A Rash Endeavour!

'You have got to be joking', says Rheinfunkt, in a manner that would indicate that, even if it were a joke, it was one of those painfully unfunny Prussian jokes involving a short Frenchman and a long baguette.

Herr Plugg has returned. But he is not alone, being accompanied by two very large pigs of a sort known in Mittelheim as a 'Wilhelm'.

The general points at the pigs. 'Look at their faces. Are they alright? They don't look right - those pigs don't look normal to me, Saxe'.

Horace de Saxe shrugs. 'What's normal for a pig, general? Who can say'.
Rheinfunkt chokes. 'Well, not this, I'm sure! See - one looks mad, and the other looks like an evil genius! They look like the English royal family!'
Horace nods. 'Two qualities, I should say, Rheinfunkt, exactly suited to getting us out of our present difficulties'.

'So, he has two pigs', replies the general, unconvinced. 'Unless they are especially pugnacious porkers who know some other pigs who happen to own their own collection of siege artillery, I fail to see how this might help us to overcome the problem of breaching the enemy walls'.

Horace smiles slyly. 'Watch, general, and you will see!'
Plugg begins to man-handle his pigs.
The general looks askance. 'What is he doing ... what's he ...'
'Sssh, general', says Horace, 'watch him tugging his pigs'.

Rheinfunkt sighs wearily. 'Only in Mittelheim could one be invited to watch a man pull his livestock'.

'But in a normal way', Horace adds quickly.

'Yes', says the general. 'And only in Mittelheim would one need to be assured that the interaction was normal'.
The tugging stops; to be replaced by a good quantity of heaving, as large objects are strapped to the gurning livestock.
Rheinfunkt peers. 'What's he doing? What's he strapping to their back? That can't be ...'.

'Oh yes', says Horace, 'and now you see Herr Plugg's engineering genius!'
Plugg smiles proudly. 'Behold, my lords!' he says, giving a gap-toothed smile. 'Here be the means for the blowin' up of the enemy walls!'
'But this is madness!' responds Rheinfunkt. 'This is a suggestion that is beyond rash! It's so far beyond rash that it's ... it's ... something that, if it had a telescope and looked behind it, it would only be able to see rash as a tiny, tiny dot in the distance! You're mad!' he says pointing at Plugg accusingly.
'I ain't mad, your worshipfulness', replies Plugg. 'An' I got the shertificat to prove it'.
'Where! Show me the certificate!'
Plugg pauses. 'I been left it at home'.
'It is fine, good general', says Horace. 'It's all perfectly safe until the fuses are lit'.
'You mean', says Rheinfunkt tightly, 'like they are now?'
Horace leans forward from his carriage and looks at the fuses on the barrels.
'Oh ... yes', he says.

Grunt No Quarter!

'Well, this is dismal', says General Rheinfunkt in a dispirited fashion. His gloomy demeanor is not just because he is in the company of Horace de Saxe. Far worse even than the presence of this philosophical fool is the condition of the general's army. As he listens to the reports from his staff officers, the news just continues to get worse. In addition to the casualties in the Gelderland army caused by the plague, his Nabstrian allies have decided to do a brave Sir Robin and abandon the field - the threat of disease is too much for them. His army thus has been shorn not only of a good proportion of its manpower, it has also lost use of the fine Nabstrian siege train. To breach the enemy walls, Rheinfunkt's army now has only field pieces and a single Bachscuttel mortar.

'I have a solution to all our problems!' says Horace, interrupting proceedings. All eyes turn toward him.

'I should feel relief', says Rheinfunkt, sadly. 'And yet, for some strange reason, I don't'.

Horace leads the general to the outskirts of the camp. He reaches a small hill and then gestures towards a figure waiting upon it. 'Behold, general! The answer to our problems!'
'Who', says the general warily, 'is this?'
In front of them is a grubby looking peasant. He smells quite distinctly of pigs.
'Let me introduce you to  Arnold Plugg, mercenary engineer: lately from Austria and now available for hire!'
There is silence.
Horace coughs, embarrassed. 'Do say hello to him, general'
'I can't see him', snaps Rheinfunkt. 'There is a grubby peasant standing in the way'.
'No, my lord: this is the man himself, awaiting your pleasure'.

Rheinfunkt looks aghast. 'My pleasure? My pleasure would be if he took that fork and stuffed it up your ...'
'General! General!' interrupts Horace, 'I should say that that is no way to speak to a fellow military professional.'
'I would agree completely. So it's lucky that he is just a fetid pig farmer that is wasting my time. Look at him. Does he look like an engineer? Do real engineers look and smell like that?'
'My lord, my lord', says Horace placatingly. 'It is true that this fellow is somewhat unconventional in his demeanor and approach. But isn't that always the case with a genius? Believe me, using his techniques we shall soon have a hole blown in the enemy walls: and then we shall storm Fort Pippin, death to all and no quarter granted!'

'But look at him!' says Rheinfunkt. 'How many military engineers dress themselves in such a way. Is he Spanish? And look: he's wearing a cod piece - how bad must he be that he is routinely in such danger of being kneed in hs groin that he needs some protection there?'
'Don't worry, general! All will be revealed! Herr Plugg -  off you go and bring back the components of your stratagem'. The fellow turns and trots off to a nearby cart.

Rheinfunkt blanches. 'Look, he hasn't even got any trousers on! One common feature of all of the military engineers that I have ever met is that they have been very clear about the need to wear britches'.
'I think that those are indeed britches', protests Horace.
'Then why', says the general, 'can I see a flap at the back?'
'Perhaps it's a pocket?' suggests Horace, weakly.
'A pocket?' What would any sane man keep stored in there?'

Rheinfunkt furrows his brows. This creates an effect rather like two hairy caterpillars walzing badly. Though, to be fair, the number of dance-trained caterpillars is probably quite small.
'You are wasting my time, Saxe!' bellows the general. 'Again!' he adds.
'Wait! Wait!', says Horace earnestly. 'You'll see. When he comes back - the answer to all our prayers!'
'If it's an answer to my prayers', says Rheinfunkt, 'he'll be bringing back a shovel that I earnestly hope will be applied to flattening your head and then burying you both!'
A few moments later, Herr Plugg returns. He is not alone.
'No', says Rheinfunkt. 'No, no, no, no, no'.
'Oh yes, I should think so ...' says Horace.

Bedlam!

In Fort Pippin, the governor has called an emergency meeting of the men that he trusts. This, therefore, is quite a small meeting: less a meeting, really, and more of a moment of self-reflection. However, since he cannot do everything himself, he has been forced to invite Colonel Entendre and a certain Herr Lippe, the mayor.
'Herr Lippe, report on the current conditons in the town', Schroedinger says at once.
The mayor nods. 'Many of the peasantry have expired, sir. And many others are very ill. On the downside, those with money have been engaging in damaging levels of panic stockpiling'.
Schroedinger frowns. 'What, stockpiling food? But how? We have all stores of remaining condiments under lock and key - the distribution  is carefully rationed'.
'No, my lord', replies Lippe. 'Not purchases of food - rather, the panic purchasing of britches'.
Entendre snorts. 'People are stocking up on trousers?'
'Indeed, colonel', replies the major.

The governor shalkes his head. 'Madness! Sheer bleach-injecting madness! But why? What possible use could a large pile of britches be in the current dire circumstances?'
Lippe shrugs. 'It seems, sir, that many take them to be some kind of defence against the plague!'
'But how?', interjects the colonel. 'How could that possiblly be the case?'
'Well, sir', replies Lippe, 'to be fair - how many victims of the plague have you seen wearing britches?'
'Yes', says Schroedinger,  'but that's because people tend to be in their in beds, ill! Of course they aren’t wearing trousers. That would be like saying that, because people who are ill tend to be in bed, that beds are a major source of plague!'
Lippe nods. 'I refer you, my lord, to item four on the agenda - the shortage of beds; and also item five, the strange outbreak of fires involving furniture germaine to agenda item four'.
'So beds now cause the plague as well'. says the governor in exasperation.
Fearing for his temper and his sanity, he excuses himself for a moment.

Seeking the air, the governor takes a few steps out on to the balcony. With a curfew now in operation to save the lives of the citizens, the square below is, naturally, packed with people. Sadly, his balcony seems to be at a slightly different scale to his body and so it is a lot smaller than he expected. Unable actually to fit on it,  he goes back inside. He returns in the middle of an animated conversation.

'What about chaise longues?' Entendre is asking Lippe. 'Are they beds, and so a health concern, or are they chairs and thus safe? And bunk beds - they must be like four-legged death pits!'
'I couldn't comment', says the mayor, 'not being a health professional and all. But we certainly need to do something about the shortage of britches. We can't have people going out without trousers on. This is Fenwick. Even with underwear still on, such a situation is likely to result in the proliferation of the illegal use of such words as "bulge", "wobbly", and "crease". The hoarding of britches could cause a rebellion worse even than the Thirty Years War'.
'Are you sure?' says the governor. 'Because that was quite a bad war as wars go'.
'Believe me, sir' replies the mayor. This is Fenwick. I was there in Camberwick Green in '47 when Prince Joachim's codpiece fell off. It took days to restore order. And even longer to find someone that could safely pick up the codpiece'.

Later, Entendre and the governor repair upstairs.
'This is nice and roomy' says Entendre. 'But also lacking strangely in furniture'.
'Yes', says Schroedinger. 'There is furniture, but it seems oddly two-dimensional'.
'That must make it difficult to sit down', replies the colonel.
'Yes, but it helps with the cleaning. Now, tell me the latest news on the enemy forces'.
'Well, sir - it might be time to break out the champagne; or, depending upon what we have left, the pickled onions and napkins. For the plague has had a pleasantly terrible effect upon our hated adversaries'.
'The nuns?', asks Schroedinger
'Nay sir', replies Entendre. 'The army of the coalition of the Spasmodic Sanction - the enemy besieging us'.
'Do tell, colonel!' says the governor. 'Do tell! What is going on in the enemy camp?'

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 ...