. He then turns to Bohner. 'So, major, correct me if I'm missing anything, but there are nine terrain features...'

'Yes, sir'.

'And we've managed to secure one hill ...'

'Yes, sir'

'And they've got everything else ...'

'Yes, sir: one hill, four forest features, the town, some rough ground, and a ploughed field'.

'And they've lined the whole lot of them up into one big defensive position, which is now infested with irregulars like fleas on one of my fusiliers'.

'It would seem so, sir' says Bohner sadly. 'We're going to have to attack'.

Barry-Eylund takes some snuff to calm himself down. 'I'm out of ideas, Bohner. Here, hand me some military theory. Let's see what advice it might contain'.

The major reaches into his satchel and hands him a slim volume.

'"Mes Gueules de Bois"' says Barry-Eylund, reading the spine.

'A most useful work by the strategist Horace de Saxe, sir'.

Horace de Saxe, Maurice's brother, fancies himself as a military theorist . He is, it has to be said, one of the best strategists out of those who are brothers to Maurice de Saxe and whose first name is Horace.

The general flicks through it. 'Do we have any pantomime cow outfits?' he asks.

'I don't think so, sir'.

'Well, that renders most of the first five chapters irrelevant', says the general despondently.

'We could retreat, sir' says Bohner hopefully.

'Wait, wait!' the general suddenly says. 'This page gives me an idea!'

'That page, sir? It seems to be blank'.

'Best part of the book', replies Barry-Eylund. 'Now, give me the telescope, and let's see the Zentan deployment. I have an idea ...'  

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?

Falkenhelle, the Sixth!

The Fenwickian volleys fly, with devastating effect! One Bachscuttel regiment is left teetering on the brink of collapse, though, obviously, no Fenwickian could ever actually use the word 'teetering', what with its salacious suggestion of actions involving both teets and rings. Worse, every single enemy shot strikes home against the Milchfrau Lieb Garde, whose musketeers fall to the ground. Many are dead; others just take the opportunity to have a lie down, and the screams of the wounded are interspersed with some loud snoring. But the effect is the same: the entire regiment is effectively destroyed in a single volley, leaving a huge gap in the line! (below).

Barry-Eylund stands agog (also a word that can't be used in Fenwick, though the reasons aren't strictly clear, given that the words 'gog' and 'ag' aren't usually associated with explicit adult activity - except in Wales, of course), slack-jawed and shocked! One of his guard regiments mown down in a single volley! There's only one thing he can do. Alas for him, he is wrestled to the ground by bystanders before he can hit the fire alarm. This leaves him with only one other option: 'Give me those dice!' he cries, and grabs the special green dice which are definitely not dodgy. Armed with these new weapons of chance, the Bachscuttel return volley inflicts heavy casualties! Marshal Cavandish responds with an attempt at a rousing bout of rallying to try to restore order to his infantry line.

Alas for him, the Fenwickians seem resistant at this juncture to his attempts to improve their morale. The problem lies probably with his overly exuberant use of words like 'honour', 'duty', 'jelly', 'wobble', and 'strobate': though to be fair, he was misheard on the last one. This leaves his troops vulnerable to the newly reinvigorated Bachscuttel musketry! 'Give me back my dice!' cries Cavandish. 'No fear!' replies Barry-Eylund, shaking his newly captured cubes of caprice (Above). Another Bachscuttel volley crashes home, and a Fenwickian unit routs!

(Above) This is a problem. Thanks to the ploughed field, Cavandish now finds his infantry split into three separate forces, complicating his operations immensely. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when he could ride it away, or invite it out for some light dinner and dancing, Barry-Eylund acts! Throwing again his burgled baubles of boon, Barry-Eylund's Bachscuttlers batter their bewildered adversaries.

On Cavandish's left wing, some of his sweaty soldiery are suffused with a sudden martial spirit. 'Oooh, I feel quite warm' some of his troops say, glowering at their adversaries with aggressive ardour.

(Above) Infused with the heat of battle, this unit, already quite disordered, charges forward into the Bachscuttel line. Barry-Eylund sniggers, fondling his dodgy dice of doom. For good measure, the Fenwickians wheel more so that they end up charging through bad terrain, because that's the sort of man that Barry-Eylund is. It doesn't look good for the attackers: an elite unit of defenders, and some aggressive-looking flora. Still, this is Mittelheim - a land where anything is possible!

Falkenhelle, the Fifth!

No one! Alas, the only thing that gets worn down is Barry-Eylund's temper. The irregulars fail to inflict a single casualty on the gurning Fenwickian conscripts. A hail of green dice, which are definitely not dodgy, drives back the Bachscuttel light troops, who stumble rearwards to the sniggering of nearby squirrels.

This does leave the light troops in a position for a desperate assault upon the flanks of the enemy line infantry. This threat forces the Fenwickian line to bend slightly (above), but their kink is slight, unlike their commander's, it has to be said. The only positive development for the Bachscuttlers is that, thanks to an unspecified development that probably involves a wrong address on some orders, important intelligence has been obtained from the enemy, and it seems quite likely that, at some stage in the fight, one of the Fenwickian units, in the heat of battle, will probably charge impetuously at an unprofitable target.

(Above, bottom) Still subject to some humiliatingly effective fire from the enemy conscripts, the Bachscuttelers, living up to their name, scuttle backwards again. After an entire morning's fight, the sum total of Barry-Eylund's plan is that his light troops are a pub-stumble forwards from where they began, and the damage inflicted on his adversaries is that four squirrels have laughed so much that they have pulled something.

Worse is to come. His infantry line advances. Or, rather, struck by confusion, one of his infantry units advances (above): through his first line, that is and out into no man's land where it is very much in range of the enemy infantry.

'XXXXing XXX!', roars Barry-Eylund, swearing like a Mittelheim nun. 'XXXX your XXX with a wooden XXXX!' he continues.

There's nothing for it. All of Barry-Eylund's irregular antics have delivered nothing more than to waste a sizeable amount of time. In the end, the general has to go with Plan B: which is Plan 'Hey Diddle Diddle, Up The Middle'. The Bachscuttel musketeers advance straight forward into a sheep-free kill zone (above), and the muskets of both sides level ...

Falkenhelle, the Fourth!

General Redmond Barry-Eylund has, as many would attest, a range of acknowledged faults. He is, for example, a cheating, lying bastard; though, to be fair, he does always remember his mother's birthday. One thing that he couldn't be accused of, though, is a failure to analyse his options: indeed, there are few commanders out there more able to put the word 'anal' into analysis

The general has considered three options. Option one: a cavalry attack on his right. Alas, given the angles, the Fenwickian artillery, with their artillery academy training, would have an opportunity to drill his advancing horse with more holes than a Swiss cheese. Of course, a Swiss cheese would actually ride a horse better than his cavalry. But dairy produce is unlikely to fare well in close-quarters combat. Option two: march his infantry forwards straight away, and trust to the effectiveness of his troops' musketry. Alas, the Fenwickians have lethal volleys, and so the Bachscuttelers would be at a disadvantage, helped by the Fenwickian's 'special green dice'. These green dice are definitely not dodgy. Option three: advance his light troops into the woods to their front, turn the enemy flank and then advance his infantry.

The general plumps for option three. Unfortunately, this means that the first Bachscuttel orders are sent to the irregulars. No battle that begins with an advance by irregulars is likely to engender much faith in the eventual outcome.

The irregulars advance (above), encountering a flock of sheep. If it were possible for Barry-Eylund to catch the sheep and put them in uniform, he would certainly sack his irregulars and use the farmyard animals instead. (Below) Marshal Cavandish can be seen checking the rules of war: a useful activity when Barry-Eylund is around, since the latter tends to view rules like a pirate code: more a set of guidelines around which to structure the drinking of rum.

(Above) The irregulars continue to advance towards the woods. With his line becoming stretched, much like the necks of his light troops if they don't do what they're told, his main body also advances towards the enemy in order to head off some potential command and control problems. Barry-Eylund also hopes that this will increase the moral pressure on his enemy, fixing them in place - although nailing their feet to the floor would probably be a surer bet.

(Above) The Bachscuttel irregulars head into the woods. To the top left, a third line, second-rate, Fenwickian unit is detailed to begin the time-consuming task of wheeling to meet the threat. This more or less sums up the first portion of the battle. A lot of careful manoeuvre - or arsing around, depending upon one's perspective - then ensues in which Barry-Eylund seeks a manoeuvre advantage and Marshal Cavandish seeks a better sleeping position. Time bleeds away.

(Above) Finally, Barry-Eylund has his irregulars where he wants them: or almost where he wants them, since the best place for them would probably be in a bath. Deployed in the woods, the irregulars are no worse than their conscript adversaries, and there are twice as many of them. It's time for the irregulars to do what irregulars do. Well, not the main thing that they do, because then they would have to go back to prison. But the other thing that they do, which is to dart elusively amongst the foliage, skirmishing vigorously and wearing the enemy down. Then, they can wheel, and before you can say 'irregulars all over your flanks' there will be irregulars all over the Fenwickian flanks!

Irregulars making a useful contribution to the battlefield? Who'd have thought it!

Falkenhelle, the Third!

The forces of the Palatinate of Bachscuttel begin to deploy. In Bachscuttel military doctrine, though, 'deploy' is very much a synonym for 'shuffle', 'mill about', or 'self abuse', so that the movement of General Barry Eylund's troops might make a European military professional wince, and any adversary think that it was probably likely to be their lucky day. The general herds his unwilling troops into some semblance of a line, according to the plan that he has concocted.

The Bachscuttlers have come off worst in the preliminary scouting. Thus, Barry-Eylund finds himself the attacker. Attacking is an unfamiliar and very unwelcome mode of action for the Palatinate's generalissimo. The general, widely known as Der Turtlekoenig, is a commander who much prefers the comforting embrace of defensive terrain. Indeed, his main quality as an officer is his ability to bend the laws of physics, and also quite a lot of the actual rules, to shove his whole army into the tiniest space available, and then tit about there until the game ends.

Barry-Eylund deploys all of his infantry, nine regiments (including one of mercenaries) on his left flank. Just to the front, one can see on this woodcut (above) a hill. The general has chosen a battlefield with a hill right in the middle: thus, whichever side of the battlefield that the enemy deploys their artillery, the guns will find their arc of fire blocked in any attempt to fire upon the other. This is just the sort of tedious bed wettery that makes Barry-Eylund so unpopular. On the far left (above, left) the general places both regiments of his irregulars. If Barry-Eylund's plan involves using those troops, then the Palatinate has probably already lost the battle.

(Above) On the far right, Barry-Eylund arrays his three regiments of cavalry. It's best just to keep them out of the way, where they can't be fired upon by the enemy artillery and where they can't get themselves into any trouble. Positioned here, it's clear that the general intends that these troops should protect the flanks of his infantry. Or at least, that they should plausibly look like that's what they are doing. Doctrinally, in the Palatinate's military thinking, cavalry is really just a way of keeping the most dangerously inbred of its military elite out of situations that might stretch their capabilities, which is really any situation that doesn't emphasise dribbling or molesting geese.

Finally, Barry-Eylund places his three batteries of artillery in a position linking his infantry to his cavalry. The guns are dug in, meaning that they are unlikely to move. But that's fine, because moving artillery would impede their ability to do what they do best, which is not firing.

With his forces deployed, Barry-Eylund commences his attack! It can't be a propitious situation when the first element of his army to move is his irregulars ....