Bogorovsk, the Final!

And so, dear reader,we reach the final crescendo; nay, climax; nay denouement; nay, horse, in the struggle for control of the Kurlandian town of Bogorovsk! It has been a rollercoaster ride, thus far: a crap rollercoaster, of course, with squeaky wheels, low speed, and a small child in the car behind vomiting loudly into the footwell.

(Above) As with the other side of the siege, the Nabstrians here have made good progress with their saps and artillery positions. Three such positions, one newly placed, are on the glacis and ready to commence breaching fire upon the bastion to their front. Luckily for the Kurlandian defenders, only one artillery battery has been brought up by the Nabstrians.

(Above) The attacking and defending guns exchange fire, to no great effect. But it is now that Retchin launches upon this flank, his great military innovation: a sortie. That sorties have not been a feature of previous Mittleheim siege encounters has many explanations: a lack of imagination, perhaps; a lack of aggression; and also, a lack of rules. But Retchin is a commander of a new stamp: aggressive, and, having not seen the new rules, entirely ignorant of any of the problems of such an enterprise. A man who knows no fear about attacking because he genuinely knows nothing about how one goes about doing it. He launches two sorties: one against the enemy battery, and the other against the pesky enemy sappers!

(Above) The Kurlandian infantry rises from the covered way! The Nabstrian battery fires at close range with grape. Alas, it would appear that it's the fruit and not the artillery munitions, because the attacking regiment suffers no great damage and swarms over the emplacement, bayoneting the gunners and, in the Kurlandian style, once they find the holes, ravishing the Nabstrian artillery pieces.

The Kurlandian invalid battalion assaults the Nabsiran sappers. Or at least, one might label it a charge in the same way that one could declare a cat to be a lion: it's about the right sort of species, even if the details are rather different, especially if one were to try and put one's head in its mouth. The charge involves more squeaking than one might expect, the noise coming from bath chairs, and also the wooden pounding of false legs rarely heard outside of a pirate reunion. (Above) Knackered old has-beens though the attacking infantry might be, their drooling horde overcomes the defending Nabstrians, who are wiped out!

(Above) Embarrassment alone might at this stage have signalled a Nabstrian withdrawal, but the rout of the sappers breaks the morale of von Rumpfler's army. The defending Kurlandians have won! General Rumpfler writes dispatches home claiming a successful diversionary action against the Kurlandians. He claims to have suffered low losses, which isn't entirely wrong given how short many of his troops are. General Retchin declares a glorious victory, the largest for the Duchy in living memory: although, given how much the Kurlandians drink, 'living memory' is basically around four hours. Retchin further adds to Kurlandian military doctrine by declaring the utility and necessity of defensive sorties, even if he's still not clear exactly what they are.

Bogorovsk, the Seventh!

Lady Luck clenches her fist at General Rumpfler, and then. gently extends her middle finger. Thanks to his decision to keep his guns off the walls in the early stages of the siege, Retchin still has most of his artillery left. If one combines this fact with Rumpfler's unfamiliarity with the concept of enfilades, then suddenly, possibilities emerge for some Kurlandian successes!

(Below) The right-most Nabstrian battery takes flanking fire from the bastion and is annihilated! No programme of Professional Military Education, however expensive, is adequate defence against a 24lb cannonball up the jacksy.

In addition to being enfiladed, the Nabstrian artillery lacks infantry support: not surprising, given that the Nabstrian foot can see the state of the artillerymen's jacksies. Retchin siezes the moment, or at least, something that seems like the moment, although it might actually be his nose, and decides to conduct an activity never before attempted by Mittelheim forces - a sortie from the fortress! Kurlandian veterans nod their heads judgmentally. A sortie requires things hitherto unheard of in Mittelheim siege battles: rules for sorties, for a start. But Retchin has come prepared with his own set of rules for such an activity - rules which are no doubt fair, balanced, and in no way dodgy. Choosing to attack at dawn, because it seems like the dramatic thing to do, he orders his troops forward. 

Retchin withdraws his guns from the bastion and then orders General Barfolovamisev to attack. (Below) One of the latter's regiments of musketeers forms a column of assault and surges forward! Though the defending artillery is entrenched, it is outnumbered and taken in the flank. The battery is quickly overrun.

(Below) Lady Timsbury of Somerton considers the unfolding situation. Whilst many might attribute the Nabstrian difficulties to some faults in the placement and support of the siege batteries, she is quite clear that the real foundation of their problems is the lack on the part of the Nabstran gunners of real engagement with their post-graduate written work. Sharper analytical skills and a grasp of international relations theory would no doubt even up the brutal hand-to-hand combat. Sadly, it's clear that the gunners haven't been doing their homework, and they are cut to pieces. On the plus side, though, Lady Timsbury always makes sure that she gets paid first. Perhaps what the Nabstrians are in need of is a really extensive, and as it happens expensive, programme of remote learning. Remote, in that the student is sent to live for six years in a hut on a small Baltic island, where the only conveniences are hot and cold running slugs, and even the halibut leave poor reviews. In such places, one lacks the distractions that stand in the way of really intense study, and also of going mad.

(Below, left) The woodcut shows the results of the impact of the second of Barfolovamisev's attacks. His other musketeers have attacked from the covered way, driven back the enemy sappers, who flop uselessly in the open, and then, thanks to the limited visibility imposed by the early hour, retreat, unmolested by enemy defensive fire, out of carving back to the covered way.

(Above) The situation at this portion of the siege has been transformed. Moreover, the Nabstrian morale is now rather low - so, about normal, then. All now hinges on events at the left-most bastion: events, dear reader, that we shall now turn to. Who knows what stories of heroism, enterprise, and daring-do we might encounter? It's not impossible, though, that if you are an experienced observer of Mittleheim warfare, you might just be able to guess.

Bogorovsk, the Sixth!

The Kurlandian battery opens fire. (Below) Alas, however, the gunners are too well steeped in the doctrines of Mittelheim artillery. This is a doctrine which seeks to surprise the enemy and, to be fair, their own troops, by missing all the time and rarely ever inflicting any casualties. This wrong-foots the enemy, laying them open to more effective forms of attack such as tickling or pillow fighting.

Still, for General Retchin there are surely a range of other interesting and effective options. Or so one might think.  Although the enemy artillery is on the glacis, and so too close to be the target of a trench raid, the enemy saps are not. A company of Kurlandian grenadiers, accompanied by a unit of sappers, launches a bold attack upon the enemy supporting trenches, seeking to fill them in (below).

Alas, the only thing that gets filled in is the sappers themselves. There are, in life, many sad sights to be seen: the weeping of a child; the howl of a hungry hound; an English penalty shoot-out. But there are surely few things sadder than seeing a trench raid defeated by a trench that has no enemy troops in it whatsoever. One can only surmise that the Nabstrian works were inhabited by some particularly doughty badgers; or some very long and surprisingly elastic worms. Whatever the reason, Retchin again finds himself lounging on the sofa when Mister Cock-up comes calling.

Things don't improve, however.

(Above) The Nabstrian batteries reload and pound the bastion. Clearly poorly trained, they hit their target, rendering irrelevant their carefully husbanded pillow cases.

On the other side of the siege works, things aren't much better either.

(Above) Before one can say "This is likely to sting a bit", Nasbtrian sappers have popped no less than three artillery positions on the glacis. Worse, Rumpfler is able to move up three batteries to occupy these new positions. The defending batteries fire but have the predictable effect - which is to say Jacques Merde.

Worse, the busy Nabstrian sapper companies then plop two more emplacements in front of the Kurlandian bastion. From these positions, Rumpfler's artillery will be able to commence breaching fire. At so short a range, and with a target that is literally larger than a barn door, some of their fire is bound to hit. You'd think.

And so, as General Retchin makes up a bed for Mister Cock-up, the situation for the defenders looks dimmer than a Guard's officer on a foggy morning. 

Bogorovsk, the Fifth!

Of course, the sappers are cut to pieces. And then, to compound Rumpfler's problems, the Kurlandians launch yet another trench raid, but this time with two companies of grenadiers! Now, their target is the other sapper company on this flank. However, the defenders are supported by infantry in a nearby trench. The Kurlandians really believe that they have got the hang of raiding trenches. Which, one might suppose, isn't so surprising, given that the process of a surreptitious nighttime manoeuvre that ends in a quick act of messy violence is quite like most Kurlandian marriages, except that trench raids are better paid.

Surprise! (above) Overconfident and overweight, after a sharp tussle, the grenadiers are forced to withdraw, but without serious casualties.

(Above) General Retchin has yet to wheel forward his fortress guns. At the moment, he feels that the enemy is still too far away. He needs targets that are nearer, and preferably quite fat and tall; and also, if possible, with a round aiming point marked on their bodies. However, the moment for their deployment might be arriving.

(Above) In front of the other bastion, the Nabstrian sappers have now made their way onto the glacis. For the troops, there is a moment of disappointment when they find that there is no French ice cream here, but this disappointment is compensated for by the fact that they are now too close to the fortress walls for the defenders to be able to launch trench raids against them.

The enemy troops in the covered way are those of Baron Felix Kraptin, and consist of a regiment of veteran invalids and a regiment of local militia. These defenders are probably better than no garrison at all, although opinion might be somewhat divided on this point. From his position behind the second parallel, however, Horst, Freiherr von Friedegge, understandably fancies his chances if it comes to a storming action.

Quite quickly, the Nabstrians begin to get mit it, and put in place the makings of some offensive positions. As any Mittelheim officer could tell one, third parallels are for girls - the sort that keep wanting to talk about feelings, emotions, and an even division of household chores. Best just to jump straight to building batteries. (Above) One position is quickly established at close range to a bastion. (Below, top) Then, on the other wing, two more are put into place!

Rumpfler also sends his one-time paramour and now dangerous spy, Nora Hindquarters, into the fortress. She successfully sows discontent amongst the population with tales that the outer defensive works are made of earth, and not frozen dairy products, and that tales of chocolate flakes there too, are mere fantasies. (Above) Retchin manages to deploy his guns forward - the Nabstrian defensive fire misses and the Kurlandians poise, guns loaded, ready to fire ....

Bogorovsk, the Fourth!

Like a Mittleheim waistband, the Nabstrian works creep inexorably outwards. Each of Rumpler's pioneer companies is put to creating its own sap (below). If there is one thing that Mittelheimers have a reliable knowledge of, not least because it is forms such an important part of their culture and culinary heritage, it is mud. Wriggling gleefully in the filth, the troops tunnel their way through the earth like moles on their way to a hot, but poorly lit, date.

Having learnt from the experience of previous siege operations, the Nabstrians have identified the risks involved in being too cavalier in pushing forward unsupported saps. As a result, and most disappointingly to the Kurlandian defenders, the next flurry from the sappers brings forth a set of trenches (below).

In a rare moment of coordination, the supporting infantry is able to move up almost straight away (above and below). This provides the sappers with support in case of an enemy attack. Kurlandian infantry continues to wait in the covered way. They have not yet decided to take their lives (and probably a range of saggy body parts) in their hands, and move up to the firing step, a position from which they can both fire and be fired upon.

Siege warfare, however, is in many respects about geometry, angles, protractor-thingies, and, you know, paying attention to where one's troops are relative to the enemy guns. (Above top) Whilst the Nabstrian infantry are safely protected in their trenches from enemy fire to their front, this is not the case in relation to another enemy battery (out of wood cut and to the right) that is now in an excellent position to fire right down the side of their defences. This is what is known in other parts of Europe as an 'enfilade': in Mittleheim, though, this sounds rather too much like 'lemonade', and for Mittelheim gunners risks confusing serious artillery work with fizzy beverages. Thus, the Kurlandian gunners prefer to refer to what they intend to do as a 'spank you with my gun'. 

It is a sound spanking that they mete out. A barrage from a heavy battery on a flanking ravelin skips munitions right down the trench, routing the defenders (above), although the comments from the defenders that they have 'spanked the Nabbies with their balls' seem unlikely to appear in the official history of the action. 

Barely pausing to goad the Nabstrians with some ripe and inventive allusions to their mothers and their proclivities towards cavorting on hot dates with moles, the defenders then compound the damage by launching a night trench raid with one of their grenadier companies (above)! What Rumpfler needs is some early luck that will bloody Retchin's nose, and, metaphorically, stuff some moles up his nostrils (not least to remove the temptation from the Nabstrian mothers). Can the sappers drive off the small attacking force? I mean, probably not, but you never know: the grenadiers might get lost, or tired, or get attacked by irate and horny moles whose dates have failed to turn up.

Bogorovsk, the Third!

The Nabstrian forces begin the process of sapping forward, intent on creating a third parallel. The general has four sapper companies at his disposal, one company of miners, and fourteen regiments of infantry, including two of grenadiers and one of guard infantry. Four regiments are under the command of Michael von Pfannensteil, scion of one of the great military families of the burgravate; General Heinrich von Zwöllen-Glantz commands the grenadiers and guard; Baron Florian von Meyer-Fleischwund commands three regiments of musketeers;  Horst, Freiherr von Friedegge commands the remaining four regiments, all of musketeers.

(Above, right) Rumpfler has established three main battery positions. He has five siege batteries, two heavy batteries, and two batteries of mortars. The mortars and one heavy battery are placed in the first parallel, with the remainder divided between two batteries in the second parallel. The general is a firm believer in the Christian principle of 'women and children first'. As such, he intends that both batteries of mortars will bombard the town, to terrorise innocent civilians and, if the Gentle Lord wills it, to set them alight. 

At this early stage, though, the general declines to fire, saving his powder for later. Instead, as his sapping commences, Rumpfler decides to commit one of his spies in order to spread unease amongst the population.

His choice is Roderigo the Spaniard (above). What led Roderigo to Mittelheim is a mystery. But this big, butch, bearded, ex-blacksmith is a master of disguise. A smudge of lipstick, a quick change of clothes, and a twist of his chorizo, and Roderigo is ready to undertake any manner of subterfuge. Or so Rumpfler hopes. 

Alas, Roderigo has made a fatal mistake. Sent to foment unhappiness amongst the population of Bogorovsk, he has chosen an entirely unsuitable ensemble -  a rococo style robe à la française, with a fitted bodice, elaborate trimming, and a full, pleated skirt supported by petticoats. The problem is - it's just too good. The style in Kurland this season is the same as every season - robe à la badger tres rough. Roderigo has made the same mistake as many Europeans trying to blend into Mittelhein: he's too competent.

Needless to say, Roderigo stands out like a Nabstrian spy in a rococo style robe à la française, with a fitted bodice, elaborate trimming, and a full, pleated skirt supported by petticoats. Quickly identified as an enemy agent, he is executed and then interrogated: an order of events that the Kurlandian secret police later begin to recognise may not be optimal.

News of Roderigo's demise is met with the necessary solemnity for someone who has given their life for the Nabstrian cause. 'What a loser!' snorts General Rumpfler angrily. (Above) Having expended one of his three spies, the general orders his sapper companies to continue with their efforts. Each company continues to dig forward: two on the left and two on the right, giving Rumpfler the sort of operational flexibility that mirrors his moral elasticity.

Bogorovsk, the First!

Gauging the weather, dear readers*, this must be summer. Gauging the smell, this must be the border town of Bogorovsk in Kurland. Gauging the competence of the besieging force, this must be the Nabstrian army.

Testing the power of the law of averages, General Hieronymous von Rumpfler has decided to confront once again the troops of the Grand Duchy of Kurland. This time, though, he has besieged the enemy within a town, a condition that should reduce the enemy's mobility and allow the Nabstrians to leverage one of the key strengths of their army - their ability to move mud from one place to another destination that is quite close by. Utilising this skill, the besieging army has already managed to construct the first two parallels of their siege lines.

Content with the progress thus far, Rumpfler has found time to meet various important personages attached to his headquarters (below). One is Bishop Munschrugge, who has come to bless the efforts of the Burgravate's army. This is an activity that, to an outsider untutored in religious doctrine, might seem functionally the same as getting wildly hammered on the general's store of port, and then exposing his buttocks to passers by, on the basis that the Good Lord blesses those who turn the other cheek. Also here, however, is Lady Katherine Timsbury of Steventon, an advocate of something known as 'professional military education'. If we move closer, we might be able to hear the conversation ...

'And so, general, I think that I have demonstrated the great value that might accrue to your army if you signed up to the King's College's extra special programmes for the education of military officers'.

'But Lady Steventon, is it not the case that you have been selling these courses to our adversaries?'
'Of course - my institution takes its ethical responsibilities very seriously'.
'So, you would be against war, and conflict, and violence, and things such as that?'
'No, no: it's just that we sell to both sides so that we cannot be accused of unethical favouritism'.
'Well, how much are these courses?'
'I would be embarrassed to say, sir'
'Well, that's very ...'
'But I'll happily write it down here on a contract ....'
'How much? Jumping Jesus', the general blasphemes. 'That's as much as I spend on port in a month!'
'Well', says Timsbury, coyly. 'Perhaps, under the circumstances, I might do you a special deal'. She crosses out something and then writes something else.
'Jesus pole-vaulting Christ!', exclaims Rumpfler. 'That figure is higher than the first one!'
'Well, sir, there's been a sudden jump in demand'.

'But my army is large', says the general. He watches two of his sappers hit one another with shovels. 'And the need is very great. How can you possibly find sufficient tutors to begin the education of my army?'

Lady Steventon produces a pistol. 'Well, general, if it bleeds ...', she cocks the pistol, '... it can teach. Just give me a cart, some restraints, and directions to the nearest village'.
'There's also the additional work', says Rumpfler. 'My troops are already busy'. He gestures to some sappers who are experimenting with which end of a shovel seems a more efficient mechanism for moving soil. 'How will they have time for this process of education?'

'You may have heard', says Lady Steventon, 'of the new-fangled technique of Ape Interpretation?'

'AI? Yes, madame. But you can't mean that ...'

'Indeed, sir - you can just get the monkeys to do the donkey work. Or the donkeys to do the monkey work - I don't suppose that it matters'.

'But won't the fraud be exposed when you mark the work, madame?'

'Mark the work? ha, ha, ha, ha ... oh, you're actually serious'. Lady Katherine strikes a solemn pose. 'At the King's College, we feel that marking work is a judgmental and inequitable process that crushes the creative faculties of our students. So, we gently drop any written work down a set of stairs and let God sort them out'.

'That doesn't seem quite right', says Rumpfler. 'I mean, it seems quite wrong ...'

'I think', says Lady Katherine, 'that one of the many advantages of taking our courses would be that you would begin to understand that everything is contested and just a matter of perspective - except, of course, our prices'.

'Well, excellent', says Rumpfler. 'I think that with some quality postgraduate professional military education, we have a ninety per cent chance of success!'

Lady Timsbury watches as one of the sappers begins to eat the dirt that he has just shovelled.
'Ninety per cent seems quite high, sir ...'

* I use the plural more in hope than certainty.

Capacious Exploding Orifices!

 'A sudden startling level of competence by the Bachscuttelers delivers an unexpected and quite remarkable victory!' said no one, ever, in the history of warfare. The attacking grenadiers of course are driven off by the defending Vulgarians. The Bachscuttel sappers, seeing this, drop their shovels and run as well.

To the distinct whiff of coal-dust, beer, and chips and gravy, the Vulgarian miners establish a mine head and begin digging towards the town's defences (below). Having run out of nuns, the defenders can only look on gloomily as barrows of earth are removed and barrels marked "Gunpowder: Do Not Snort" are wheeled in to replace them.

To add to the Bachscuttler's woes, a heavy siege mortar is dragged forwards and placed in the new artillery position (below). There's nothing that Vulgarians like more than handling large barrels, and this one is a whopper. So capacious is the capacity of the muzzle that it is named by the gunners "Wilhelm's Cake-Hole" 

As mortar rounds begin pounding the fabric of the town, Governor Zwöllenglantz decides it is time to end the battle before the attackers can breach the walls. His troops are out of morale; and food is running low - the prospect of hunger stalks the town like a stork with a scythe and a poor sense of humour. Only gunpowder remains plentiful: but that is because there is precious little left to fire it from except grenadiers' backsides.

The governor has done everything possible to fight off the attackers: if that is, the concept of 'everything' could be defined as the mindless repetition of trench raids and the working of nuns well beyond their regulation hours, and doing not much else.

Zwöllenglantz asks for the Honours of War. As this is Mittelheim, it takes quite a time to find some of them; but eventually the Bachscuttel garrison is permitted to quit the town unmolested. The troops are allowed to leave with their arms, which is handy because without them it would be difficult to make their hands work. 

The town of Schwettinbad has fallen to Vulgaria! General Rentall immediately begins implementing the Vulgarian form of martial law. The main element of this seems to comprise of a violent pogrom against purveyors of garlic, salt, and bedroom window locks. A new and progressive tax system is introduced to discourage sun-bathing and to encourage investment in larger cleavages. A strange explosion of love-bites and lassitude quickly begins to afflict the inhabitants of the town.

News of this defeat will surely not be well-received by Prince Rupprecht! 

Nun Shall Pass!

The battle begins to reach its final denouement; or, as it might be termed in Mittelheim, the end. As the defending Bachscuttlers look on, the Vulgarian sappers quickly raise a new artillery battery position right in front of them. If the Vulgarians get some guns into it, the fire from it is going to really, really hurt. From here, the attacking guns will be within breaching range of the walls and so able to begin the process of battering down the fabric of the fortress, just as they have already battered down the fabric of the Bachscuttel morale. The latter was never likely to be that challenging, given that if it were indeed a fabric, Bachscuttel morale would be a rather frayed pair of underpants, probably worn on alternate days by respective members of the platoons.

What to do? What to do? Governor Zwöllenglantz reviews his options. He can afford to do this quite a lot because it's not a very long list even if he writes it in very big letters. There are no doubt, a wide array of clever strategems that might be available in a siege to an enterprising defending force: tarring and lighting pigs; stuffing goats; smearing elephants in honey and chasing them with bees into the enemy positions; secrets forays to stuff comedically large pineapples into the barrels of the attacking artillery. Most in fact seem to involve variations on cruelty to animals and fruit; or cruelty to animals with fruit. But the governors options in both cases are limited given the lack of both: Bachscuttlers don't eat fruit; but they really do eat almost any animals, even if they seem oddly covered in bees and honey. So, the governor once again plays a collection of the Bachscuttel greatest siege hits.

Wearily Sister Molestus trudges the well-worn path to the Vulgarian lines. It is generally acknowledged in circles familiar with espionage that one of the important attributes of a spy is that they should be relatively unknown. It is somewhat worrying, then, for the sister that, as she approaches the enemy line, she is received with the words "Oh hello, it's you again, Sister".

Alas, there's only so many times a woman dressed as a nun can claim to be seeking a 'lovely bunch of strong men' to help her with her 'entirely naked fellow sisters who are in a nearby inn and have become trapped in the bath tub'. Alerted by the nun's suspiciously detailed knowledge of bathing, an activity that no one in Mittelheim is terribly well acquainted with, the Vulgarians apprehend her. Accusing her of being dirty Bachscuttel spy, which, to be fair, she actually is on both counts, the nun is beaten with musket butts until she passes out; although, in deference to the fact that she is nun, the troops apologise profusely while they are doing it and also skip their normal practice of rummaging around in her underclothes.

And then, of course, it's time for the Bachscuttel trench raid. This one is made slightly more interesting because the company of grenadiers are now leavened with a group of sappers.

If the grenadiers can storm the position, the sappers will then fill in the new battery. The sappers are notably well-rested given that they haven't done anything at all during the whole of the preceding fighting. This is it - the final act. It would hardly be a surprise to communicate, dear reader, that the Bachscuttel force has already run out of morale. This means that they cannot rally any troops and that they will automatically surrender if the walls are breached. Only if they can break the Vulgarian morale before the latter happens do they have any chance of preventing the fall of the town!

There Can be Only Pun!

Somewhat surprisingly, it does indeed seem that doing the same thing again as the Bachscuttelers have repeatedly done before has caught the Vulgarians napping. Who knew that the rapid approach of  enemy assault companies against one's trenches might indicate that the enemy was raiding one's trenches? Moreover, although Bachscuttel is a place where the phrase "getting back into the swing of things" usually just means hanging more people, the previous practice really does seem to have warmed up the attacking troops. The raid has some success, and with cries of "Chase me! Chase me!" the Vulgarian sappers scatter to the rear.

The Bachscuttlers decide to pile the pressure on the defending Vulgarians. It's not a great pile, to be sure: more the sort of small heap produced by a naughty puppy - but still, there is at least an attempt to multiply the confusion caused by the raid. It's time, once again, for the furtive shuffling of spies.

'It's time to commit the nun' has never really been a phrase that indicates a battle is going well. Nevertheless, Sister Molestus finds herself again ordered to betake herself to the Vulgarian lines in order to sew some mayhem (below).  

Alas, even the best of her needlework puns fails to move the Vulgarian troops. Taking stock of the situation, they've already moved onto some soup word play, and don't broth-er paying any attention to her.

'I've got to get out of this place', whispers Sister Molestus to herself. She kicks one of the Vulgarians in their bouillons and then sprints off.

In the first parallel, two companies of Vulgarian troops shift to some pudding-related fun and decide to desert (below). It is a sad fact that in this siege the most dangerous threats to the Vulgarian troops have been their lax hygiene and their own legs. More of them have either deserted and run off or shat themselves to death than have been laid low by Bachscuttel gunnery or muskets.

The remaining Bachscuttel infantry begin to gather in the covered way (below). With little artillery firepower left available it would seem that Governor Zwöllenglantz might be considering an all or nothing assault with his infantry to destroy the enemy's third parallel. In Bachscuttel, of course, the phrase "all or nothing" isn't really as balanced an option as one might suppose, since the "all" element is usually rather quite similar to the "nothing". Still, you have to admire the governor's sense of adventure.

Such an assault might be just in the nick of time. With a third parallel now undergoing construction, the Vulgarians begin to muster the makings of some new artillery positions. But in the trenches, one can also hear phrases such as 'Get thee whippet aht o' my beer' and 'It's grim up north, it is': firm evidence that miners have been ordered to the front!

Onward! Onward!

Disease strikes the besieging army and a company of musketeers are laid low (below). Governor Zwöllenglantz can only look on with satisfaction as noisome smells of the very worst kind emanate from the putrifying enemy lines. The Vulgarian camp rings with sound of plague bells, the creak of casualty carts, and urgent cries of  "I'm getting better" and "You're not fooling anyone, you know". 

Whether it's dropsy, flopsy, or a bad case of bloaty head, the Vulgarian physicians are unable to diagnose the cause for certain. The cure, however, is obvious: leeches. 

Festooned with damp  invertebrates, the Vulgarian gunners continue their artillery bombardment. The siege guns now start to target some of the defending infantry. The Bachscuttel musketeers in one of the bastions lose heavily (below).

With limited options, Zwöllenglantz deploys another spy. This time it's Don Penguino. Even stickier than usual, and smelling of something that is hopefully lemons, the Don has been released from prison because the geese have recanted their testimony. The Spaniard creeps through the Vulgarian encampment until he can find an enemy unit that looks like it might be ready to desert. His main problem is that there are so many potential candidates.

Penguino picks his targets (above). Sadly for him, the Vulgarian unit doesn't find a citrus-scented Spaniard with a faint whiff of farmyard anaimal to be a trustworthy purveyor of rumours. If anything, Don Penguino's mix of Spanish, prison-yard German, and animal impersonations makes the troops even more resolved to bayonet the defenders. With a final disappointed "scorchio", the Spanish rake drifts off back to his lines.

(Below) Demonstrating the new professionalism and diligence brought about by expensive postgraduate professional military education certiicates, the Vulgarians begin to build batteries in the second parallel, and also begin to strike forward again, looking to push saps towards the glacis. Once on the glacis, the Vulgarians can then start digging the third parallel.

(Below) Vulgarian troops haul some of the siege batteries forwards to the second parallel. Supprting troops deploy into the nearby trenches. 

(Above) Snorting leeches by the handful, the Vulgarian gunners begin firing again at reduced range!
 

We're Jamming!

Tired of fiddling around with a strategy of the indirect approach, the Vulgarians begin to concentrate on some of the more direct basics of siege warfare. (Below) The sappers re-organise themselves, and the siege artillery begins to rain destruction on the defences.

The fire of the guns is slowed a little because of some difficulties with the orders that have been sent to them.

'Why are these orders so sticky?' asks one Vulgarian gunner, slowly unpicking some paper.

Another sucks his finger. 'These missives seem to be covered with jam ...'

(Below) The concentrated Vulgarian fire begins to have an effect. One of the Bachscuttel heavy batteries suffers a number of hits from enemy fire and is silenced. That the crew can no longer be heard chattering inanely about coconut halves and swallows is undoubtedly a merciful relief: but the loss to the defence of the fire of this battery is a serious blow. 

In parallel, there are more opportunities for espionage. This time, the Vulgarians send Oscar the ginger cat (below). This is an unordothodox move given that Oscar (a) cannot speak; (b) is not great at sketching the defences - he has an eye for perspective, but he will never really achieve his potential until he manages to evolve some opposable thumbs; and (c) tends to prioritise fish over his mission objectives. On the plus side, Oscar isn't captured - because, let's face it, no one is likely to suspect a ginger cat of being a master spy - but he also fails in his mission, because he is a ginger cat and actually not a master spy.

(Above) Oscar's meowing does, however, interrupt Don Pajero, who is clutching a small bundle of orders. He has a knife in his hands and seems to be spreading something over the papers.

Governor Zwöllenglantz points at the Don. 'What is he doing?'

Sister Molestus shrugs. 'We captured some of the enemy orders'.

'Excellent! And have you been decoding their orders and passing the information on to my headquarters?'

'No sir - even better, we've been jamming the enemy communications'.

'You've been jamming them?'

'Yes sir: Don Pajero has been spreading marmalade on them, and then handing them back to the Vulgarians. It'll take them weeks to clean the mess off'.

The governor counts to ten. It's not enough.

'God's ill-fitting hessian underwear!' blasphemes the governor. 'Are you idiots?' 

Molestus suddenly covers her face with a hand. 'Of course, my lord - we've been such fools!'

'Yes, you have!'

'Indeed, my lord. It's so obvious: marmalade isn't a jam.'

(Below) If their diversion into feline skulduggery hasn't hit the mark, the Vulgarian artillery does. The Bachscuttel heavy battery is now completely shot to pieces and the guns dismounted. This doesn't much reduce the accuracy of the Bachscuttel fire, of course, but the garrison's morale continues to decline.

(Below) The Vulgarian sappers now begin to dig a second parallel. What can the defenders do? There's only one option left available. Don Pajero snorts in disgust and tosses the marmalade aside. It's time for the lemon curd!

This siege really is beginning to be handled with a measure of competence that is difficult to credit to any military force in Mittelheim. It can't last: or can it?