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 Second!

On the Zentan side, and to the far right of the Bachscuttle position, lies the small village of Klosentheim. It sits between two woods, and there is rough ground a little way in front of it. (Below) This flank seems to be held by three regiments of irregulars, whose job, no doubt, is to ensconce themselves in the trees in front of them and make themselves a thorough nuisance. Some of them have silly hats, a sure sign that the Zentans feel this flank is important.

(Below) In front of the village, General Taras Bulbous has positioned both his units of janissaries and both his batteries of artillery. The latter have been entrenched. Behind them are two more regiments of irregular infantry, one of which, since this is an important tactical position, is also equipped with silly hats. One of the janissary units is of elite quality - they have never actually fought a combat, of course, but they have watched so many other Zentans do so and die horribly, that they naturally feel superior.

(Below) The woods and rough ground make Klosentheim, the objective of this battle, a tough proposition. 

Barry-Eylund snorts. 'Well, we can't go that way. It's like Agincourt, but without the picnic area. Forest to either side, rough ground to the front. No, that won't do!'

(Above, left) The Zentan general, Taras Bulbous, has positioned himself on this flank. (Below) The Zentan centre is composed of a hotch-potch of cavalry. Both units of palace sipahis occupy the open ground. Two units of irregular cavalry hold the nearby hill. Behind them, more irregular infantry mill about: some angry Albanians and some Borat tribesmen. If the intent is that they are there to shoot any slacking cavalry, pour encourager les autres, then this is likely to fail because the infantry don't speak French. 

(Below) Finally, facing the Bachscuttel left, four more units of irregulars, one being infantry and the others cavalry. They wait, a slavering, bovine-witted collection of disparate ethnic groups and poor personal hygiene, to swarm out of the forest and insinuate themselves around the flanks of the advancing enemy. 

(Below) Having decided to defend, Taras Bulbous waits in his strong defensive position. 

'It's not too late, sir', says Major Bohner to Barry-Eylund. 'I could still see if we've got some pantomime cow outfits'.

Barry-Eylund shakes his head ruefully. 'It's too late for that, major', he says. The general lost his last battle by spending too long in what he likes to call 'shaping operations' but that others might call 'arsing about'. 'No, we have to attack quickly! Here are my orders - deploy our troops!'

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 ...'  

Bunny's Too Tight to Mention!

'Have you spoken to the Fenwickian ambassador recently?' asks Casimir with interest.
'A little, my lord', replies Radu Pasha. 'They are certainly keen to have more help in the war - he was very, very solicitous'.
The hospodar nods. 'Was he oily, then?'
'Positively self-basting, sire. And very keen to tell me tales of his previous employment. Did you know that he's actually Prussian?'

'Prussian?'
'Yes, Dread Lord. He was caught up in one of Frederick's terrible tempers. He fled the capital to escape an orgy of enthusiastic beheadings known as the Berlin Hairlift'.
'You don't say?' 
'And then, according to his account, he spent a little time in Vulgaria before being expelled'.

'Expelled?'

'Indeed, lord. Apparently, he killed a French vampire with a baguette'.

'Hmmm', replies Casimir. 'It must have been a painstaking process, I would guess'.

Outside, there is the sound of approaching feet.

'Ah, this must be him', says Radu, before clearing his throat.

The doors are flung open, pages enter, and a large blare of trumpets sounds.

'The Fenwickian envoy, Wolfgang, Graf Hotkreutzbahn!' announces Radu Pasha.

'Ambassador, with this visit you are really spoiling us', says the hospodar.

The Graf bows low. 'Your highness! Greetings from George, King and Emperor of All the Fenwicks, and Also Gelderland, if he can Just Have a Coronation'.

Casimir nods. 'Now, Radu Pasha has indicated that your visit here might not just be a social call?'

'My lord! Dread Lord! Very Dread and Most Benificent Lord! What you say is true! In the spirit of fraternal cooperation, what with us being allies and all, my monarch asks if you would be open to the suggestion that you might order your army to intercept the forces of  the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel!' 

The hospodar considers this. 'Well, I could, I suppose. But perhaps my troops could just bask a little longer in their success against the forces of the Margravate of Wurstburp'.

Hotkreutzbahn bows again. 'A wise choice, my lord', he says. The ambassador, however, is a capable fellow, and also an ambitious one. There is a great deal of social climbing that he feels that he needs to achieve. His family was 'upwardly mobile' in the sense that his father had been fired from a mortar. Hotkreutzbahn's plans include a different trajectory: one, for example, that doesn't involve being catapulted from the mouth of some siege artillery. 

'A wise choice, my lord', he repeats. 'But perhaps not the most, ah, heroic option. The Bachscuttel forces are tired, disordered, and also the forces of Bachscuttel: an attack by your troops would surely result in a legendary victory'.

Casimir considers this. 'Hmmm, but I do like the idea of a bit more basking'.

The ambassador gestures urgently. 'But now, surely, is the time to seize the initiative! We need to make Prince Rupprecht sweat!'

Radu Pasha shrugs. 'Just force him to stand up, then - that should do the trick. Or show him some salad. And also, don't call me Shirley'.

A sly look then crosses the face of the Fenwickian ambassador. 'My lord, wouldn't an immediate assault upon General Barry-Eylund also solve the problems caused by your irregular troops?'

'Are there problems?' asks Casimir.

'It is so, great lord!' says the Graf. 'Why, they have been up to all sorts of no good in the diplomatic quarter: stealing, pretending to be English, setting fire to houses ... and people, and the things they've been doing to the poor rabbits ...'

Radu looks at Casimir and shrugs resignedly.

'And then', says the Graf continuing, 'there were the terrible fights when the rabbits struck back'.

Radu can feel the hospodar's eyebrows rising.

'Struck back?' the pasha says.

'Indeed, pasha, indeed. A horde of wily rabbits is now fighting a black hops campaign against the Borats on the streets of Nehrenvar!'

'Is this true, slave?' says Casimir to Radu.

Radu cowers. 'There have been some ... incidents. Ambassador, can't you just buy them off with some ... uh ... carrots?'

Hotkreutzbahn looks shocked, and Radu immediately recognises his mistake: as a Fenwickian, the ambassador could never knowingly handle a carrot, let alone distribute them'.

Casimir sighs. Everyone in the hall immediately goes silent. A sigh from the hospodar often can be essentially the same as an execution drum roll. 'There can't be many other rulers in Mittelheim who have to put up with this sort of thing', he says bemusedly.

'They do have those monkeys in Bachscuttel', says the ambassador.

'True, true', nods Casimir. 'And I suppose they're also ruled by a donkey'.

'Command me, lord' cries Radu, abasing himself.

'Very well, ambassador. I agree! Radu, order our troops to march! Fall upon the Bachscuttlers, defeat them, and make sure that there are terrible casualties amongst our rancid irregulars! My honour demands it!'

'Your will, my hands, lord' cries Radu.

'Huzzah!' shouts Hotkreutzbahn. 'Let battle, or an implausible Mittelheim facsimile of it, commence!'

Holding Back the Ears!

Meanwhile, in Nehrenvar, capital of the Sanjak of Zenta, Hospodar Casimir, 'The Shadow of God, God's Umbrella, and Also Possibly His Hat', waits patiently as his naval commander, Admiral Akbar, delivers his latest report.
'It's a trap!' croaks Akbar. 'It's a trap!'
Casimir nods. 'Thank you, Admiral: an interesting summation of our maritime affairs. Quite similar to your last report, but there we go'.

Casimir eyes Akbar resignedly. It's fair to say that no one who was appointed an admiral in an entirely landlocked country like Zenta was likely to be especially marked by ambition, energy, and enterprise. If he could, Casimir had often thought that he'd like to especially mark him instead with a large mallet. Akbar, alas, was a favourite of his wife, the Hospodina Eudokia Asanina, and so, like his wife, there was great peril in touching him. 

Casimir was absolute ruler over all he surveyed, a fact that his wife had argued meant that his authority did not extend over those parts of it that he couldn't survey, especially those bits that were under her clothes. This was a great disappointment to the hospodar, who was used to getting his way - several ways, usually. But Casimir had a great deal of respect for his wife. That didn't, of course, stop him from rogering anything that had two legs and compatible accoutrements, but it did mean that he valued her advice and tried to avoid making her angry. Since he was, by his own admission, a violent psychopath who delighted in cruelty, pain, and freestyle dental torture, Casimir has concluded that he should probably be respectful around someone who also knew that, but didn't seem to care. 

It wasn't impossible that the admiral was his wife's lover. But then, as with any relationship between two males engaged in risky and potentially fatal activity, that just gave Casimir a slight feeling of comradeship towards Akbar - something that had led him to give him some actual ships, or rather pedalos, on the palace lake. As Admiral of the Fleet, Akbar spent much of his time conducting pretend maritime encounters between what he called 'the Rebellion' and 'the Empire', in which he was mostly occupied by getting ambushed and then sinking. The rest of the time, he gave little trips to palace children.

'Fine, fine!' says Casimir. 'Akbar, withdraw. But next time, check the depth of the lake. If there's one thing that ruins the atmosphere at a birthday party, it's the screams of drowning children'.

Akbar withdraws, bowing so low that it's possible he's moved to the floor below.

'Who's next?' sighs the hospodar. It's been a long morning.

'An envoy from the Empire of All the Fenwicks, sire'.

'The ambassador?' asks Casimir, his mood brightening. The hospodar has always had a creative relationship with foreign ambassadors, seeing it as one of his responsibilities to ensure that they find their role a stretching one. It's one of the reasons he kept a rack.

'Indeed, my lord. I suspect that he wishes us to take the field against the forces of Saukopf-Bachscuttel'.

'Hmmm, well, how is our army at the moment, Radu Pasha?'

'Worryingly up to strength again, Dread Lord'.

'What, already? I thought we suffered huge casualties amongst the irregulars in our glorious victory over the Margravate of Wurstburp?'

Radu gestures placatingly. 'The problem is that they breed like rabbits, sir', he says. 'Not least because they often breed with rabbits'.

'With rabbits?'

'Yes, sire. Apparently, if you grab them by the ears ...'

'No, no, no - this won't do!' cries the hospodar. 'We've got to get rid of more of our irregulars! Imagine the cost of maintaining them! Imagine the smell! Imagine the moral injury!'

'Well, my lord, let's hear what the ambassador has to say ...'

The Guns of Naverhon, the Final!

Alas for the Zentan cause, the janissaries continue to treat the battle like a long weekend away. Having done some additional sightseeing to the rear of the Albanian positions, the slave-soldiers clearly conclude that a sight definitely not worth seeing would be the enemy firing line. Some of the Albanians rally and push forwards again. Others recommence their fire upon the lead unit of Pandurs (below).

The Zentan commander is understandably frustrated at his inability to get his best troops into the fray. Various colourful metaphors are uttered; hand gestures, not all of them supportive or child-friendly, are also made; and some frustration is evinced over the rules of war. 

(Above) Nevertheless, the Albanians continue to fight on manfully. More Pandurs tumble to the ground! (Below) The Pandurs' morale, never terribly high, crumbles at the sight of blood. They flee the field, leaving the remaining engineers dangerously exposed!

(Below) Alas, the Albanians are unable to take advantage of the situation. The engineers manage to run backwards before the Albanians can open fire on them. More mercenary infantry move up and open fire on the Zentans.

Any plan that relies for its success primarily on the efforts of  Zentan irregulars is never likely to be one in which the chances of success are high. Given the continual failure of the janissaries to move or act, the performance of the Albanians has been commendable. However, without the help of the Zentan elite troops, the chances of Zentan success were always going to be lower than a hedgehog's gonads. 

(Below) Many hits are inflicted, and the remains of two platoons of Albanians rout the field.

Having lost more than half their troops, the Zentans find themselves having to test morale. They fail, of course, as is the Zentan way and the attacking force must now retreat! The engineers are safe!

The Guns of Naverhon, the Fourth!

War, as a rule, is known to be quite a stressful activity. It's not, of course, the most stressful human experience. That accolade would be reserved for those circumstances in which one has been asked that sort of particular question by one's partner in which a fate worse than death might come from giving the wrong answer: questions such as: 'Do you think I should I wear the green or the blue?'; or, 'Do you think I'm putting on weight?'; or 'Do you think that my sister is attractive?'

Nevertheless, and not withstanding the physical harm that can also come from giving the wrong answers to the previous questions, war is generally a worrying state of affairs. There are the physical traumas that result from being hit by musket shot or cannon balls; the mental traumas that derive from discovering that not all of the latter have been fired by the enemy; and the moral dilemmas concerning whether, as a good Mittelheim Christian, one should bayonet civilians and then set light to them; or whether they should instead be lit and then bayoneted. Having said all of this, there is one kind of warfare that it much less taxing, physically, mentally, and morally: and that is Zentan Janissary warfare. Zentan Janissary warfare has more in common with such non-military pursuits as sleeping, drinking coffee, or going on holiday. 

And so it is that, as the Zentan struggle to kill or capture the enemy engineers intensifies, the main concern for the janissaries seems to be whether there will be sufficient sun loungers available: a question of concern given that their enemy are Germans. (Below) The Albanians have driven back one of the units of Pandurs. Another unit sidles outwards along the road, trying to cover the engineers. The unit that has been driven back rallies on a nearby hill.

(Below) The mercenary musketeers are now unobstructed by the Pandurs. Using formed fire they pour volleys into the Albanians: although, in reality, applying words such as 'formed' and 'pour' would probably be stretching the meaning of those words somewhere near breaking point. The mercenaries are 'formed' in the sense that they are noticeably more clumped together than the Pamdurs; and they 'pour' fire in the same way in which something that was recently happening quite slowly is now beginning to occur a bit faster: like the panic that might start seizing a gentlemen when he realises the consequence of saying something like: 'Well, you know, as it happens your sister is actually quite saucy'.

(Below) The Albanians take more casualties and one of the remaining units is forced to retreat from the edge of the woods. The dilatory janissaries have now managed finally to get close to the action. One platoon is now behind the wood containing the Albanians, a position that they have reached in their search, no doubt, for a quieter stretch of beach in which to unwind.

(Below) The rallied unit of Pandurs now move up again. Their intention is surely to advance to the left of their compatriots and so extend the screen of troops that will protect the remaining engineers as they attempt to exit, stage left.

 With the remaining engineers close to escaping, surely now is the time for the Zentan janissaries to step up and demonstrate their elite status!

The Guns of Naverhon, the Third!

The Zentan's janissary dysfunction continues. Try as the Sanjak's commander does, he just can't get his slave-soldiers up. (Below) The Albanians have moved to the edge of the wood, and they are at least on the right side of field of battle to cause some mischief to the engineers, if they can reach them.

(Below) Whilst hanging around in woods and skirmishing from a distance is probably the Albanian way, there is quite a lot of open ground to cover if they decide that it might be necessary to close with their adversaries.

The Zentans decide to open fire, and a contest of musketry begins. It's a rubbish contest, of course: Albanians versus pandurs is the military equivalent of an under ten's recorder contest. The wily Zentans then decide to switch targets and focus on the slowest of the groups of engineers. A few hits are sufficient to rout the latter and they quit the field! (Below) the surviving engineers cower behind the mercenary firing line.

The Zentans switch targets back to the enemy pandurs. As the firing continues, the accumulation of casualties begins to have an effect. (Below) One unit of Albanians recoils back into the woods. More significantly, however, the lead platoon of pandurs takes hits and then routs backwards.

(Above, right) Suddenly, there is a large hole in the Rotenburg line, and the lead element of engineers is now exposed!

The Guns of Naverhon, the Second!

Fate smiles upon the Rotenburgers; gormlessly, perhaps, but favourably, nevertheless. As the Zentan troops hang around, admiring the local scenery, the mercenaries are able to begin executing their plan; although the word 'plan' might be stretching the meaning of the speculative guesswork that underpins their activities.

(Above) The engineers start making their way off the road. Behind them, the pandurs and musketeers attempt to form a firing line; or a firing wiggle at the very least. This line will provide cover as the engineers make their way up towards the road exit.

(Below) The pandurs are masking the fire of the musketeers, of course. The musketeers use the opportunity to form a two-deep formation ready to fire by ranks.

The Zentans continue to dawdle, handing the initiative to the mercenaries. (Below) As the engineers bathe in the luxurious safety of the cover of their infantry support, the pandurs begin loosing volleys off into the woods to their front.

Most of the casualties are squirrels, of course, but the odd Albanian is also taken out. The Albanian wounded are unlikely to be well treated if they are captured by any of the woodland animals. 

(Above) On the other flank, a platoon of musketeers and the remaining pandurs form up ready to fire. The pandurs find themselves a handy wall to hide behind. Thanks to the dilatory behaviour of the Zentan janissaries, things are already beginning to look a little difficult for the Zentans. Still, there's plenty of time for the mercenaries to knock loudly upon the door of Mr Cock Up. 

The Guns of Naverhon, the First!

In the wild northern reaches of Zenta, near the village of Naverhon, we turn our gaze to a small encampment of Rotenburg mercenaries. These fellows have long been employed in the service of Hospodar Casimir, their skills being applied to the production of high technology weapons; although the term 'high technology' mainly refers to the height of what has been produced, rather than its sophistication. A prime example of this are the WMD, or 'Wagons Moste Destructive', that have been produced by adding cannons to ox carts. This blending of artillery and sub-optimal transport has had the effect of producing a weapons system that makes the cannons less accurate and the wagons slower. It has also made the ox even more truculent by giving them the self-confidence that comes from access to small-bore artillery. 

At this moment, some of the mercenary artificers are standing around one of their latest creations.

'What's this?' asks one, with interest.

''My latest creation', replies another. 

'It's very small', adds a third.

'Indeed, that's the point. It is a miniature mortar produced according to a design drawn up by my grandmother'.

'Miniature weapons designed by your grandmother?'

'Why yes - I call it "Nanotechnology"'.

This scholarly exchange of views is interrupted by the sudden sounds of drumming. Alarm! Alarm!

(Above) A little way to the east, Zentan troops seem to be approaching. By the silly cut of their caps and the sourness of their demeanor, these must be janissaries. Taken from their parents at the age of seven and then converted to Islam, these troops are just as angry as one might expect if one were looking at ex-Mittelheim children who have suddenly been prevented by their new religious strictures from drinking strong alcohol.

The general air of military indiscipline is reinforced by the arrival of some Albanian mercenaries. (Above) To describe these troops as badger-biting loonies would be to have caught them in one of their rare moments of quiet reflection. 

(Below) The Rotenburg mercenaries exit their tents and begin to try and form up.

'I don't understand', says one. 'Why are the Zentans suddenly so angry with us? I thought they liked us?'

'Hmmm', replies another. 'I had noticed the mood changing over the last day or so. Didn't you see those lasses yesterday who mouthed obscenities at us and then drew a finger slowly across their throats, before pointing at us'.

'I thought they were just saying how much they liked us', replies the first. 'My wife often does the same thing when I come back late from the tavern'.

The Rotenburg mercenaries consist of two parties of engineers, two platoons of Rotenburg Pandurs, and one platoon of Rotenburg reserve infantry. Being poor quality, ill-disciplined sweepings from the sort of prisons where even the cockroaches suffer from depression, these troops are a cut above the usual Rotenburg soldiery.

The mercenaries try and put themselves into some kind of order. (Above, right) The engineers are the key troops. In order to succeed, the engineers must exit from one or both ends of the road.

The mercenary commander decides to try and shepherd the engineers to the west. In the trees to the front, the Rotenbergers can hear the sound of angry Albanians. The is indistinguishable from just hearing the sound of Albanians. The Pandurs and infantry begin to try and form a firing line behind which the engineers can shelter. 

Meanwhile, a third platoon of Pandurs appears. They have been hanging out with the bears in the woods. It is clear that one issue of importance to the battle is whether these Pandurs can get to the scene of the fight before the janissaries do ...