Plague!

And so, unbidden, plague came to the lands of Mittelheim. No one knows from whence it came; nor, indeed, where 'Whence' might be; or, in truth, whether 'whence' is the right word and whether 'from' might be better and a bit less pretentious; and also, in parallel, whether the word 'unbidden' isn’t also a bit lah-di-dah. Whatever, plague has arrived: the hard hand of Pestilence, stalking the land like a taller-than-average stork with a dodgy hip, laying low both lord and peasant, though the former at least probably has a better quality of pillow to be low in.

As the numbers of afflicted begin to mount*, the citizens of the wide lands of Mittelheim turn to the most important and pressing issue: finding someone to blame. Foreigners are an obvious choice: as any self-respecting Mittelheimer knows, silly accents have been for centuries a sure cause of epidemics. Sellers of soap have also quickly found themselves in metaphorical hot water. Many blame excessive bathing as a self-evident source of the virulent malaise. For others, mainly in Fenwick, the origin is widely believed to be bad humours caused by contact with rudely shaped fruit and vegetables.

One of the few in Mittelheim that might view the plague in a more positive light is Death himself. For him, the sudden bout of mass illness has come as a bit of a relief. With the slow pace of military operations in the region, there has been much less to do of late. This new and sudden increase in earthly expiration has had for Death at least two benefits. First, since many of those that have expired have been in their beds, there has been much less bending down to do, which has helped Death with his lumbago.

Mittelheim Plague Doctors with a Local Quack

Second, it has stopped Death's apprentice, Cheese, from continuing to suffer terminal boredom. Boredom generally is rarely a good thing: but it becomes a partcular problem if the individual it afflicts literally has the power of life and death. Statisticians studying the manner of recent fatalities in Mittelheim might well raise an eyebrow at some of the new categories of mortality that have emerged in these recent times; times which Death suspects probably correlate heavily with those periods when he was on a break and Cheese was in charge of the reaping of souls. Thus, in addition to the more expected categories of final departure (such as the pox, flux, dropsy, biliousness, canker, and effluvia), there has been an increase in incidences of death through such causes as: the inhalation of potatoes; being crushed by a commode; being Welsh; having a terminally curly moustache; and being morbidly afraid of underwear. Indeed, there have been more than the usual number of souls that have found that their journey towards the white light has been accompanied by the sounds of someone sniggering.

This new turn of events has had some profound implications for the conduct of military operations during the current war in Mittelheim. In Fort Pippin, the governor ruminates on its implications ...







* Except in Fenwick, where, for obvious double entendre related reasons, the list of casualties can only 'grow' rather than 'mount'.

Roll Out the Barrow! Or Not!

Across the battlefield, Nabstrian musketeers survey the damage to their trenches (below).
'Is that a crossword puzzle?' asks one, pointing.
His comrade reaches down. 'Yes, it is: but it's covered in something sticky. Syrup, probably'. He considers the mess. 'Hopefully'.
'How on earth would they think that such a thing would stop the progress of our siege?' asks the other fellow.
'No idea, the fools', replies the other. 'Now, eight down: "Large proboscis on an elephant. Five letters. Begins with "T"'.
'What?'
'Eight down. Elephant. Large proboscis. Begins with "T". And someone has also helpfully filled in an "L" and a "Z". That's nice of them'.
'Oooh, yes', says the other eagerly. 'We'll have this finished in no time'.

(Below) At his headquarters, General Rheinfunkt takes the report on the enemy raid. 'So', he says to his assembled staff. 'So - in summary, almost no losses. A couple of musketeers dead that I probably didn't like anyway. Minor damage to the approach trench; and also a wheelbarrow stolen. And that for an entire enemy company wiped out!' He begins to chuckle merrily. 'Ha ha ha ha! How could they think that a bit of damage and a stolen wheelbarrow would in any way impede the progression of my siege. Ha ha ha ha! As if we would have only one wheel barrow in our army! Ha ha ha ha! Only one wheelbarrow! Ha ha ha ha! Ha, ha ... ha ... ha ...'

His laughter comes to a stop as he looks at the faces of his subordinates. Just then, behind them, the general notices a pioneer who seems to be walking from the direction of the trenches. He is carrying carefully two handfuls of earth.
Colour begins to rise in Rheinfunkt's cheeks. The veins on his temples begin to inflate like boa constrictors that have foolishly decided to snack on some compressed gas. 'No. No. You have to be joking ... You can't tell me ... just ... one ... just one ...barrow'. His eyes protrude dangerously and his fingers clasp and unclasp as if they are kneading some particularly sticky dough; or as if, perhaps, they were wrapped around the necks of some of his headquarters staff.
'So tell me, gentlemen - what now?' the general asks in a dangerously hoarse whisper.
Suddenly, there is a gurgling sigh: one of the staff officers falls to the ground with a thump.
'Why yes!' says Rheinfunkt with sarcasm. 'We could all have a little nap! A lovely little snooze! What a marvellous, marvellous ...'
'No, sir!' says another officer, attending his supine comrade. 'I think, sir, that he might be ill!'
'Actually, I feel a bit peaky', says another, before tumbling to the floor.
'Permission to collapse suddenly and perhaps be bit sick, sir' says yet another, saluting, as he then keels over.
'What the ... ?' says the general, suddenly alarmed ...

Wheel Meet Again!

(Below) From their position on the battlements, Governor Schroedinger-Skatt and Colonel Entendre can hear in the gloom to their front the sounds of mortal combat. Or, combat that, if it isn't actually mortal, probably still stings quite a lot. The colonel peers into the darkness, keen to discern from the sound and the occasional sight of the orangey-red discharge of muskets, some clue as to the developing outcome of the sally.

'What do you think is going on, my lord' he asks the governor.

Schroedinger-Skatt blows his cheeks and shrugs. 'Well, Entendre; terrible defeat; embarrassing episodes of military incompetence; poorly conceived plans, executed in an even more mediocre fashion; all punctuated by an unmanly soiling of undergarments'.

'So you can see the action, sir?' replies the colonel, craning his neck enthusiastically to try and observe the enemy positions.

'Oh no, colonel', replies Schroedinger. 'I'm just using experience to fill in all the blanks'.

The fighting begins to die down, signalling that some kind of resolution might have been reached to the events of the sally. As the sound of combat dwindles, however, another sound begins and then commences to get louder. It consists of a combination of a terrible squeaking and creaking: as if a surprisingly large octogenarian mouse was trying to to sprint towards some cheese; or as if a bagpipe player, lustily winding his instrument, had just had a heavily laden cart run over his testicles. Luckily for both, it is neither. Instead (below), it is Captain Dreihumpe bringing in the remains of his command. His has with him a barrow, the wheels of which seem to have been last oiled some time before the cretaceous period. As spoils of war, the barrow isn't especially impressive; but the captain hopes that with the right narrative, the continued darkness, and perhaps some tinsel, if it can be easily obtained, it might be sufficient to have his attack judged a success.

The governor and the captain peer down into the defences. There is movement, indicating the return of the Fenwickian troops. Colonel Entendre listens to the rising din. 'Is this victory, my lord - or do you think this signals an embarrassing defeat?'
The governor snorts. 'I think, colonel, that your options are overly optimistic. I would say that the likely choices are between an extremely embarrassing defeat, and an embarrassing defeat that was made even worse by, say, the random detonation of orphans, or the arrival of some nuns. I suspect there are no good outcomes to choose from'.

(Below) As the remaining company of grenadiers nears the safety of the covered way, Dreihumpe begins to worry a little at the depressed aura surrounding his force. If he is to sell the loss of half of his mean as a military success, then it is important that his returning troops should carry with them the whiff of victory, or at least, that amongst all the other whiffs the permeate his men, victory might be a discernable sub-note.
'Men, you have done sterling work. Walk like heroes!' cries the captain.
'How do heroes walk, sir' enquires one of the men.
Dreihumpe considers this. 'Well, I suppose that one's posture would involve heaving the shoulders back, and pushing one's manly parts to the front'. This, of course, is an unwise thing to say.

Whilst the captain might have meant by the phrase 'manly parts' such things as one's chest and chin, his troops are Fenwickian and sadly have in full measure the wearisome sensitivity to double entendre for which the imperials are famous. As his command dissolves into a hooting heap of 'fnars', Dreihumpe finds a sudden practical use for his barrow - transporting the gibbering remains of his force back to the safety of his lines.

xXx

'So, we meet again', says the governor, greeting the captain unenthusiastically as the latter, having dismissed his troops, arrives to report.
Dreihumpe salutes smartly. 'I can report a great success!' he says. 'Behold!' says Dreihumpe triumphantly, gesturing towards his barrow.
'You can report a great success', says the governor, 'in the same way that I can report having given birth to an ostrich. Which is to say, that the saying of something does not in itself make that something real'. He examines the wheelbarrow. 'Why did the enemy put tinsel on it?'
'I cannot say, sir', replies the captain. 'But I guarantee, my lord, that right now the enemy are panicking, having lost their key means of wheeled mud-related transportation.'
'I wouldn't bet on it', sighs the governor. 'Soldier, are you feeling alright?' he gestures towards one of the nearby gunners. 'You look a little ... sweaty'.

Here Today, Gone to Barrow!

War, as any worthwhile military philosopher might note, is a complex business. Amongst these many complexities is the vexed question of how one might define victory. For some, victory is a matter of the degree to which political objectives have been achieved. For others, victory essentially is an imagined condition: it is defined by the perception of key constituencies, shaped by such things as salient events and pre-existing prejudices. In Mittelheim though, neither of these metrics is particularly useful. The attainment of political goals presupposes that a war does indeed have some kind of rational purpose, an assumption that cannot be applied here. In Mittelheim, war is like tying a puffin to one's hat - entertaining in a strange kind of way (unless one is a puffin who doesn't like hats); but not something that serves much practical purpose. Pre-existing prejudices would also be another poor metric of success, since prejudices are about the only thing that Mittleheim has in abundance; other than, perhaps, a fear of soap.

None of this is terribly useful for Captain Dreihumpe, who needs to be able to spin this military escapade as a victory, whatever the actual outcome. Dreihumpe is willing to take what he can get. (Above) Whilst one of his grenadier companies is furiously rendering parts of the approach trench uninhabitable, his second force is now fighting a desperate melee against defending musketeers. The rewards of success here would be the ability to push farther down the line of the enemy entrenchment, with all of the prizes that that would deliver.

(Above) These potential prizes consist of a second group of enemy pioneers, along with the defending Nabstrian guns. They not a very good prizes, of course. No Nabstrian pioneers could really be described as a desirable reward. However, there might be some kind of vague satisfaction to be had in slaughtering them all and so saving the world from their particular brand of shovel-related slackness.

Sadly, and not really unpredictably, this victory is not to be. With a set of die rolls so dismal they might as well be a long caravan holiday in Rhyl, the grenadiers comprehensively lose the combat. Half their number are lost to death, wounds, or tactical fainting. (Above, bottom) Seeing the way things are now trending, the captain recalibrates his scale of success and firmly grasps a nearby wheelbarrow. As a metric of success, stealing the enemy's wheelbarrow isn't perhaps the most convincing - but it's better than nothing. Possibly. (Below) Testing their morale, his troops reject the option of an heroic death through fighting to the last man, and decide instead to test their cardio-vascular skills in a spineless sprint to the rear. Throwing aside their muskets, the Fenwickian elite bleat like sheep and turn homewards.

Alas, it transpires that their fitness leaves quite a lot to be desired. (Below) The routing grenadiers cannot escape and are shot, captured, or change sides; or, more likely, are captured, change sides, and are then shot. Looking on, Dreihumpe's remaining grenadiers recognise that they are, like a bear that has sat on a particularly large bee's nest, in quite a sticky situation. To be fair, they have made some progress in rendering the approach trench uninhabitable. Dog hair and syrup have been lavishly distributed across any surface that might act as a seat or bed. Especially tricky crosswords have been left in places impossible to miss, and no means left to erase any wrong answers.

As his remaining grenadiers put the finishing touches to their handiwork, Dreihumpe jogs past, the hideous squeals and groans hopefully coming from his barrow and not his knees. A difficult choice faces the captain. He can take a chance for his country and launch his remaining troops in an immediate charge upon the still disordered enemy musketeers. Such an attack would be extremely risky, but would offer the options of death or glory. Or, he could slink off into the night. It isn't of course, really a choice at all ...

Into the Trenches!

The pioneers are just the sort of adversaries that the Fenwickian grenadiers are keen on: surprised, poorly-equipped  auxiliaries, armed with little more than shovels and slices of toast. If they are perhaps a little more alert than the Fenwickians would like, by being mainly awake and dressed, they make up for this in having the very low commitment to a fight that comes from being both poorly paid and from Mittelheim. 

(Above) 'Attack! Charge!' mimes Captain Dreihumpe loudly. Luckily, in the dark his troops can't see the captain, because the frenetic and exaggerated waves of his hat and pistol look less like an imperative command to charge the enemy and more like a medical emergency precipitated by an excess of port and opiates. With a loud shout, the grenadiers swarm forward, their attack column spilling into the enemy trench. The ensuing hand-to-hand combat is of the sort favoured by Mittelheim troops: in other words, their isn't one. (Below) Terrified, the pioneers don't even wait for the enemy to contact them: instead, they drop everything except their toast, and rapidly decamp the position. Making the judgement that the best contribution that they can make to fight is to engage in a quick tactical repositioning, they sprint off into the night to reposition themselves somewhere that has more protection and fewer screaming enemy grenadiers.

(Above) Not all of the defenders are so easily cowed, however. There is a thunderous crash of musketry from the left. Spotting the attacking troops, the nearest enemy infantry company fires off a volley into the night. Luckily for Dreihumpe, the casualties are small - both of them, in fact, are under five feet four in height, and also very unpopular, so that the losses effect no serious check upon the impetus of the grenadiers' advance.

(Below) The left-hand column moves swiftly into the enemy position. Recognising that in surprise attacks, momentum and initiative are everything, or at least something, Dreihumpe orders the troops to sweep along the enemy trenches, attacking any forces encountered. In the meantime, the right-hand column begins to set about ruining the existing defensive works. Gleefully, the Fenwickians begin digging out gabions, spreading dog hair, and throwing golden syrup hither and thither. No Gelderlander who values his coat and britches will ever be able to reoccupy this position.

(Above, top) The attacking grenadiers reach the first of the defending enemy infantry companies. Looming out of the night, they fall upon the enemy flank! (Below) Sadly, and quite surprisingly, the morale of the defending troops holds and they turn to face the attack.

(Above) 'Form line! Form line!' instructs Dreihumpe loudly from his prime learning position to the rear. Catching himself, he quickly adds 'Warm fine! Warm fine! It's a ... warm and fine night for an officer such as myself to be strolling around these delightful ... ah ... trenches ... and such, just minding my own business'. (Below) The grenadiers warm fine, and a nasty hand to hand combat ensues.

(Above) As his troops struggle manfully to overcome the enemy in a vicious bout of hand-to-hand combat, Dreihumpe contemplates ways in which he too can make a more substantive contribution to the Fenwickian cause. Looking at the fight and recognising that his troops would benefit from some help, the captain does what any other self-respecting Mittelhaim officer would do: he steals a Nabstrian wheel barrow - that'll learn them! To his front, however, things aren't going well. Despite being surprised, the defending musketeers pull off an unlikely early success in the melee, inflicting more losses upon the grenadiers than they themselves suffer. The grenadiers check how they feel about this unpleasant turn of events ...

Cry Havoc, and Let Slip the Dog Hair of War!

The target of the assault is the enemy's third parallel. These defensive works have continued to be extended. Their immediate defence is in the hands of two companies of infantry and some artillery. Further defending troops are positioned in the second parallel, but in the dark they are, like one of King Wilhelm's furballs, likely to take a little while to bring up. At the far end of the parallel, Nabstrian pioneers are as busy as one might expect from military workmen - which is to say, they are having a hot beverage, whilst sucking their teeth and commenting on the many ways in which the task at hand is likely to take longer and be more expensive than first anticipated.

(Below) The Nabstrian pioneers are working on the approach trench towards Fort Pippin's glacis. Once this trench has reached the glacis, the glacis itself can be 'crowned':  that is, batteries will be positioned on top of it. Then, the cannon will begin directly to bombard the nearest Fenwickian bastion, with the intention of neutralising it: or, as any nearby nuns might term it 'shooting the XXXX out of it'. To the casual eye, it might seem as if the balance in the pioneers' work between digging and sitting on their backsides playing cards is weighted more towards the latter than Vauban, certainly, might have recommended. But, as any self-respecting Fenwickian orphan knows, sieges can be risky propositions and sensible folk should take precuations - such as lying down a lot and making toast.

For the Nabstrians, events are afoot that are likely to lead at the very least to some burnt crumpets. and possibly even some eye-watering adventures with a toasting fork. The Fenwickian grenadiers have exited the covered way as quietly as they can (below), and now make their way down the glacis. Once they have reached the bottom (not something that can actually be said out loud in Fenwick), they will divide. One column will seek to strike the pioneers digging the new approach trench. The other will concern itself with destroying as much of the other trenches as they can get their hands on.

From the bastion, Governor Schroedinger-Skatt peers into the gloom (below).
'There they go. Probably', he says, pointing vaguely at the blackness in front of him.
'When, sir, might we know if they have arrived at the enemy?', asks Colonel Gordon Sanitaire.
'I suppose that we will know because of the noise, confusion, screams of fear and cries for mercy', the governor replies. 'After that, perhaps we might also hear something from the enemy'.

(Below) Miraculously, the two assault columns manage generally to head in the right direction, despite the inevitable deviation caused by the darkness. Orientating on the smell of toast, the left-hand force heads directly for what seems to be the main site of the enemy works. The other troops continue towards the right. They are encumbered with all of the paraphenalia required to make a terrible mess of the besieging trenches - picks, shovels, chamber pots, and a quantity of the sort of dog hair that just can't be brushed out easily. To maximise the confusion caused to the enemy, they have also brought some crossword puzzles and a copy of the rules of war (excellent condition; as new; unused; but slight soiling on the entry for 'Prisoners: the Tying up and Beating of'').

(Above) Captain Dreihumpe we could say with some accuracy is 'positioned firmly in the rear'. In reality, however, it would actually be better no to say it, because in Fenwick, with their tiresome sensitivity to double entendre, saying such things out loud would certainly accrue a fine; or, if accompanied by the word 'column', perhaps even a prison sentence. As the captain stalks forward carefully behind his troops, he is struck by an unwelcome feeling of optimism - thus far, things have gone well. This is always, always a bad sign ...

Sally Ho!

'So, we are preparing a sally, my lord?' asks Colonel Dougal Entendre.

'Indeed, yes, Entendre', replies Governor Schroedinger-Skatt. 'The attack will commence presently'.

(Below) The two men stand upon one of Pippin Fort's bastions. Around them, gunners are scurrying to prepare their pieces in case supporting artillery fire is required.

'And how is Sally feeling, sir' asks the colonel. 

'Oh, in the end I didn't ask her, Entendre' replies Schroedinger. 'It seemed somehow unmanly to expect our surprise attack to be launched by a middle-aged matron, however tough. So I have ordered some grenadiers to undertake the operation instead'.

'Aye, sir - that's probably wise', nods Entendre. 'Although, I'm a wee bit surprised that you did'nae get those nuns to lead the attack'.

'Oh, I asked them, colonel', replies the governor, distractedly.

'Aye, and they refused nae doubt?'

Schroedinger shakes his head. 'Oh no - they agreed to fight. It's just that they appear to have got hold of some more perfume - and so the fight they started was with one another. So I just left'.

The chief engineer nods. 'Aye, sir. As nuns, they're nae what I was expecting'.

'I know what you mean', replies the governor. 'I too was expecting from them more in the way of love and charity; and less, as it turned out, in the way of blunt weapons and violent disorder'.

'That's religion for you', says Entendre.

The governor nods. 'So it seems'.

(Below) The attacking force assembles in the covered way. It consists of three companies. Two companies, the regulars, will remain here to provide supporting fire. The third company, converged grenadiers, will comprise the strike force. These grenadiers are elite Fenwickian troops - and so, quite average. Comprising the tallest, bravest and most enterprising of the available imperial troops,  they can be relied upon mostly to stay in ranks and, roughly on command,  to fire their muskets generally in the broad direction of the enemy. In the rest of Europe, armies generally have much better sources of quality manpower than in Mittelheim, not least because the prisons are also better. In Mittelheim, infantry really doesn't get any better than this. Which helps to explain why the wars here last so long.

The Fenwickians have chosen to attack at night to maximise the chances of overrunning the enemy trenches. (Below) The target is the enemy's third parallel, viewed here from the nearest ravelin. Because this is a night attack, any artillery fire is likely to be highly inaccurate. So, no change there then. Because of the gloom, for the most part the attacking troops will have to rely upon their own skill and fortitude if the attack is to be successful. Which is a shame.

The governor descends from the bastion and has a last word with the commander of the attacking forces - Captain Dreihumpe (below). Dreihumpe is technically parolled, having been captured at the crossings of the Strudel. But no self-respecting Mittelheim army would let little things like the laws of war get in the way of military necessity.

'So, Dreihumpe - you know what needs to be done?' asks Schroedinger.
'Yes, sir.'
'And you have your story straight in case you are seen by the enemy?'
'Indeed, sir. "Seeing a large party of grenadiers exit the covered way, I followed them in case they were heading to a particularly entertaining party. Realising that they were actually attacking the enemy, I then kept asking them the way to the nearest tavern - questions that might, in the confusion and to the untrained ear, have sounded like me giving them orders to manoeuvre and to fire". I think that covers it, my lord'.
'Excellent. I'd like to say that I have the highest confidence in you, captain'.
'Why, thank you very much, sir'.
'No, no', says the governor. 'What I mean is that I'd like to say that I have the highest confidence in you: but I can't because I feel that you're probably a dreadfully mediocre officer'.
'I ... er ... I ...', says the captain, a little crestfallen.
'Still', continues Schroedinger, 'being merely mediocre, you are the best fellow that I have available. So, have at it'.
' Er, thank you, sir', says Dreihumpe, saluting the retreating form of the governor. 'Yes, thank you for the vote of confidence'.

(Above) the captain turns to his troops. 'Order the men forward, lieutenant', he barks to the nearest subaltern. 'Quick, but quiet. I shall position myself to the rear: there I shall be in the best station to ... ah ... you know ...whatever.'
'To the rear, sir? It's just, I thought ... I mean that I gained the impression ... or perhaps indeed a strong certainty, sir, that you might be leading the attack. To inspire the men. To take the same risks that they take'.
'Me? Front? Well, I'm not quite sure how it is that you would have gained such an impression, my man'.
'Well, sir, one strong hint was the speech that you gave to the men in which you told them that they had nothing to fear because you would be leading them from the front: to inspire them and to share their risks'.
'Really?', says Dreihumpe.
'And that you would be the first out of the trenches'.
'Is that so?', nods Dreihumpe.
'And the first into the enemy trenches'.
The captain waggles his finger. 'Well, let that be a lesson in the dangers of jumping to false conclusions from the flimsiest of evidence; indeed, a tissue if supposition. You see, the key to excellence in leadership is survival. After all, if as an officer I don't survive, then how can I learn? And I do think that learning is important.' He looks up into the gloom. 'Well men - I think that it is time. Advance! Two columns! Up! Up!'
In the dark, there are muffled clatters as the troops climb out of the covered way ...