Northwest Crappage!

'Where is my damned hat?' cries Colonel Richter Fuhrporer to his subaltern. 'Go and find it!'

'Righto, sir', says the fellow.

'And also', adds the colonel, 'make sure that the civilians are safely locked in their rooms!'

'At once, sir' replies the subaltern, trotting off.

Civilians? What sorts of fellows volunteer to move to a new life in New Mittelheim? Those moving to America necessarily are probably those with adventure in their blood; or at least quite a lot of schnapps. There are three groups of civilian workers at this Gelderland trading post, each of which is currently hiding in one of the buildings. They are led by one Herr Rudolph Plugholl. These civilians are mainly indentured workers: workers whose costs of travelling to New Mittelheim are paid by their employers but who must then work for seven years for them in order to pay off their debt. The more suspicious might, of course, argue that this is simply a form of slavery; but this isn't true - slaves are beaten slightly less often. Nevertheless, such are the opportunities provided by the New World that peasants constantly are willing to take the risks and travel here. These opportunities include the opportunity to run off when no one is looking. 

(Below) In the meantime, the raiding force begins to advance. (Below, top left) Blofeldt's Indian allies begin to move across the hill to their front. Native Americans often form a significant contingent in the forces of New Mittelheim. Most Mittelheimers view their relationshsip with the local tribes as paternalistic in nature: they are the fathers to the innocent native children - violent, alcholic ones, to be accurate. For the Europeans, there is a strong sense that they have a duty to civilise the locals and to bring them into the presence of God. The latter seems to the local tribes to have quite a steep entrance fee, not least because the former seems to comprise of being forced to wear wigs and then dying of disease at some later date. To the right of the natives, the blue coated Vulagarian marines stalk menacingly towards the cover of a wood.

(Above, middle) Freud und Slepp's small party of Fenwickian hunters line one copse. To their right, the Indian war party hangs around uncomfortably behind a wood. Out of the woodcut, the provincial troops hang back, with Freud und Slepp safely ensconced behind them. This reticence soon develops form a temporary feature into a condition; then a theme; before becoming a full blown set of subtitles for the battle.

Suddenly, and randomly, a strange development occurs. The group of civilians occupying the first floor of the warehouse panics. In their terror, they start to leave the safety of the building and head for somewhere safer - Canada, possibly. Luckily for Gelderland, the general slowness of their running and the challenge of operating the door handle mean that the fleeing civilians don't get far. (Above) Herr Plugholl makes it to the top of the stairs before the civilians begin to rally and then head back inside.

It doesn't take a hot air balloon scientist to work out why Freud und Slepp's Indian troops are playing things safe. (Above) The Nabstrian troops, that is, the war party of Indians and two platoons of rangers, have deployed into the nearest wood to the trading post. It's all  a rather tight fit, but the troops gain adiditional benefit from the cover. They hunker down, waiting for their Fenwickian enemy to expose themselves: in normal circumstances, this would happen after a few pints of ale.  (Above, top left), Freud und Slepp's provincials, with the colonel himself, can just be seen, having taken up a position so far from any actual likely fighting that it would not be possible to be further from the battle, short of taking a long sea voyage to another continent.

(Below) Freud und Slepp tentatively orders his Indian allies forwards into the copse, placing them opposite the rangers. This is a bold move. A move is "bold", of course, if it turns out to work. If it leads to disaster, then it becomes transformed instantly into an insane act of "military nincompoopery".

(Below) As this woodcut indicates, the early stages of this encounter are marked by an unusual sophistication in approach by both sides. Circumspection, concern for exploiting the advantages of the terrain, and a careful consideration of possible second and third-order effects mark the manoeuvres of all the protagonists. This could be down to an outbreak of tactical subtlety. Or it could just be an unmanly reluctance to get to grips with one another. Given that the word "Tactical" doesn't appear in the Mittelheim military lexicon (which generally skips straight from "Tacky" to "Tactless"), and that the word "Subtle" doesn't appear at all (the nearest applicable word is "Cheat"), unmanliness seems to be the most likely expanation.

'Thank goodness!' says Colonel Fuhrporer, taking his hat from the subaltern, who has just returned.
'But sir, the Nabstrian rangers stole it ...'
'An officer isn't properly dressed for battle without his hat!' says the colonel, plopping it onto his head.
'But sir ...'
'Hats maketh the man ...' continues Fuhrporer, turning to inspect the light platoon in front of him.
'But sir ...'
The colonel stops suddenly. He then wrinkles his nose, and, finally, sighs sadly.
'They crapped in my tricorne, didn't they', he says wearily.
The subaltern nods apologetically. 'It's in their nature'.

Northwest Savage!

As the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction deploy, an activity that looks suspiciously similar to what others might call "eating breakfast", their adversaries begin to arrive in the vicinity of the trading post. First to make themselves known is a force of Fenwickian troops under the command of one Colonel Jorg Walter von Freud und Slepp. The colonel isn't well known as a fighting officer, not least because the only thing that he has fought in his short time in America has been a nasty cough. Freud und Slepp actually is better known for his habit under pressure of uttering strangely relevant malapropisms.

(Below) The colonel's force is as mixed a bag of soldiery as one is ever likely to see outside of a manufacturer of assorted bags for soldiers. To the rear, the largest contingent of troops in this company is a platoon of provincial infantry drawn from the garrison of New Fort Pippin. These troops can at least form line, even if not always a straight one or one that faces the right direction. They do at least also have weapons and uniforms. In front of these, and not uniformed but mercifully at least  clothed, is a small force of volunteer frontiersmen.

These frontiersmen make their living from trapping: local animals, usually, but sometimes their own legs. Technically, they would elsewhere be called 'beaver hunters', except that such a name is impossible to say in any of the lands of Grand Fenwick. For a time, therefore, these men were known as 'thingy hunters', until it was pointed out that, in it's own way, this might be just as bad. So, 'trappers' is how these men must be referred to under Grand Fenwick's New Mittelheim codes for public morality. In the very front of Freud und Slepp's contingent of troops is a party of native American allies drawn from the Wappesdoo tribe.

Arriving to the left of Freud und Slepp's force is an allied contingent in the pay of Vulgaria. This allied force is under the command of Sea Captain Viktor von Blofeldt. Mad, sad, and bad, the captain has only not been labelled as a psychopath because the word hasn't yet been invented; and because, even if it had, it doesn't rhyme with 'mad'. Blofeldt, it's fair to say, would not be at the top of anyone's list of those likely to be invited for a quick pint down at the tavern. On the other hand, if he were invited, one would always be likely to get a seat however busy the local hostelry, given the savage captain's propensity for wielding broken bottles, threatening drinkers in the immediate vicinity, and, by way of attendant small talk, threatening them that, even if they killed him, he would return from the dead to chew off their faces and "shove their cat right up their dog".

The captain has with him a platoon of blue-clad Vulgarian marines from his ship (above right). Use of the term "marine" might normally conjure images of troops that were disciplined, elite even. But one must be aware that these are Vulgarian marines and as like to normal marines as a honey badger is to a pyjama case. Indeed, these troops probably have more in common with sea lice than with sea soldiers, and are about as welcome an addition to any sane military expedition. The rest of the Vulgarian force is comprised of three groups of Wapesdoo Indian allies. In signing up to support the Vulgarians, it's not that the natives are exactly gullible; it's just that they are over-optimistic, trusting that, since Europeans have lied so often about  'unbreakable guarantees" and "the protection of the law", by the law of averages, it must surely be likely that this time they are telling the truth.

(Above) The forces of the Vulgarian Convention begin to advance. Overall, their objective is to find every civilian that might be hiding in the trading post and to give them a painful and permanent early retirement. That should put an end to Gelderland aspirations in this part of New Mittelheim. At a more personal level, Colonel Freud und Slepp's main objective in this regrettably dangerous mission is simply to survive. Captain Blofeldt, being nuttier than a family of workaholic squirrels, is looking forward to the prospect of personally slaying, as messily as possible, at least six of the enemy. It's always good in life to have goals.

Northwest Massage!

As Fenwickian musketeers gather below the walls of Fort Pippin, preparing to sally forth against the besieging troops of the Spasmodic Sanction, other events, no less important (and no better handled) are taking place many, many leagues away.

We turn our attention, dear reader, to a small Gelderland trading post in New Mittelheim. This post is positioned not far from the coast and, as it turns out, not nearly far enough from Grand Fenwick's American colony of New Fort Pippin. The purpose of this trading post is to act as a collection point for the trade in local loin cloths. These, as any astute merchant knows, are  a vital part of the Mittelheim transatlantic triangle trade: the loin cloths are shipped to England for use as napkins, where they are exchanged for false moustaches; the false moustaches are traded to Mittelheim, where they are used as part of the disguises to lure unwary peasants onto ships bound for the Leech Coast; these peasants are then shipped from Mittelheim to the Leech Coast where they are sold into slavery in exchange for gems, leaves, and, especially, hippo knees which are in turn brought to New Mittelheim. In New Mittelheim, the gems are locked away in treasure chests; the soft, luxuriant leaves are hung in local water closets; and the hippo knees are traded to local tribes for use as small uncomfortable seats, large uncomfortable hats, or tiny impractical dwellings.

(Above) The post itself comprises of two small colonial cottages and a warehouse (with the red roof). It is a hive of activity. The commander of this outpost is Colonel Richter Fuhrporer, a recent arrival to the New World. New Mittelheim, understandably, is perceived by many Mittelheimers as a land of opportunity. Mainly, these are opportunities for personal enrichment, achieved by swindling the indigenous inhabitants through the sale of overpriced hippo's knees or the application of newly invented legal instruments based on such long-standing Mittelheim principles as 'What is Thine is Mine'. For Richter Fuhrporer, New Mittelheim also provides a range of other opportunities not normally available to non-nobles such as an officer's commission and access to cutlery.

The frantic activity, shouting, and running hither-and-thither are due to the recent arrival of some very unpleasant news. A messenger has informed Colonel Fuhrporer that a raiding party of troops from the Vulgarian Convention is en route! Fuhrporer has three platoons of Gelderland regulars with him. However, two of these platoons, consisting of ordinary musketeers, have been sent off to the coast guarding the latest shipment of loin cloths. It will take time to recall these forces  (Above) In the mean time, this leaves the colonel with an immediate command of a single platoon of light infantry. The colonel stands with his troops. If he looks somewhat rumpled, it is because he has only just finished being ministered to by a local wench well skilled in muscular manipulation. At least, that seemed to be what was going on; though it seemed to involve less scented oil than he had expected, and more punches to the face. Still, when in Rome ...

'But', says Fuhrporer to the subaltern commanding the light infantry, 'isn't there a local truce in operation? I'm sure that that is the case. We shouldn't open fire on the enemy first'.
The lieutenant frowns. 'Sir, I think that we should assume the worst'.
The colonel blanches. 'What, that my wife in Mittelheim is cheating on me with my own brother and that there is, in fact, no such thing as Santa Clause?'
'No sir, I mean we must assume the worst about the enemy. I shall push my force forwards into the trees to cover the approaches to the warehouse from that direction'.

Luckily for Fuhrporer, there is an allied force also bivouacked at the outpost. This is a Nabstrian force under the command of Major Arnold Von Schwim und der Vasser. Fresh from some gentle constabulary operations against the local Wappesdoo tribe, these troops had stopped off for the night to rest, sharpen their blunted knives and axes, wash off the blood, and sell the spoils of their exercise in community policing: trinkets, furs, orphans, civilian body parts, and such like.

(Above) The major's command includes two platoons of Glosgau's Rangers - tough, grizzled outdoorsmen well used to spending extended periods in the wilderness, not least because they smell so bad their wives rarely let them indoors. The platoons are accompanied by a group of Hardahuron Indian allies. The Hardahurons are here partly because they hate the local Wappesdoo tribe, and partly because they have been promised by the Nabstrians a refund on their hippo knees.

Though they have yet to be measured against their adversaries, there is, even at this early stage, a faint whiff of incompetence about the Spasmodic Sanction force; a strong sense that, if things do go to plan, it is only because the plan wasn't the one that was intended, but was instead some other plan that had been dismissed at the beginning as impossible and/or laughable, but which got remembered at some opportune moment because it fell out of the commander's pocket. Defeat would probably be inevitable if the enemy officers were brave or sane. Which is a bit of luck.

Actually, I've Seen More Impressive Specimens!

With loud cheers, the remaining two squadrons of Hott's Horse canter from the woods, intent on wreaking havoc in the artillery park itself. Sadly, the escapades of the first squadron have created more than enough noise to alert the Gelderland pioneers and the Nabstran artillerymen. The foot soldiers quickly arm themselves with muskets and deploy.

Even as the Fenwickian cavalry advance, they seem to have about them a faint whiff of rubbishness: that gentle odour of deeply ingrained crapness one normally associates with such things as English cooks or Prussian comedians.
'Are you sure that those fellows are attacking us?' asks one Nabstrian to another. 'They just look a bit too ... well, genial and hopeless.'
'They've got their sabres out', replies his comrade. 'And they're riding towards us, shouting "Death to Nabstria" and such things as that. That's usually a sign of an attack'.
His comrade nods and primes his musket. 'They just don't really seem to be up for it, though', he says pointing at the slack horsemanship and general lack of vim and vigour on the part of the attacking cavalry. 'They might be just delivering flowers'.
'You got me flowers?' asks his friend.
'Well, no', replies his friend. 'I mean, I didn't want to rush things ...'

(Above) To the left of the woodcut, and just out of sight, the Nabstrian artillery crew fire off a ragged volley. One hussar falls from his saddle and a measure of disorder is inflicted upon the rest of the squadron. This isn't how it was supposed to be: this raid was supposed to be a devastating blow against the besieging forces - a dashing action that would scatter, burn, cut, scribble on, or roll over gently, all of the enemy personnel and equipment in this encampment.

(Above) Forming a ragged line, the pioneers fire into the flanks of the third Fenwickian squadron, emptying many saddles. It is clear that this cavalry raid is an especially incompetent one, with all the energy and action of a Spanish siesta. Decisive action is needed to restore the situation! To this end, both the Fenwickian squadrons launche a charge straight down the track to their front with the firm intention of giving the Nabstrian gunners an instructive drubbing with their sabres. At least, it has the outward signs of a cavalry charge - horsemen, the waving of sabres, a modicum of robust shouting. But the results are, to say the least, disappointing; a fact that just goes to prove the old adage "Never send a Mittelheim cavalryman to do a cavalryman's job". Or any job, really except perhaps those that require a lot of sitting around and being rather ineffective - being British prime minister, for example.

(Above, bottom) Thus, although more than half of the artillerymen are cut down, and the remainder are left heavily disordered, the artillerymen are not routed. Moreover, their numbers are replenished by the handy arrival of the jager, who mill menacingly around the crossroads. (Above, top) In addition, the Fenwickian cavalry have been reduced in the fight to a number that could be counted on the fingers of one hand: a hand, moreover, that had suffered a freak accident with some nasty agricultural implement such as a scythe or a brush and that had been left severely digitally challenged.

Hott surveys the wreckage of his forces and orders a retreat. His few remaining troops flee the battle leaving a trail of corpses and broken smells. The Spasmodic Sanction artillery park is safe, and the siege can continue apace! The surviving Gelderland and Nabstrian soldiers raise a loud cheer: 'Hurrah!' they shout excitedly 'It's coming home! It's coming home! It's coming! Eighteenth century linear warfare's coming home!' 

In Fort Pippin, things are rather more gloomy. Reading the message of defeat brought by a nervous looking carrier-seagull, Governor Schroedinger-Skatt curses loudly. 'Damn and blast!' he expectorates. 'Goblin's kneecaps! Nun's wobblers!' he continues. ' Hedgehogs' jiggley bits!' After a short while, he manages to compose himself. 'There's nothing for it' says the governor. 'We have to slow down the enemy seige activities. We must prepare a sally!'

So, Just a Siege Mortar, Then!

In the nearby trees, Colonel Jaspar von Hott looks at his second in command, Lt Colonel Krunk. Krunk is creating a rustling and crackling sound as he munches his way through some kind of snack that he draws from a small linen bag.
'Krunk!' says Hott, his moustache bristling. 'Stop that! This is supposed to be an ambush!' The colonel gestures through the foliage to the nearby track upon which can just be seen the flanks of a marching column of Nabstrian troops. To either side of the two officers three squadrons of cavalry are arrayed, a force that, collectively, comprise the Fenwickian volunteer cavalry regiment that is named Hott's Horse.
'Stop eating that snack!' continues Hott. 'You will give our position away before I can choose the perfect moment to attack!'
'Sorry, sir', says Krunk, trying unsuccessfully to chew more quietly. 'But these are so nice!'
Hott peers at the bag. 'What are you eating, anyway?'
Krunk waves the bag in the colonel's direction. 'Well, sir - they haven't really got a name. It is a recipe of my own devising: slices of very thin potato that I have deep fried in oil and then covered in salt and vinegar'.
Hott nods, impressed despite himself. 'They look very crisp. You could call them "crisps", perhaps'.
Krunk looks unconvinced. 'But they also smell so savoury and so tempting, sir: I think a better name might be "smells"'.
Hott considers this. 'A bag of smells? Fair enough, but I think you're missing a trick'.

Hott narrows his eyes and then raises his sabre. He could wait for the enemy column to head off down the road and then sweep into the enemy artillery park behind them. But the target in front is too tempting! 'First squadron, charge!' he roars, 'Charge!'

(Above) In a flurry of twigs, leaves, and spilled smells, the lead squadron of Hott's Horse thunders from the cover of the trees and piles into the flank of the hapless Nabstrian musketeers. Only real men, men of iron or some similarly robust metallurgical substance, could withstand the impetuous onslaught of the imperial cavalry; but the question of whether the musketeers have iron in them becomes rapidly irrelevent as they fail comprehensively to meet the first category of being proper men.

(Below) The cavalry attack drives the infantry back in disorder, though the cavalry do not acquit themselves as well, perhaps, as Hott would have liked. The Nabstrians are disordered, but they do not break. 'You loathsome, lazy hounds!' Hott shouts encouragingly to his men. 'You floppy-sausaged chicken chasers!' he adds supportively. 'Pull on your man pelisses and see this lot off!'

Though the cavalry do some savage work with their sabres, they have lost the momentum of their charge and they face thrice their number of enemy infantry. (Below) The infantry are again driven back with many losses. But Hott's squadron succeeds in losing a third of its men in the melee.

(Above) The commander of the Nabstrian infantry, clearly a saucy fellow, stands well to the front of his troops, brandishing a pistol menacingly. It would be even more menacing if it were loaded. The front company of infantry, sadly for Hott, have not made the same mistake. They level their muskets and fire! Saddles are emptied. Hott recognises that he must keep up the momentum of his attack and charges yet again!

The results are mutual destruction! The Nabstrian musketeers suffer terribly. One company routs; the remainder are left in no condition to fight. For Hott's first squadron, however, circumstances are no better. More horseman are lost in the final melee and the squadron is effectively destroyed. (Above) Local sheep look on warily as the musket-armed monkey boys of the Nabstrian army race past. Not for the first time the sheep thank their lucky stars that they dodged the bullet of developing opposable thumbs. If this is an example of civilisation and development then the sheep can only thank the Good Lord that their ancient antecedents turned down the invitations of their simian neighbours to join them in the trees.

In the meantime, the second and third squadrons of Hott's Horse have been otherwise occupied ...

Is that a Siege Mortar, Or Are You Just Pleased to See Me?

As the Fenwickian army reorganises after its great victory at Wuppenhas and recommences its march to Fort Pippin, our thoughts, dear reader, return once again to the prosecution of the seige of this key Fenwickian fortress. That Fort Pippin holds out is critical to Grand Fenwick if it is to maintain a buffer against the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction: for Fenwick is so small that its idea of strategic depth normally is to just open the windows a bit wider. Without this fortress, all is lost!

However, in the fortress, conditions have begun to deterioriate. Captain-Governor Schroedinger-Skatt strides purposefully into the chambers of one of his chief engineers, Major Gordon Sanitaire. The governor pauses, horrified by the pathetic sight. The engineer lies weakly upon his bed, his face pale and his frame emaciated. He is surrounded by piles of bread, sausages and onions.
'Mustard!' croaks the major. 'Mustard!'
'Damn and blast!' cries the governor to one of his servants. 'Get this man some condiments - can't you see that he is starving!'
Though supplies of mustard have been exhausted, the governor's servants are able to find some balsemic vinegar and small linen serviettes. With these, Major Sanitaire is able to take some food.
'How much ... how much longer can we hold out, sir?' asks Sanitaire faintly, between bites.
Schroedinger-Skatt frowns seriously. 'We must be relieved soon', he says. 'It would seem that sausage condiments are likely to be exhausted within the week: though this, I think, may be wurst-case thinking. Just as worrying is the rising clamour that the ordinary soldiers should be issued rations equivalent to those of the officers. The bakery guild, in particular, seems to have been infiltrated by such sedition. Some of the men, it would seem, have friends in pie places. But do not fear, major. For one of our messenger seagulls has brought news of a great victory by Marshal Cavandish: help is surely on the way!'

Indeed, dear reader, help may be even closer to hand. To this end, we turn our attention to the beseiging army of the Spasmodic Sanction. Or, to be more precise, to the artillery park that lies some way behind the trenches.

(Above) The artillery park contains a selection of Nabstrian siege artillery. Pride of place is given over to four enormous mortars. Their size, width of mouth, and enormous appetite for gunpowder have led the gunners to name each of these pieces, respectively, as "King Wilhelm", "Still King Wilhelm", "Ah ... King Wilhelm Again" and "Someone Else Who is Really, Really Fat and Greedy - Like King Wilhelm". This artillery is in the hands of a platoon of Nabstrian gunners. The effectiveness of the Nabstrian artillery in this siege has turned out to be inversely proportional to the quantities available of Faltaire's homeopathic gunpowder: peak performance being acheived once the latter had run out and had been replaced by ordinary propellant. Luckily for the Nabstrian gunners, Faltaire has been too busy on other projects to restock his special gunpowder/sand mix. With Burgrave Falco keen to develop the naval capabilities of his state, Faltaire has been focused on a  new and special project the aim of which is to cross a cow with a shark: whatever it produces, no one is likely to be in a hurry to milk it.

(Below) Also in the artillery park are the engineering stores for the Gelderland seige forces. This equipment is being maintained by a platoon of Gelderland pioneers. If these pioneers, and the nearby Nabstrian artillerymen, were to be badly cut up (say, for example, by several squadrons of enemy cavalry rampaging through the camp) then this would be a sore blow to the beseiging forces.

In the distance can be heard the occasional sound of artillery fire. The artillery park is some way from the main siege, a distance dictated by the desire to avoid Fenwickian cannon fire and also to reduce the consequences of a potential powder explosion. As an added benefit, it makes it more difficult for Gelderland musketeers to feed their proclivity for sniffing gun powder. This habit had to be stamped on early on in the seige (though stamped on very carefully, to avoid igniting the powder). The potential dangers of sniffing gunpowder and then lighting their pipes should have been obvious to the wretched Gelderland soldiers. But the musketeers still seemed oblivious even after several had been found off their heads - by which we mean, of course, that they were found with their heads well off (and separated from their bodies by a distance most unconducive to the effective performance of their duties).

(Below) The artillery park, with the the engineers to the left and the guns to the right. To the top left of this woodcut can be seen on the road in column the garrison troops - a unit of Nabstrian musketeers.

(Above, at the bottom) Guarding the bridge that leads to the artillery park is a platoon of Nabstrian jager. As the morning mist lifts they stumble, grumbling, from their billet and prepare to mount guard. The troops begin to assemble ready for inspection. The outcome of this inspection is a forgone conclusion. The troops look, as all Mittelheim troops tend to do, like a collection of lower primates that have just rummaged through a children's dressing-up box.*

(Above) On the road, the main garrison of the artillery park, a battalion of Nabstrian troops, begins to to make its way from the position, its destination the main camp. At this moment, another battalion is marching from the main camp to take their place here at the artillery park. This is, no doubt, a key moment of weakness in the defences; or at least, an even greater moment of weakness that the other pretty weak moments that characterise the defence of this vital encampment. For, if the Fenwickians had managed to organise, say, a few squadrons of volunteer cavalry behind the Spasmodic Sanction lines, then this would be the perfect moment to attack. Actually, this moment probably would not be the perfect moment to attack: probably, it would be better to wait a few more moments for this infantry unit to move much further away from the encampment. Yes, on reflection, this moment might not be the best time to launch a ... ooh hang on - what's this? In the trees to the right of them, there emanates a strange rustling and crackling sound ...



* Just to be clear: by 'primates' here, we mean monkeys and such and not bishops. The latter, of course, are much  better dressed than the former but are more likely to start a fight with one another.

Wuppenhas, the Final!

The battle hangs in the balance. It's not, in all honesty, a very good balance: imagine a particularly porky pig trying to cross over the body of General Barry-Eylund by means of quite a small tight rope whilst Marshal Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish helpfully pelts the porcine acrobat with pies. Still, ever the optimist, or perhaps fatalist, the general searches around for some available manpower to throw into the Wuppenhas bratwurst machine. With a due sense of incipient disappointment, the general orders his nearest regiment, the Schokolade-Feyer Garde to launch a bayonet attack upon the enemy to their front (below).

The Bachscuttel guard unit bring to the fight all of the qualities for which they are justly famous: weak chins; large mess bills; and a frightening dislike of their social inferiors. Utilising the latter, the regiment goes to town on the ordinary working men that comprise their Fenwickian opposition; they shoot, they stab, they roar - if they could, simultaneously, extract from their working class adversaries some kind of regressive tax contribution, they no doubt would. Shocked by this unusual display of autocratic application, the imperial troops break and run!

'Bah!' cries Captain Fabius Nitwitz from a hilltop vantage point. 'We're running out men.'
The imperial Chief of Staff, Giovanni di Tripodi, nods, contemplates briefly, and then produces with his quill another beautifully written missive that is whisked off to one of his regiments'.
'It's time, I think', says Tripodi, 'to commit our mercenaries to a risky enterprise. That enemy guard regiment has its flank to the marsh. We shall order forward our mercenaries!'
'Through the marsh?' asks Nitwitz, surprised.
'Even so', replies Tripodi, the natural born quiller. 'If one must take risks with one's troops, then who better to take them with than Wurstburp mercenaries?'

(Below, top right). The imperial mercenaries, red flags waving gayly, trudge through the marsh and head eagerly for the flanks of the Schokolade-Feyer Guard!

The Wurstburp troops trudge manfully through the marsh. Though their ranks are disordered by the difficult terrain and the resistance of some of the local toads who don't like the way that the Wursburpers lower the tone of their homes, the mercenaries manage to push their way towards the flanks of the enemy regiment. Leaving his remaining guard regiment to its fate, Barry-Eylund uses the time, first, to retreat his cavalry out of the range of the imperial infantry (above, top left). The Fenwickians jeer, noting that Bachscuttelers are doing what they do best: scuttling backwards. Second, Barry-Eylund orders up one of the regiments from his left flank.

Soon, the Wurstburp mercenaries are in position. Their commanding officer prepares them to charge.
'Men!' he shouts. 'It is time to regain our honour! Charge! Charge! Forward and attack all those that deserve it!'
There is a moment of silence. The Wurstburp mercenaries look at the colonel blankly.
'Them! Them over there!' cries the colonel pointing at the flank of the Schokolade-Feyer Garde. 'They deserve it!' With loud howls the Wurstburpers run forwards (Below).

Weighing in favour of the Wurstburp merecenaries, they have their enemy in the flank; and also, of course, their opponents are Bachscuttel elite troops, the very embodiment of military disappointment. Weighing against them, however, they are outnumbered, they are disordered, they are standing in a marsh, and they are Wurstburpers. After a short fight, the 'nays' have it - with a cry of "Hurrah! Last one to collect their pay is a sissy!" the mercenaries break and run.

As the light begins to fade, the last acts of the battle of Wuppenhas begin to be played out. Sir Thomas Burgess eyes the enemy line and notices that sad state of the lead Bachscuttel cavalry regiment, the Hussaren von Kriegwurst, which is as disordered as a badly cut piece of African topiary. Seeing an opportunity to end the battle, Burgess orders his cavalry to attack (below)!

The splendid elite Fenwickian horseman plough into the shabby ranks of regular Bachscuttlers. The latter have less fight in them than a depressed pacifist who has mistakenly glued his hands to his kneecaps. Barry-Eylund's cavalry regiment is simply swept away. Burgess' troops then rein in:  a single enemy cavalry regiment remains in their way, the Chevauxleger von Blitzenstollen (above left)!

Barry-Eylund views the situation calmly. 'Bohner, it's time to make smoke and then ride off in the confusion. Or run off, in your case'.
Bohner looks aghast. 'But sir, we can still save the situation!'

The general frowns, contemplating the wide panorama of corpses in front of him. 'What with?' he says.
Bohner gesticulates. 'A last desperate charge, my lord: a heroic last enterprise to wrest victory from defeat!'
'But what with?' replies Barry-Eylund, gesturing to the mounds of dead Bachscuttelers.
'Those fellows!' Bohner points to the remaining Bachscuttel cavalry regiment, the chevaux-leger.
Bary-Eylund groans. 'So you want to leave our fate in the hands of a charge of the shite brigade?'
'But surely we must try, sir!'
'Must we?'
'But sir, isn't death better than the disgrace of retreat?'
'Is it, though?' says the general. 'Is it?' Barry-Eylund sighs loudly. 'Very well, Bohner. Let us see what happens!' With that, he orders forward the Blitzenstollen Chevauxleger: with a glitter of drawn swords, they begin a vigorous charge! (Below). This is the decisive moment of the battle, for both armies have no more morale to lose: the next unit that routs from the field will seal the battle's outcome!

For a moment, the two regiments are a swirling mass of cutting, stabbing cavalrymen. Then, to Barry-Eylund's disgust, the chevaux-leger are forced back by their Fenwickian adversaries! The regiment retreats and then reforms a little distance from the enemy. But the chevaux-leger still have some fight left in them. "Cometh the hour, cometh the man" they say: and with the hour growing dark, a hero stands forth - none other than Colonel von Blitzenstollen himself!
'Men', he cries, 'fear not, for this has been only a temporary setback! Let us gird ourselves and throw ourselves once again into the fray! The enemy too is almost broken. One last push! Yes, it is true that we might all perish in the attempt! It is true that we might be hideously mutilated; scorched and maimed, perhaps, beyond the recognition of our own mothers! But that is a small price to pay for glory! One last push, what do you say, my fine ...'
There is the sound of a single pistol shot.
Blitzenstollen looks down at his tunic to see a spreading stain of red. 'But I was only mid-monologue ..' he croaks. 'I've got so much more to give ...'. With that he slides from his horse.
All eyes turn to a small chevaux-leger trooper who holds gingerly a smoking pistol.The trooper shrugs apologetically. 'It, ah ... It, ah, just went off in my hand.'
The other soldiers look at one another and then say 'Fair enough'. With the death of this hero, the Bachscuttel army finally breaks!

(Above) The battle is over, and there is little enough left of either side.
Bohner covers his face, tears in his eyes, before snuffling 'We are lost, my lord. We now face a difficult choice - to stay and fight nobly to the last man or to sully ourselves with a retreat: a terrible choice that requires great ...'
'Retreat!', says the general. 'Let us quit this field right this minute!'
The order is given. What follows is not so much a retreat, as that sort of movement that might take place at a children's birthday party when one of the party goers draws from the lucky dip an unexpected boa constrictor. Though with less cake. Probably.
Barry-Eylund watches resignedly as his force quits the field. He sighs. 'I had anticipated the sweet smell of victory, Bohner; but now I am assailed by the stale sweaty sock smell of defeat'.
Bohner dries his eyes with his kerchief. 'Indeed, sir. Also, my lord, we must in addition consider the terrible defeat that we have caused to our allies, what with our defeat losing the war for the Spasmodic Sanction. They will be terribly disappointed'.
The general considers this point and then says: 'That fact, Bohner, I think in relation to this particular dark cloud, I would place under the heading of "silver linings"'.