Heisenleman, the final!

Entirely unlike King Wilhelm, the battle has taken nearly all day to reach its climax. With the Imperial assault upon the Palatinate's forces stalled, it is down now to the sprucely uniformed musketeers of Nabstria to make the decisive attack. Trumpets sound, the drums beat, and the impeccably dressed Nabstrian foot march forwards determinedly. As the sun begins slowly to set, glittering redly upon cold steel, General Von Rumpfler rides up and down the Nabstrian lines, waving his hat and shouting vigorously: 'Forward, men! Now is the time! Drive the enemy from the field! Give them your bayonets, or any other sharp objects that you might have about your person!' His men advance in silence. Nine regiments of musketeers step forwards, supported by a unit of the Burgrave's mercenary infantry.

(Below, left) Furst Augustus helps himself to a brandy from his personal barrel, although, given the lateness of the hour, an ovaltine might be more appropriate. Saxe-Peste remains confident. He has seven regiments to hold the line, and he really doesn't have to hold it for very long. On his far left, two units will be able to take cover behind walls. At the moment, the Furst has ordered them to hold back, to prevent the enemy artillery from being able to fire upon them. He also has two regiments in reserve, ready to move to whatever point is threatened. Moreover, as the Nabstrians advance, their numerical advantage begins to shrink. Looking to his left, Rumpfler sees the threat posed by the Landgravial cavalry - cursing the limp performance of his own mounted forces, the General is forced to order two regiments of his troops to wheel in order to screen the flank of his advance. However, Rumpfler still has a trick or two up his sleeve that he believes will restore the advantage to his troops.

On the other side of the field, the battle has petered out faster than Landgrave Choldwig's new year's resolutions concerning olive oil and debauchery. Cavandish and Barry-Eylund seem to have taken very different approaches to supporting their respective allies. The good Marshal has dispatched Nitzwitz directly to the Imperial artillery. All of Cavandish's attention is now given to working his grand battery in support of the Nabstrians. Barry-Eylund, it has to be said, seems to have chosen a rather different path. When an officer arrives from the Palatinate cavalry asking if they might cross the stream and move around the Imperial flank, the General cannot be found. Indeed, Barry-Eylund has inveigled his way into Rupprecht's card game.
'Pass!' says the General, picking up more cards.
'Snap!' says the Prince, enthusiastically taking them all.
'What are we playing?' says the General, confused.
'Billiards', says Count Erlock-Weisse, dejectedly.

As Barry-Eylund continues to treat the battle as a card game, Furst Augustus suddenly begins to understand the peril facing his troops. (Below) As the Nabstrian infantry bear down upon the Rotenburg line, Furst Augustus is now necessarily forced to order his troops to line the walls in front of their position so that they can bring their musketry to bear upon their foes. In doing so, however, the Rotenburg musketeers can now be seen again by the Imperial artillery. The cunning Von Rumpfler signals the Nabstrian infantry to halt, and waits for his ally to pour in some preparatory fire. At Marshal Cavandish's orders, the grand battery belches out once again its hail of death, destruction, and mortuary-related unpleasantness. Despite the obstacle of the wall, the skilled Imperial gunners seem to have regained the joie de malleting that they exhibited at the commencement of the battle, and they wreak havoc upon the Rotenburg defence.

Though the Landgravial musketeers have their bodies protected by the wall, their heads remain cruelly exposed. The Imperial gunners use all of the fruits of their specialist training, skipping and richocheting their ballons du morts into the poor infantryman. Though one might argue that, for an infantry musketeer in the Age of Reason, the head is perhaps the least useful of all of the body's appendages, still, it soon becomes apparent that separating it from the body does make infantry drill more problematic to execute in a timely manner. As more and more are decapitated, the musketeers' effectiveness ebbs, and, despite valiant attempts by subalterns to balance heads back onto the bodies (though not always the right ones), it becomes clear that the battalion's combat effectiveness is  broken irrevocably even if its cognitive capacity has been reduced only marginally.

(Below, at top). With a final wet bouncing sound, the last of the musketeers is fatally shortened above the neck, and the regiment is finished. There is now a gap in the Rotenberg line! 

Furst Augustus tries to hurry along his reserves to plug the hole. In the meantime, Cavandish directs the Imperial artillery to focus on the next regiment  along. The slaughter wreaked by their guns proves to be a moving experience for the Fenwickian cannoneers: songs are sung, tears are shed, though the wetness of Fenwickian cheeks is nothing compared to the condition of Rotenberg underpants, as the guns destroy the other regiment behind the wall.

Such is the carnage behind the Rotenburg lines that Death has been forced to substitute his usual scythe for a large shovel. Although, metaphysically, Death obviously is present everywhere and at all times, still, the effort that he is forced to put into matching the effects of the Imperial artillery means that he is rather, well, thinly spread, elsewhere. Thus, somewhere near Limoges, the dreadful violinist Armand Gateaux, assaulted badly by his unhappy audience, finds that having a violin bow thrust manfully right through his head is not the terminal experience that one might expect. The fellow lives for another thirty years, most of it spent trying to navigate through doorways. And in Grimsby, the Scottish-French engineer, Colonel Dougal Entendre, is most surprised that the half ton block of marble dropped accidentally on his head, bounces off and merely flattens his wig a tad. Suspecting that no one has such luck without it catching up on him, Colonel Entendre makes passage on the first ship out of the port. Sadly for him, its destination is Mittelheim.

Furst Augustus is forced now to commit his two reserve regiments to plug the gap on his left. The threat from the enemy's artillery means that these regiments cannot line the wall, and so the Nabstrian infantry are protected from Rotenburg musketry. 'Forward!' cries Von Rumpler, and the general himself gallops to the scene of the action. The rat-a-tat of Nabstrian drums continues as the Nabstrian infantry recommence their advance. (Below, middle) But what's this? By this stage of the Wars of the Gelderland Succession, Rumpfler can barely raise a shrug of his shoulders when, of course, it transpires that there's something not marked on his map: a patch of rocky ground so obvious that a mole with a comedy eye-patch could see it.
'There's nothing else on the map is there?' says Rumpfler.
'I don't think so, my lord', reply his staff officers.
'Not a mountain range we haven't seen? Or Ragnarok itself?'
'No, no, my lord'.
'Saint Paul's cathedral?'
The officers pause for a moment and then quickly cast their eyes over their maps.
'No, no, my lord. Definitely, probably not.'

Despite the map-related inconvenience, Rumpfler is unperturbed. Soon, and just as he anticipated, a bout of confusion strikes one of the Furst's reserve regiments, and it hops over from the safety of the wall, advancing towards the Nabstrians. Musketry crackles and, though the Landgravial musketeers do creditable damage to their opposition, one Nabstrian regiment breaking, the weight of fire opposing them is too great - the unit buckles, then routs, the troops pouring backwards. (Below, bottom) There is now a gap in the Rotenburg line again, and there are no reserves left to fill it. Furst Augustus' infantry is reduced to but four battalions, and seven Nabstrian units now bear down on them. The evening gloom begins to deepen.

(Below, right) There is some consolation for the Rotenbergers as one of the Nabstrian regiments, its blood up, conducts a foolhardy bayonet attack over the rocky ground and across the wall. It is beaten back and routed. But the situation remains grim.
'Give me night!' wails Furst Augustus. 'Give me night, or give me a marvelously creative supporting action from my ally, Barry-Eylund!'

The latter, sadly, is unlikely.
'What are we playing now?' asks Barry-Eylund.
'Bridge', says Count Erlock-Weisse, wearily.
Prince Rupprecht slams down his hand, but before he can say anything Barry-Eylund interrupts.
'My Lord, I understood that in order to claim the cards, the card that you put down has to be the same as mine. But, see, my lord, your card is different. I have a nine of spades and you seem to have ... Mrs Bunn the Baker. An easy mistake to make my lord, what with the din of cannon and such, and so not in any way, I should wager, an attempt to pervert the rules of the game.'
Rupprecht nods slowly, and then gestures for the general to lean forward.
Barry-Eylund leans forward, and the Prince then punches him mightily in the face.
'Snap!' says the Prince, happily.

As the last sliver of sun begins to slide below the horizon, the Nabstrians, like King Wilhelm eating a large plate of scones, make one last heave. Once again, one of the Furst's units confuses its orders, interpreting the command 'Halt! Defend in place!' with 'Advance! Into the rocky ground! Yeah!' (Below, centre)

But actually, the regiment performs surprisingly well amidst the difficult terrain. None of the Nabstrian volleys hit it at all, and with the light now dimmer than their own officers, it it clear that the Nabstrian troops have simply run out of time.With night having fallen, the chances of any further Nabstrian success are lower than a hedge-hogs kneecaps, and the prospect of launching another assault about as inviting as King Wilhelm's belly-button after a particularly vigorous frolic.

'Curses!' howls Rumpfler.

'Zzzzzzzz', says Cavandish gently, fast asleep now that his cannon have stopped firing. 

(Below) And so, the battle of Heisenleman draws to a close.

As the Combined Grand Army withdraws from the field, Furst Augustus rides forwards to visit his cavalry, the attack of which was undoubtedly the decisive event in the battle. The Furst meets with Colonel du Vicque, and in the gloom Saxe-Peste looks sadly upon the heaps of fallen cavalrymen.

'A savage fight', he says to du Vicque.
'Indeed, my lord', says the Colonel, 'It was quite a tussle'.
'How vicious those Nabstrians were', says Furst Augustus. 'I mean, look at that poor ensign there. He seems to have been shoved bodily onto his own trumpet'.
'Inexplicable',says du Vicque, in a neutral tone.
'And then he seems to have beaten himself around the head savagely with his own instrument'.
'Battle can do that to a man', says du Vicque, avoiding eye contact.

The Imperial and Nabstrian forces are able to retire in good order, but the battle, and also the war, are now lost for them. It is a splendid victory for Rotenburg and for Bachscuttel: hurrah for Landgrave Choldwig! Hurrah for Prince Rupprecht!

For King Wilhelm, however, the excitement is far from over; and we turn now, dear reader, to the strange adventures of Colonel Zeigler...

Heisenleman, the third!

The Imperial advance, all later agree, is a splendidly conducted manoeuvre. In perfect step, three lines of musketeers, each of three regiments, march resolutely towards the Bachscuttel positions, each line providing support for the other. Eight of the regiments comprise of trained regular Fenwickian infantry. In the middle of the front line marches the ninth: a unit of mercenary Zentans, clutching muskets and with stout aubergines pushed into the waistbands of their baggy pantaloons. There are no conscripts in this force: these are properly drilled musketeers from the Age of Reason. So there is no out-of-step shuffling; no complaints; no banging on and on about human dignity or the rights of man. There is simply a relentless tramp forward, with little noise in the cold grey afternoon except for the relentless tap-tap of their drums.

General Redmond Barry-Eylund watches the enemy advance towards his troops. In truth, it is something of a relief  - with the enemy's infantry now on the offensive, the Fenwickian artillery have stopped firing, and the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel might soon have an opportunity at last to contribute usefully to the battle.
'My lord, should I order our artillery to fire upon the enemy infantry?' pipes up a staff officer.
Barry-Eylund pauses a moment before replying.
'Yes, why not', he says with a shrug, 'I mean, it's the sort of thing that one should do at this point in a battle. Only', he adds, 'tell them to point their cannon at the enemy this time.'
'At once, my lord.'
The General's cannons open fire upon the advancing Imperials; but, as is normal for Mittelheim artillery, its role mainly is to provide some atmospheric smoke to the proceedings. A few of the cannonballs hit the advancing Fenwickian regiments and, with plaintive cries, some enemy musketeers are prematurely shortened and then collapse into the grass, to be trodden over, and, in a few vindictive cases, kicked several times in their wedding tackle, by the next line. Sergeants push men into the gaps and the advance continues without halting.
Barry-Eylund sighs resignedly. Behind him Prince Rupprecht and Count Erlock-Weisse continue their game of cards. Barry-Eylund raises an eyebrow to a staff officer.
'It's Poker, my lord' says the staff officer.
'Snap!' shouts Prince Rupprecht delightedly, taking all of the cards.

Across the meadow, Marshal Cavandish examines the advance through his spy-glass. (Below, left) There can be little finesse to this attack. The left and right of the Imperial troops are blocked by a marsh and a wood (though the the latter must be referred to in Fenwick as a 'leafy obstacle', the word 'wood' being an unwise one to use in Imperial circles. Actually, there are some who also argue for the banning of the phrase 'Imperial circles'. For similar reasons, in Fenwick, ringing bells always make the noise 'ding, ding'). Buttressed by three batteries of artillery, each protected by gabions, the Palatinate's line consists of five infantry regiments. The Bachscuttel horse are deployed to the rear, facing, naturally, in the wrong direction. But Marshal Cavandish has a trick or two up the sleeve of his night gown. He has a veeeeery strong suspicion that, about now, a bout of confusion is likely to afflict one of the Bachscuttel units.

Barry-Eylund ruminates on the object of the Fenwickian attack.
'Do they, perhaps, expect us to to cross the stream and fight them on equal terms?', he muses out loud.
Just to his left, in the front line, the General's words are heard by Graf von Gross-Winkel, Colonel of the von Gross-Winkel infantry regiment, a fine body of elite troops.
'Was than an order to cross the stream?', he says to his second-in-command.
'I don't think so, my lord. I think it was sarcasm'.
'Sarcasm, or irony?'
'Er - I'm not wholly clear on the difference, sir'.
'Or perhaps', gulps the Colonel, 'it was actually a rhetorical question'.
'Or a logical syllogism?' suggests his aide.
'Epistomologically, I'm not sure that we have the evidence to say categorically that the order to cross the stream does not exist', says the Graf.
'Ontologically though, sir, I think that we are making a mistake to assume that simply by asserting that the order exists, that we can then presume that it does indeed exist.'
'Hmm', says the Colonel. 'On the one hand, I might fall prey to an ontological paradox; and on the other, I might be executed for disobeying an order, constructivist or otherwise. Order the advance'.
'An actual advance, sir, or a rhetorical one?'
'An actual advance, Captain - but if it makes you feel better, you can give the order ironically.'
'Righto, sir'.
(Above, top) In perfect order, the regiment advances right into the middle of the stream. As the water swirls around their chests, their muskets get wet, making it impossible for the troops to fire. They are within range now of two Imperial regiments.
'Perfect', says, the Graf, beaming.

General Barry-Eylund cannot immediately rectify the mistake, not least because he is speechless with rage: red-faced, dribbling, almost catatonic with molten anger, hitting himself about his own head with his telescope. Eventually, he is able to squeeze out two words: 'R..r..r.regiment ....r...r...r..retrograde'. Fate smiles upon Barry-Eylund - the Imperial volleys are too post-modern in their character; they swirl around ineffably, lacking fundamentally in substance, and so leave on regiment von Gross-Winkel little evidence of their existence. With a short step to the rear, the regiment is then brought back into the line, relatively unscathed and out of range of the Imperial muskets.

(Below) The lead elements of the Imperial infantry approach the stream behind which the Palatinate's forces are deployed. The latter's position is a strong one, but, as is usual with Barry-Eylund, he has constructed a defensive position that, if it is tricky to get into, it is also very difficult to get out of. The Fenwickians are masters of the lethal volley, whereas the Palatinate's infantrymen are not; and the stream makes it just as difficult now for Barry-Eylund's troops to charge the Fenwickians as it does for the Fenwickians to get at Barry-Eylund's forces. 

As it transpires, however, bayonets are rather surplus to requirements. The Palatinate's musketeers deliver some deadly fire against the advancing Imperials, causing many casualties; the latter's riposte is rendered largely ineffective by some thick smoke that obscures their view. Raked by canister fire, and with yet another deadly volley from the Bachscuttel lines, the Imperial attack begins to wilt. The Zentans are the first to melt away under the Palatinate's volleys, waggling their aubergines impotently (a particularly sad way of shaking them). Over the course of an extended fire-fight, the advantages of the Palatinate's canister fire proves just enough to give them the edge. A fierce attempt by one Imperial regiment to charge Barry-Eylund's line also ends in an large heap of corpses.

'Hah!', shouts General Barry-Eylund happily, gesticulating in the direction of the enemy: 'You can stick that up your Imperial circles'.

(Below) All three lead Fenwickian regiments break. The Bachscuttel lines are not without some losses. The artillery, for example, lose many gunners. Barry-Eylund shovels irregulars in to help man the cannons - if some potatoes get mixed in as well, they don't seem to be any less effective than the light troops, and they certainly seem to exhibit greater initiative. Despite urgent representations from his Nabstrian ally, Marshal Cavandish is reluctant to throw his remaining infantry again into the jaws of the Palatinate's defences.

(Above) Instead, the fighting in this portion of the battlefield degenerates into a desultory exchange of artillery. Indeed, Barry-Eylund soon comes to the conclusion that he would be glad if his artillery could indeed be exchanged, their fire being especially notable for its ineffectiveness. The General makes a mental note that any future alcoholic ribaldry in local brewery's, or lewdsome frolics in houses of ill-repute should not be organised by his artillery officers.  The Imperial artillery of course proves itself to be a little more useful. The Palatinate light infantry battalion deployed in the nearby field is blown apart by enemy cannon fire. Barry-Eylund  halts attempts to remove their dead and wounded from the field and orders them instead to be dug into the ground - at least then they might then be useful for something.

Eventually, it is clear that the Imperial attack here is over. Across the meadow, Marshal Cavandish curses and even Keith seems to be off his oats.
'Dammit, Nitzwitz: and to think I stayed awake for that lamentably limp performance. How I loath Barry-Eylund - always winkling himself into his defensive shell like some kind of barnacle-bottomed military crustacean. I feel like getting off Keith, hitching up my nightgown, and then waggling my backside at those Bachscuttel fools, whilst shouting 'Behold Barry-Eylund: here's another crack for you to squeeze your army into!''
Nitzwitz blanches.
'My lord - I think that that would be beneath you.'
Cavandish reflects for a moment, before sliding from his horse.
'Actually, Nitzwitz, I don't think that it would be.'

As the shadows lengthen, Barry-Eylund surveys the field through his telescope. In front, the six remaining Imperial regiments remain halted. The threat from that direction clearly is over. Some way behind, the General can just make out a pale object that looks, if he didn't know better, like a posterior being gyrated derisively in his direction. But then suddenly, to his right, amidst the Nabstrian lines, there is an obvious commotion. Emerging from the gathering gloom marches a mass of infantry - the last great attack before night falls is surely underway! The General turns to train his glass upon his ally's positions: the Rotenburgers are outnumbered. And then, in the centre of the enemy lines, he notices frenzied activity amongst the enemy grand battery. Barry-Eylund gulps - Furst Augustus is about to be subjected to a combined infantry and artillery assault of formidable strength. He realises suddenly that upon the consequences of this final assault rests the outcome of the battle ....

Heisenleman, the second!

The six batteries fire upon the village of Popdorf. There is a thunderous, deafening roar. Death, who might have jumped out of his skin if he had any, checks his pantaloons and then remembers with relief that he also has no bowels. The entire battle halts momentarily as the troops from all four armies stare at the village. (Below) As the smoke slowly clears there is no sign at all of the Rotenburg garrison regiment - it has been completely annihilated.

The troops look on in awe.

Even Marshal Cavandish has been awoken: he looks agog at the smoking remains. 'By the power of Grey Skull', he whispers.
'Let's do it again!' says Captain Nitzwitz enthusiastically, training his telescope on a new target. Death, meanwhile, sprints across the field of battle shouting 'Wait! Wait! I wasn't ready!'
Behind the Palatinate line, Barry Eylund looks at Popdorf gloomily. It is Barry Eylund's forces that are nearest to the enemy grand battery. The Bachscuttel irregulars, deployed in a field, begin to dig themselves in amongst the potatoes. The regulars sag noticeably, in the hope that the reduction in their height might produce a commensurate increase in their lifespans. Sergeants set about beating such a notion out of them - 'those are cannonballs', they shout, as another salvo is launched from the enemy gun line, 'not leech fricasees. Stand like rough approximations of men', they growl. It seems evident to the General that the only orders that he is going to need to issue in this battle are those directing the bringing up of dustpans and brushes to clear away the remains of his army.
Behind him, Prince Rupprecht remains oblivious, and continues with his roistering.
'Dammit', says Barry-Eylund distractedly to a staff officer, 'what in God's good name are they playing now?'
'Gin rummy, I believe' says the officer.
'Snap!' says the Prince, happily.

The initial bloody execution doled out by the Combined Grand Army's artillery line leads Rumpfler and Cavandish to wait out the morning in the hope that their guns can drill further bloody holes in the ranks of their adversaries. But Fate is a cruel mistress, as well (as Death can testify) as being unable to cook terribly well. It becomes apparent that the artillery, like King Wilhelm at one of his evening soirees, has peaked rather too early in the proceedings. The morning bleeds away as the enemy artillery create for the armies of Bachscuttel and Rotenburg the exact same feeling of having one's genitals flicked with a metal ruler: it hurts quite a lot, but it isn't fatal.

On the other side of the battlefield, events have proceeded in a manner that might be described as 'gentlemanly'; if the gentleman in question were aged, quite forgetful, and periodically incontinent. A few Landgravial cannon balls have been thrown into the Nabstrian lines, eliciting a rousing cheer from the Rotenburg troops. The fire, however, has succeeded only in maiming a few of Rumpfler's light troops, eliciting a rousing cheer from the rest of his army. (Below, top) This geriatric military fumbling continues for a while until Rumpfler decides that it is time to advance his light troops; a bit of gentle probing might induce some response from his Rotenburg foe. However, it soon becomes clear that the Nabstrian probing has penetrated the Rotenburgers rather too deeply, since it evokes an immediate and violent response. Positioned on the right between the woods and Dangalbalz stands a dismounted Colonel Michel-George du Vicque, commander of the Rotenburg Landgravial cavalry, along with his second in command, Captain Dietrich von Stadtmaffin, and his trumpeter, Ensign Hans Standt. Du Vicque and von Stadtmaffin wait patiently, eyeing the Nabstrian light troops as they caper forwards. Their calmness contrasts with that of the ensign, who points excitedly at the enemy jager, saying repeatedly 'Shall we charge? Shall we charge? Can we? Can we? Go on, go on, go on, go on, go on!'

'Patience, Standt, ' says du Vicque, 'A professional soldier obeys orders always. We must wait for an ... ouch, dammit!'
'My lord?' says Stadtmaffin, concerned.
'I've injured myself on this nail' says du Vicque, examining his boot gingerly.
'I don't think that's a nail,' says Stadtmaffin, leaning in solicitiously, 'its much shorter, its more of a ... a ...'
 'A tack?' says du Vicque.
'Attack? Attack!' shouts the Ensign, blowing his instrument harder than Landgrave Choldwig in a Turkish bath.
'No! Nooooooooooooooo!' shouts du Vicque - but it is too late (Below, bottom) With wild neighs, not all them from the horses, and loud shouts of Huzzah!', the Landgravial cavalry surges forwards.

 

Galloping onwards in march columns, the Rotenburg horse are soon  dangerously positioned on the flank of the Nabstrian Army.

Viewing events through his telescope Barry Eyland jumps up and down in frustration: 'We agreed!' he shouts out furiously to no one in particular. 'We agreed! No displays of initiative! None! No brain storming! No left-field thinking! No creating a metaphorical box so that we could think outside of it!' In Saxe-Peste's headquarters, the Furst, too, is apoplectic 'What's picqued du Vicque?' he asks angrily. Saxe-Peste can espy the cavalry riding forward, with du Vicque hopping behind, waving his hands about like a loon. 

Actually, though, the sudden advance of the Rotenburg cavalry causes Rumpfler some difficult problems: the enemy horse have merely to wheel left, and they will endanger his whole flank. (Below): Rumpler hastily orders the jager to turn towards the enemy cavalry. His own cavalry can do little immediately - being in march column, they cannot counter-charge the Rotenburgers, and they cannot change into line where they are because this will leave their flanks exposed. Rumpfler has no choice but to send his cavalry leftwards, still in march column, ready to deploy next turn.

(Above, left) The Rotenburg cavalry halts and begins to form to line. Du Vicque and Stadtmaffin manage to catch up.
'We seem to be fine, my lord', says Stadtmaffin relieved. 'See, the enemy horse are still deploying. There's plenty of time for a measured, carefully thought out series of manoeuvres that will allow us to return to our lines'.
'Yes', says du Vicque, mopping his brow. 'We'll put the men into line and then begin a retrograde movement. We might be able to retire through the wood - there might be a road'.
'There's certainly no road, my lord', says Stadtmaffin, 'but there might be a path thingy.'
'A track?' Says du Vicque.
'Attack?' Attack!' shouts the ensign.
'Christ's bunions, noooooooooooooo!' wails du Vicque despairingly.

(Below) With much shouting and waving of swords, the Rotenburg cavalry hurls itself at the Nabstrians, who have now been able to form line. The confined space means that the lead two Rotenburg regiments must face three Nabstrian units - but the intrepidity of the Landgravial advance wins the combat, even if the Nabstrian horse remain unbroken. Charge and counter-charge ensue, with sundry hacking, slashing, and twisting of melons.

(Below) There is a temporary pause in the cavalry melee. Each side has lost one of their regiments: but the remaining Nabstrian cavalry are in some disorder. Still (below, right), Rumpfler has a key advantage - one regiment, at least, of his jager are able to bring some of their muskets to bear on the flanks of the lead Rotenburg dragoon regiment. A few volleys might be able to cripple the Rotenburgers. Volley after volley demonstrates, however, that the jagers couldn't hit the side of a barn even if they were actually deployed inside it.

Rumpfler gallops over to remonstrate with them. Strangely, the jager have dirty smudges of grey around their mouths. They all seem to be sucking something.

'What have you got in your mouths', shouts the General impatiently.
One jager halts and answers. 'We've been given lots of lovely gob-stoppers, my lord'.
'Spit it out', orders Rumpfler. The jager complies and out pops what looks suspiciously like a musket ball.
Rumpfler looks aghast. 'What in God's name have you been loading your muskets with?' he says.
'Loading?', asks the jager.
A fellow leaps by, and aims at a cavalryman - 'Bang!' he shouts, 'Bang, bang, bang! You're dead!'
The jager beams at the General. 'See the rate of fire we can get, my Lord?'

Meanwhile, Colonel du Vicque seems now to have restored some order to the Rotenburg line. He looks askance at Ensign Standt, murder in his eyes.
'If he does that again', says du Vicque to Stadtmaffin, 'I shall give that fellow the most violent smack'.

'Careful, my Lord' says Stadtmaffin, looking alarmed 'in the din of battle the words 'a smack' sounds dangerously like ...'

'Attaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!', shouts the Ensign, and then blows his trumpet so hard that his tongue pops out of the end. 'A-ack! A-ack!'

Again, the Rotenburgers gallop forwards!

(Below) The final cavalry battle occurs! There is a brief, savage, clash of steel before the Nabstrians, riding their horses rather less skilfully than other horses might, collapse in the face of the impetuous Landgravial assault. Both remaining Nabstrian regiments flee! Rumpfler's flank is open!

Desperate, Rumpfler sends a courier to Marshal Cavandish - in order to occupy the enemy, he asks for the Imperial infantry to begin their assault on the right wing. Cavandish is unconvinced by Rumpfler's logic, believing that the Bachscuttel defence is still too strong.
'I'm unconvinced by Rumpler's logic', he says to the courier, 'and I believe that the Bachscuttel defence is still too strong'.
However, as Nabstrian cavalrymen begin to stream past his headquarters in cheerful rout, the Marshal recognises that needs must when the Devil rides his horse as badly as a Nabstrian cavalryman.

And so, the orders are sent; the drums begin to roll; the banners wave; and, bayonets fixed, nine regiments of Imperial infantry begin their attack against Barry-Eylund's line......

Heisenleman, the first!

Wherein the Combined Grand Army of Imperial Fenwick and the Burgravate of Nabstria encounters the Grand Combined Army of the Landgravate of Rotenburg and the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel.

Above the meadows of Heisenleman, grey clouds are banked menacingly. The heavens, it seems, are ready to add their own drama to the events unfolding below.
'And so', says General Barry-Eylund with gravity, 'we are witness to the great struggle of our times. Who can guess what the outcome will be? The efforts of man alone will surely not suffice. Only Fate, it would seem, can decide.'
'Yes', says Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste. After a pause, he adds 'How long do you think that he'll take to work it out?'
Through his telescope Barry-Eylund continues watching Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, as the latter tries to work out which way around his tricorne should go. 'It could be some time. It's probably best if we get this battle out of the way.'

Two armies face one another in the clash that will surely decide the War of the Spanish Suck Session. (Below) On one side stands the Grand Combined Army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel and the Landgravate of Schillingsfurst-Hesse-Rotenburg. Furst Augustus and General Barry-Eylund have held a brief council of war, agreeing on the dispositions of their troops for the coming battle. (Below, top) The forces of the Palatinate hold a third of the line, occupying the position between the village of Popdorf and a small stream. The infantry are in two lines, with guns interspersed. Light troops occupy a small field to the right of Barry-Eylund's line, mainly because the General cannot think of anything better for them to do, and also because it is important to keep the irregulars away from any habitations that might be sources of leech brandy and women's clothing. To the rear, all three regiments of Horse are deployed in march column, held ready to cross the stream, swinging out, perhaps, onto the Grand Combined Army's left.



(Above, bottom) Furst Augustus' troops hold the remainder of the front. From Popdorf, which is garrisoned with a regiment, to the nearby village of Dangelbalz, the Furst deploys all of his infantry, supported by his two batteries of guns. A wall springs out to the right from Popdorf, providing some potential cover to a portion of his line. A field of turnips to the immediate rear of his troops makes manoeuvre a little inconvenient. On the extreme right of the line, and massed behind a wood, are the four regiments of Rotenburg cavalry, under the command of Colonel Michel-Georges du Vicque. The allied plan is as simple as it is elegant: don't lose the battle. The troops of the two armies must fight until victory is achieved, or failing that, until their Generals and their retinues have been given an appropriate opportunity to quit the field safely. To this end, Barry-Eylund and Furst Augustus have both agreed that there should be no displays of initiative on the part of their troops; no innovative application of the campaign planning tools; no strategic ad-libbing; no displays of tactical flexibility or any other such nonsense. Flair, innovation, and blue-sky thinking are immediately forbidden in both armies on pain of death, or an unpleasant evening with some aubergines and a battalion of Zentan mercenaries (whichever turns out to be cheaper). Only blind, unthinking obedience to orders, the turnip-headed, rigid application of doctrine, and a bovine lack of interest in adapting to changing circumstances will be sufficient to execute the allied plan. If Herr Cock Up comes knocking, then emphatically, no one has permission to answer the door.

Across the meadows stands arrayed the Combined Grand Army of the Empire of Fenwick and the Burgravate of Nabstria. Marshal Ignacio Grace a Dieu Cavandish, Generalissimo of Imperial Fenwick, is already exhausted. He has been up since the crack of dawn. This is not, of course, something that he can say to his staff officers, since any sentences that have the word 'crack' in it are likely to have near fatal consequences for Fenwickians, given their wearisome love of japesome double-entendre. Besides, since General Heironymous von Rumpfler has a cousin named Dawn, it might cause some unnecessary inter-allied misunderstandings.Talking long into the night, Cavandish and Rumpfler have created a plan that seems so cunning it could con a weasel into paying for utterly unnecessary insurance protection for future financial payments. Now, the orders have been sent out and the troops arrayed. Cavandish, who in deference to the solemnity of the moment has pulled his dress-uniform coat over his night gown, looks out over the assembled forces.

(Below, middle) Behold! the Combined Grand Army has concentrated all of its artillery into a stupendous six battery behemoth of potent projectile power. Four batteries are provided by Imperial Fenwick, and these have been trained rigorously at the Camberwick School for Artillery and Gifted Children. This monstrous military mass of gargantuan gunpowder alliteration stands ready to blow a hole in the Wilhelmite line. To exploit the havoc that will be wreaked by the grand battery, Cavandish and Rumpfler have concentrated their infantry forces into two, three line formations. (Below, top) On the right, opposite the forces of Bachscuttel, are the musketeers of Imperial Fenwick. At the appropriate moment, they will launch a resolute attack forwards, cross the stream and drive the bewildered remnants of the Palatinate's forces from the field of battle. (Below, bottom) On the left, the Nabstrian infantry is deployed for an assault upon the Rotenburg line: since the Rotenburgers must defend a longer line than their callow allies, and since they lack the protection of the stream, this is likely to be the scene of the battle's decisive act.

(Above, bottom) Desirous of maintaining for his cavalry the flexibility that comes with deployment into march column, but fearful also of the effects of the Rotenburg artillery, Rumpfler positions his cavalry behind the hill: what could possibly go wrong with that? After his endeavors at Dammenblatz Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire, is now back in his more familiar role as commander of the Nabstrian horse; and also, hopefully, most of the riders as well.

And so, the stage is set; the pieces arrayed; the game afoot; the metaphors exhausted. General Barry-Eylund peers through his telescope, moving it down the opposing line - when he reaches the enemy artillery, he gulps, and then, to make himself feel better, he turns the telescope around, making the grand battery look much, much smaller. Behind him, Prince Rupprecht and his entourage are making merry. The Prince has been in a boisterous mood. Rupprecht also has been up at the crack of Dawn. Having dismissed Dawn, by tipping her a few shillings, the Prince has been whiling away the hours by playing cards with one of his favourites, the young rake, Count Ferdinand von Erlock-Weisse. Rupprecht is munching on a chicken leg. His subordinates ignore the flapping and squawking of the bird. Swiftly Rupprecht slaps down a card, his tricorne, the right way around but the wrong way up, wobbles alarmingly.
'Snap!', cries the Prince.
'Um' says Count Erlock-Weisse
'What are they playing?' asks Barry-Eylund to a nearby staff officer.
'Whist, my lord', he replies.

Across the meadow, General von Rumpfler waits a moment longer. From each of the armies drifts the banging of drums and the trill of flutes; except, that is, from the direction of the army of Bachscuttel, where Rupprecht's military orchestra produce a delicate tinkle with the fruits of Rupprecht's brief dalliance in the triangle trade. In the middle of the Palatinate's musicians stands a single woman, banging on a tambourine. The musicians look askance at her: as the paramour of the conductor, they fear for the future of the band. Finally, Rumpfler turns to a courier and says simply 'It is time'. Bowing, the courier mounts his horse (not something that could be done in the army of Imperial Fenwick) and gallops towards Cavandish's headquarters.

The courier approaches Marshal Cavandish. The Marshal is upon his horse, Keith, and attended by his Chief of Staff, Captain Fabius Nitwitz. The courier bows. 'My Lord Cavandish', he says, 'General von Rumpfler begs to suggest that it is time now to commence the bombardment of the village of Popdorf.'
Cavandish says nothing. Indeed, he is slumped forward on his saddle, with no sign of life except the gentle sway of the tassle on his night cap.
'Um', says the courier. 'My lord Cavandish?'
Nitwitz interrupts: 'The good Marshal is cogitating'.
'Cogitating?', says the courier. He watches the Marshal for a moment. Cavandish moves slightly and sprawls even further forward onto Keith.
'Cogitating?' says the courier again. 'Are you sure he's not asleep?'
'No, no', replies Nitzwitz, 'just the moment before you arrived, the Marshal was entertaining me with a most amusing story about the poor footnoting conventions in Marshal de Saxe's 'Mes Reveries.'
The courier peers a little closer. 'Is that dribble on the Marshal's saddle?'
'No, no' says Nitwitz vigorously. 'He is certainly awake. My lord Cavandish, should we open fire with our artillery?'
There is a short silence. Cavandish starts suddenly, then breaks wind, and murmurs 'More lard, less pixies: that's the trick.' He slides slowly from his saddle onto the grass and begins to snore loudly.
Nitwitz turns to the courier. 'Lord Cavandish agrees: let the firing commence!'
'Fire!' shouts Nitzwitz.
'Fire! shouts the courier.
'Fire! shout the surrounding staff officers.
'Blimey, where?' murmurs Cavandish blearily alarmed.

Nearby, Death settles down for a nap against the trunk of a tree. The sudden activity amongst the nearby cannons can signal only one thing: the traditional symbolic start of a Mittelheim battle, comprising the noisy, and casualty free, making of smoke by the artillery arm. Death rests his head gently, experiencing once again the sense that naps aren't half so much fun now that he has no eye-lids.

Meanwhile, in the village of Popdorf, one Rotenburg musketeer turns to another:

'You know', he says, 'I have a good feeling about today.'

'Really?' says his compatriot, clutching his musket tightly.

'Well yes. The birds are singing, life is good. In fact, I think it's time that I started paying into a pension or something. I have the strong feeling that something really big will be coming my way very shortly.'

'Fire!' cries the Fenwickian artillery officer.

'Fire!' shouts the commander of the Nabstrian artillery.

Thirty six porte-fires are placed into thirty six vents....

Dammenblatz!

It is a rather chilly September morning. We are looking, dear reader, at the small village of Dammenblatz, a mere speck in eastern Gelderland, positioned athwart the main road to Gross Schnitzelring, the capital city of that Kingdom. To the west (right) and out of sight, are encamped the armies of Nabstria and Grand Fenwick, forming now their Combined Grand Army. To the east, hopes the Nabstrian commander, General Heironymous von Rumpfler, is the army of Saukopf-Bachscuttel - isolated, and ripe for a good plucking. The General waits at his headquarters for news - the Grand Army has sent forward  its scouts - two Fenwickian Freibattalion companies under Colonel Felix von Baumeister, and two regular companies from Nabstria under the command of Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire. Their orders are to conduct a reconnaissance of the area around Dammenblatz and to screen the Grand Army in its encampment. Also travelling with the Duke of Clarkeshire is Nora Hindquarters. Miss Hindquarters has tired of the challenges of camp life - the shouting and marching; the floggings; the sight of soldiers relieving themselves (and sometimes one another). It occurs now to Duke Paul that it is probably better if nothing untoward happens to General von Rumpfler's paramour, and so he ensures that she is positioned well-behind the troops in a place where she is very unlikely to come to any harm - this is, coincidentally, next to Duke Paul.

(Above, left) But - this is strange: because the first troops to arrive at Dammenblatz aren't those of the Combined Grand Army. Instead, the uniforms and the strange shambling march indicates that these troops are a screening force from both the Rotenburg and Bachscuttel armies: unknown to General von Rumpfler, the Wilhelmite forces too have conjoined their forces into what is now termed by them the Grand Combined Army! (Above, top) The Rotenburg troops are to the south. Commanded by Colonel Rheinhertz von Schillingspferde, mounted on his horse, Chestwig, the force consists of two companies - one of grenadiers and one of regulars. On the plus side, von Schillingspferde is an experienced officer, and his troops are drawn from that rarest of soldierly groups - elite Rotenburg infantry. On a less positive note, the Colonel is a health fanatic with an alcohol problem. His breakfast of fruit, porridge, and toast without butter, has, no doubt, left him well prepared physically to face the rigors of the coming battle, but the two pints of absinthe that he has washed it down with has also, sadly, left him functionally insane.

(Below) As his troops move rapidly to take up positions on the left flank, von Schillingspferde, gripped with alchoholic paranoia, gallops off madly to the front burbling insanely that he is being followed: which, as a commander of two companies of infantry, of course, he is.

The friendly locals: 'Get orf moi laaaand'.

(Below) To the north, and moving up on the right of the Rotenburgers, are three companies of troops from the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel. This force, commanded by Colonel Amadeus von Goethe-Nockenshoppes comprises of two companies of mercenary Croats, and one of freibattalion infantry. Nockenshoppes has with him his latest amour, the winsome Kurlandian, Lady Claudia Pantzov. As Nockenshoppes takes up a position in the middle of his troops, he remembers the briefing given earlier to him this morning by Prince Rupprecht:

'Colonel - here is your objective. Kill the enemy. I want two thirds of them dead. Not a corpse less.'

'That's, er, quite specific my lord. What about half-ish - that's quite a lot.'
'No - two thirds.'
Nockenshoppes scratches his head. 'Couldn't we just settle for an effect: crushing their cohesion, perhaps, or destroying their will to fight?'
Nockenshoppes' second in command nods his head vigorously, warming to theme: 'We could get inside their decision-cycle! Right inside it! Drive the enemy before us! Hear the lamentation of their womenfolk!'
Prince Rupprecht shakes his head.
'No. Two thirds. Any less then I shall account your foray a failure'.
'What about one less, my lord?'
'Fail.'
'Two less?'
'Epic fail.'
Nockenshoppes shakes his head sadly and, having abased himself in the required fashion, exits the Prince's tent.

Now, Nockenshoppes advances gingerly with his troops. This isn't going to be an easy fight.

(Above, top). The Rotenburg grenadiers move to occupy a position behind the crest-line of the hill to their front. The regulars deploy into a field, covering the nearby woods. Colonel von Schillingspferde now rides randomly back through his own lines - just in time since (in the distance, in white) Duke Paul's Nabstrian regular troops have arrived on the field. A little to the left, and in front, can be espied the two companies of Fewickian freibattalion. (Above, bottom) Meanwhile the Bachscuttel troops move forward quickly; Nockenshoppes, utterly uninterested in having a fair fight, hopes to get his troops onto the flanks of the Nabstrians and shoot at them from an ungentlemanly distance.

(Above) The Rotenburg grenadiers move forward from behind the hill in a close order firing line and are able to loose a volley into the Nabstrian regulars. The Nabstrians are scythed down like wheat, cut to pieces by some superlative Rotenburg musketry. 'Hoorah!' shout the grenadiers; 'Eek, eek, wibble, my old man's a mushroom', comments Colonel Schillingspferde. More Nabstrians fall to musket fire from the Bachscuttel troops positioned on the Nabstrian left. The Nabstrians fire a ragged volley against the Bachscuttel irregulars but the latter are hidden in woods and are a considerable distance away. A few stray musket balls pass in the general vicinity of Colonel Nockenshoppes. The Colonel turns to converse with Lady Claudia:
'Could you move a little and stand in front of me, my dear.'
'But isn't zat vere ze firing is coming from, my love?'
'No. No. It's a trick of the acoustics - experienced soldiers know that the firing is usually coming from the opposite direction from the one from which one hears the noise.'
'Oooh, you are so brave.'
'Yes, I am. Now, you couldn't make yourself a bit wider, could you?'

(Below, top) Meanwhile, the Rotenburg regular company maintains its position, facing into the woods on the Nabstrian-Fenwickian right wing. While the battle seems generally to be going badly for the enemies of the Wilhelmites, on the Nabstrian right, things are beginning to look a little brighter, a comment that could never be used to describe Colonel von Schillingspferde. Howling not wholly plausible claims that he is being chased by naughty pixies, the Colonel rides Chestwig out from behind the Rotenburg lines and (below, bottom) gallops into a position directly in front of the Fenwickians.

As it turns out, given the lamentable firing of the Freibattalion, naughty pixies might indeed have been the most pressing threat to the Colonel's life. Still, in the end, and through a quite robust and very extended test of the power of the law of averages, the Colonel falls from his horse, and the Rotenburgers are suddenly leaderless. Worse, the second Fenwickian company begins to infiltrate forwards into the woods and engage the Rotenburg regulars This really doesn't go well for the latter - with irregular sharpshooters in woods versus regulars in a close firing line, one barely has the time to say 'General Braddock' before the Rotenburgers have lost half their force.

(Above) As the Rotenburg casualties mount, they conduct a desperate bayonet charge against the Fenwickian light troops, driving them back. But they cannot catch them. (Below) To their right, the Rotenburg grenadiers also attempt a charge against the other company of Fenwickian light troops - and this one does bring them to hand to hand combat! With bayonets fixed and all the benefits of their elite status, what could possibly go wrong for the Rotenburgers? As it turns out, mainly everything. 

In the savage tussle that follows, the grenadiers prove in hand to hand combat to be about as dangerous to the Fenwickians as a contingent of pacifist glove puppets. Before one can say 'you're having a laugh', the remains of the entire grenadier company are wiped out, and their banner falls into the mud.

Despite the grim pummeling handed out by them to the Rotenburg troops, things for the Nabstrians and Fenwickians nevertheless take a turn for the worse. (Above, bottom) Lining the woods, the Bachscuttel light troops have been sniping constantly against the Nabstrians, whose casualties mount. With few of them left, Duke Paul orders the remaining regulars to retire. (Above, centre) With the Rotenburgers falling back, Colonel Baumeister orders the Fenwickian light troops to move across the battlefield and take up a position against Bachscuttel's forces. But Bachscuttel fire cuts down Baumeisters lead troops. Moreover, the handful of remaining Rotenburgers move up ready to renew the fight: seeing that Baumeister is now isolated and can be targeted separately, they open fire on him - as the remainder of the Fenwickian troops advance to the Colonel's position, they hear a discharge of muskets and Baumeister gurgles and spins slowly to the ground. As his men crowd around, Baumeister tries to rally them:
'Men, I am shot: but my wound is for a higher purpose; for my Emperor, for God, and ... hey, that's my pocket-watch, put it back ... and those .... are my boots ... no ... leave ...me...at least ... my...trousers... you...miserable ... thieving ..fu...' and with that, the Colonel expires.

The Duke of Clarkeshire surveys the field of combat. He cannot now achieve his mission - but he still has just over a third of his manpower left - with Colonel Shillingsferde shot, and Nora still alive, he could still spin this fight into a marginal success if he can avoid losing any more men. A consummate professional, he quickly gives the order for a measured retreat:  'Flee! Flee! Run for your lives! Scream like girls! Throw away your weapons! Sprint from this battlefield as quickly as possible!' (Below) With that, the remaining Fenwickian and Nabstrians begin an unmanly dash westwards. The remaining half company of Rotenburgers fix bayonets and charge forwards. Recovering the banner of the grenadiers they rush towards the enemy hoping for that one last shot that might break the enemy.

(Below) But it is not to be. As the Bachscuttel light troops, too, begin a hot pursuit, they cannot get near enough to inflict the last vital casualty. The remaining Nabstrians (below, right) survive the last two shots, before they scamper their way off the field of combat.

Later, as night falls, Prince Rupprecht is able to ride to Dammenblatz and survey the field of battle.
'How many of the enemy did you kill Colonel?'
Nockenshoppes makes an exaggerated display of counting on his fingers. 'Quite a lot, my lord. By weight, definitely two thirds: some of them were really fat.'
'Actually two thirds, Colonel?'
'Well, my lord, not in a strict numerical sense.'

'Then, Colonel, you have failed.'
'But they all ran off, my lord! And we hold the field of battle!'
'C'est la guerre', says the Prince. 'Ipso facto. Achtung minen', he says sagely.

Marking the precipitous Nabstrian/Fenwickian retreat is a long trail of paraphernalia thrown away in haste - muskets, tricornes, breeches, underpants ..... Rupprecht raises an eyebrow quizzically. Colonel Nockenshoppes nods slowly. 'Yes, my lord, they really do like to travel light when they withdraw.' Actually,' he muses,' some started stripping off before the retreat was sounded.'

Meanwhile, in his tent, Genenral von Rumpfler is in conversation with some of the Fenwickian light troops.
'We've captured the Rotenburg commanding officer, Sir, and brought him for interrogation. Lordy, he's heavy.'
Von Rumpfler nods. 'Yes, heavy, I can see that. And ... he seems to have more hooves than one would expect of a Colonel.'
The Fenwickians nod in agreement. 'Yes, my lord, that foxed us. As did the long tail and the saddle. But then a very helpful chap lying nearby told us that this was definitely the Rotenburg commander.'
'Hmmm', says the General. 'A nice fellow? Let me see: was he wearing the uniform of a Colonel in the Rotenburg army?'

'Well, yes my Lord. You know, I think that he was.'

'Was it in the colours of the Rotenburg army?'
'Well, my lord, now you come to mention it ...'
Behind him, a Nabstrian staff officer says in an accent used normally in the north of Britain: 'Ooooh, that's a bad miss.'

Even later, at the headquarters of Marshal Ignacio Grace a Dieu Cavandish, commander of the Army of Imperial Fenwick, the good Marshal is in conversation with Captain Fabius Nitzwitz, one of his staff officers.
'So', says the Marshal, 'the Nabstrians have sent us a prisoner?'
'The horse, my Lord?' says Nitzwitz.
'Yes', says the Marshal. He pauses, and then goes on. 'I know that I am probably going to regret asking this', he says, 'but did you get any useful information from the horse?'
'Yes, my lord.'
'Really?'
Nitzwitz shrugs: 'It's surprising what a sugar lump and a shoulder to cry on can yield. The horse was more perceptive than our own scouts. And much more well read.'
He lays out a map with a flourish and stabs his finger onto it. 'Both of the enemy armies are here, my lord.'
'Dammit', says Cavandish, 'They have effected a conjunture of their forces.'
'Ooooh,' says Nitzwitz, 'a conjuncture. Fancy that. That's bad for them. Really bad. Veeeeeeeeeeeeeeeery bad, yes it is. They'll be feeling quite deflated.'
'Conjuncture,' says the Marshal, 'not a puncture.'
Cavandish pauses a moment, deep in thought. Then, with sudden determination, he turns to Nitzwitz again. 'Captain, prepare the army. Contact General von Rumpfler. We march tomorrow at first light - we will bring the enemy to battle! The road to immortality awaits us! We must take it!'
'Excellent', says Nitzwitz, 'I'll make us up a hamper.'

An interlude, but not garden related!

The Burggravina having returned to the castle after feeling rather faint, the Burggrave strolls to one of his favourite spots in the garden – the pantheon he had constructed of great Nabstrian thinkers, poets and orators (he had to appropriate a fair number of famous personages from other parts of Germany, including two from Fenwick and at least one from Bachscuttel, to get the numbers up).  Here he meets with Monsieur Faltaire, the noted French thinker, who is now in the Burggrave’s pay and who engages the Buggrave in discourse concerning the latest philosophies.  He also provides the Burggrave with useful intelligence concerning the French court.

'Ah, my dear Burggrave, how pleasant to meet you here on such a temperate day!'

'Yes, indeed, Faltaire, and have you developed any more stimulating philosophical ideas lately?'

 'In short, my dear Burggrave, no.  I have turned my attention to some of the mysteries of natural philosophy.  I am, at present, particularly fascinated by the theories concerning the element known as phlogiston.  Since all substances which burn in air are known to be rich in phlogiston, and become de-phlogisticated when burned, much might be achieved if we could de-phlogisticate a substance before it burned…imagine, if one could de-phlogisticate gunpowder, then we might be able to produce a yet more powerful weapon for you to prevail against your most vexing and terrible enemies…'

'De-phlogisticated gunpowder?  Is that even possible?'

'I have no idea, my dear Burggrave, but I intend to conduct some experiments to find out…'

'Well, do carry on, Faltaire, do carry on…'

Conjunction!

Two staff officers stand in a small lane on the Nabstrian side of the River Strudel. One, wrapped in a cloak against the autumn chill, has come from the headquarters of General Hieronymous von Rumpfler, commander of the Nabstrian army. The other has arrived post haste from the bedside of Marshal Cavandish, generalissimo of the Empire of Grand Fenwick. They are in animated conversation. Let us linger a little, and eavesdrop upon their conversation ...

Closer, the two are easily recognised - on the left is Captain Hugo von Stumpe, aide-de-campe to General von Rumpfler. Von Stumpe has put aside his lemon-coloured uniform of hussars and is now in altogether more pragmatic attire. His companion is Captain Fabius Nitzwitz, of the staff of the army of Grand Fenwick. The former has produced a map, and the two are gesticulating at one another.

'Look, von Nitzwitz,', says von Stumpe, 'this is a practical requirement. General von Rumpfler is marching quickly towards your troops. We must choose a suitable spot for our two armies to join with one another - a place with sufficient water, supplies and fodder for our troops. All I said was that, looking at the map, it would seem to make good sense for us to march to the Fenwickian border village of ...'.

'No' says Nitzwitz determinedly.

'What?'

'We can't go there.'

'But', says Stumpe, 'it is placed perfectly. I've read my Vegetius. And they do say that professionals talk about logistics whilst amateurs talk about .. you know, um ... hop-scotch. Probably. We need to meet in the village of ...'
'No.' says Nitzwitz, 'We can't. No one in Fenwick lives there. No one goes there.'

Stumpe shakes his head. 'I don't see why: it's splendidly placed. You see, look. It's perfect: the river; the village; meadows; there is nowhere else that suits as well. Military necessity requires that we conjoin our forces in the village of ...'
'Please don't say it', says Nitzwitz.
'Bell End' says Stumpe.
'You said it'.
'What's wrong with that?'
'Look', says Nitzwitz, shaking his head sadly, 'no Fenwickian army can be ordered to march to the village of B .. that place.'
'But why not'?

'Who's this on the far left? Red and yellow uniforms - perfect camouflage,
as long as one is in a red and yellow forest.'

Nitzwitz hops form one foot to the other and begins to raise his voice. 'For the same reason that Grand Fenwick's drill manuals contain no order to 'take hold of your ramrod', or why no Fenwickian could ever 'hold a lovely pear', or be in the same room as an actress talking to a bishop. These things cannot be done in Fenwick. The fatal Fenwickian love of double-entendre makes reference to such things impossible; or at least, very dangerous.'
'Well, you seem fine,' says Stumpe.
'I was raised in Prussia,' replies Nitzwitz,'and so have no sense of humour.'
'But what's wrong with B ..., with the village associated with the terminal point of a church-tower related percussion instrument?', asks von Stumpe in an exasperated fashion. 'I'm sure it's a lovely place, in which the roads end, possibly near a bell-shaped hill.'

Nitzwitz looks truculent.
Stumpe sighs. 'As you will, Nitzwitz. But we require a conjunction of roads so that we can concentrate our armies. And then parallel roads so that our armies don't interfere with one another on the march.'
Nitzwitz blanches. 'And you can't say that either.'
'What?'
'Interfere with one another.'
'Bah! This is ridiculous,' says Stumpe, 'we won't interfere with one another if we both go to Bell End'
'Now you're just trying to wind me up,' says Nitzwitz.
There is an awkward silence.
Von Stumpe stares at the map. 'This complicates things enormously. We Nabstrians are already marching on short rations. The stores of dried leeches have been eaten by mice.'
'What are your troops eating now?', asks Nitzwitz.
'The mice. But they are running low'
'Oh' says Nitzwitz. 'Perhaps you could find a way to 'eek' them out.'
Von Stumpe gives Nitzwitz a hard look.
'Sorry, says Nitzwitz, 'I was just trying to lighten the mood with a rodent-related pun.'
A few moments pass. Suddenly von Stumpe points decisively at the map. 'Here!', he says, 'this might just suffice! This place. Across the River Strudel, and just inside Gelderland And it doesn't contain the words 'end' or 'bell' so there should be no problem.'
'Excellent', says Nitzwitz, looking relieved, 'I'm sure that sounds fine - where is it?'
'Bad Minge'.

A little way down the lane creeps an irregular scout from the army of Saukopf-Bachscuttel. He has followed with interest the conversation between the two staff officers and looks forward to a warm welcome back at Graf Barry-Eylund's headquarters. He is forced to duck down as the sound of running foot steps thunders past. 'Ow, ow!' shouts von Stumpe, cloak flapping behind him, pursued by a red-faced and evidently apoplectic von Nitzwitz, who seems to be assaulting the Nabstrian violently with his tricorne. The irregular winces as he watches - its a big tricorne, and most of it no longer seems visible. Then, almost pausing to reflect on the perilous and ephemeral nature of political alliances rooted in the frailties of the human condition,  but instead becoming mesmerised by the shiny buttons on his own uniform, he slinks away.