Schoppenmoll!

Wherein the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel under the command of General Graf von Barry-Eylund encounters the army of the Empire of Grand Fenwick, commanded by Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish

    

     'War', the famous dead Prussian, Carl von Clausewitz, commented, 'is nothing more than a continuation of policy with the addition of other means'. In Mittelheim, naturally, the 'other means' are rather varied: very small amounts of strategy; rather larger quantities of Bockfast wine; a significant dash of guesswork; some sock puppetry, of course; and long breaks in order to consume helpings of leech scones. In truth, if Clausewitz had lived in Mittelheim, he would probably have replaced the word 'policy' with the word 'insanity'. Indeed, as the Cod War enters its third month, there is little that might be termed 'policy' guiding the development of the war; the armies of the belligerents sweep randomly across Gelderland, as Voltaire would later comment: 'like ships of state sailed by Meerkats on crack.'

     With the defeat of Rotenburg's forces at Nottelbad, the fortunes of the Rotenburg-Grand Fenwick alliance hang lower than Landgravate Chlodwig's navel. Now, in August, the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel seeks to compound the alliance's woes by making a move against the Empire of Grand Fenwick. Advancing swiftly, the Palatinate's army is finally blocked by the Imperial forces at Schoppenmoll ridge. After camping opposite one another overnight, a bright, hot summer morning sees the two armies take up positions against one another.

     Having run out of cappucinos, Marshal Cavandish, Captain-General of the Imperial Army, has now, according to his aide-de-camp Fabius Nitzwitz, retired to his tent to contemplate deeply on the requirements of the coming battle. The veracity of Nitwitz's comment is thrown into doubt by the fact that (a) Cavandish first ordered his servant to procure him 'a lovely pint of super-strength ovaltine', and that (b) the Marshal was last heard saying 'Right, Nitzwitz, I'm off to my bed for a sleep so deep that my name might change to Rip van Cavandish'. Hoping to fool the men, Nitzwitz dons one of Cavandish's uniforms and mounts his horse: but, fit, alert, heroic and intelligent-looking, Nitzwitz was never likely to be a dead-ringer for the Marshal. Still, Nitzwitz acquits himself well at the opening stage of the battle; a minor hiccup when Nitzwitz instructs his troops to 'give the Backscuttel dogs a damn good licking' provokes only intermittent 'fnars' and, with the measured tramp of feet and bright melody of flutes, the Imperial army arrays itself for battle.

     With his key objective being to defend Schoppenmoll Hill (top right, covered in trees), Cavandish places four of his infantry regiments along the line of the woods, along with three batteries and a cavalry regiment. On his left, he places one battery, four infantry regiments, and two of cavalry. He maintains a single regiment in reserve.

     (Below, bottom) From the left hand side of Schoppenmoll Hill, Cavandish looks out at the Bachscuttel army. Barry-Eylund has concentrated his force for an attack on the left hand wing of the Imperial forces. All four Bachscuttel cavalry regiments are placed for an advance on the extreme left (top left, in march column) under the command of Alain, Comte de Finay. Finay loves to march about as much as Prince Rupprecht loves pigs (i.e. a lot) so the Graf hopes to manouvre this flanking force with the minimum of orders. Two regiments of irregulars are next to them; then all three batteries of Barry-Eylund's artillery; and finally nine regiments of infantry, seven of which are in march column. The Bachscuttel plan is clear: a rapid assault on the Imperial left; then victory; medals; scones. Almost everything is set for battle, except perhaps, the presence of Death, who has overselpt. Lady Luck has made it; though it soon becomes clear that she seems to have taken out some kind of restraining order against the Palatinate. With a signal from Graf Barry-Eylund, a loud 'huzzah!' breaks the morning silence, and the battle commences!


     (Below) From Cavandish's position, the Bachscuttel infantry can be seen massing beyond the intervening hill. The steady tramp of feet and slow beating of drums rolls across the battlefield; menacing, except for the occasional cry from the Bachscuttel battle lines of  'It's my turn on the drum! I want a go! Me! Me!'

     (Below, top left) It all seems to be going so well for Graf von Barry-Eylund. His infantry begin to form a line in the shelter of the hill. The first attack echelon will be formed from a regiment of mercenaries and the two regiments of peerless Bachscuttel guards: the Hoffmeister-Beyer Grenadiers (white flag) and the Milchfrau Lieb-Garde (red flag). The elite of Prince Rupprecht's army, the guard regiments tower over the ordinary Bachscuttel soldiery at an imposing 5' 6". Chosen for their fighting prowess rather than their intellect, surely nothing, except perhaps a tricky crossword puzzle, can stop them. (Below, bottom) At the same time, the Bachscuttel cavalry regiments move to flank the Imperial line. Two regiments of Imperial horse manoeuvre to block their advance including the elite Lifeguard Chevaux-Legers (in blue, behind the marsh).

     (Above) Sadly for General Barry-Eylund, it is plainer than Prince Rupprecht's wife that this battle will not be an easy one. Facing off the Imperial cavalry, the Comte de Finay orders the Chevauxleger von Blitzenstollen (in grey) to form the left of the first cavalry line and the Kurassier von Fleigerweiner (in white), to the right. The Comte wishes the cavalry to remain in position for now. However, Lady Luck coughs a furball into the Comte's lap and confusion reigns. The Chevauxleger are commanded by the most energetic and vigorous of the Bachscuttel officers: 92 year old Hermann, the Baron von Ducktrump. Having been manhandled from his bathchair to his horse, the nanogenarian perches precariously on his saddle, alternately asking his second-in-command 'what are our orders' and 'where am I'? A messenger arrives from the Comte de Finay with vital instructions: ''Hold your positon. Fix the enemy cavalry. On no account engage in a witless charge across the marsh into the elite enemy cavalry beyond' says the courier.

'Eh' says von Ducktrump, fiddling with his hearing trumpet, 'Engage in a witless charge across the marsh into the elite enemy cavalry beyond?'

'Righto Sir', says Ducktrumps subaltern, the 11 year old Ensign, Graf Sigmar von Nippeltassel, 'Forward, men! Engage in a witless charge across the marsh into the elite enemy cavalry beyond!'

(Below) With a loud 'Huzzah!' the Chevauxleger gallop forwards towards the Imperial Life Guard, splashing through the marsh, scattering toads and rare lesser-crested newts: the latter, being exceedingly rare, are only slightly less endangered  a species than competent Mittelheim officers.

     (Above) The elite Life Guard (in blue, on the right) watch the approach of the Bachscuttel horse. Checking his calendar to see if it might be Christmas and noting, surprisingly, that it isn't, the commanding officer orders the regiment to prepare for battle. Not wishing to look a gift horse in the mouth, particualry one ridden so badly by Bachscuttel cavalrymen, the Life Guard draw sabres and absorb the Palatinate charge. The result is predictable: the Chevauxleger are thrashed and driven back into the marsh, their charge doing less damage to the Life Guard than it does to the local fauna: one toad is left with a limp and two newts with mild depression. The Chevauxleger are left isolated in the watery obstacle, with von Ducktrump floating disconsolately in his bath chair. (Above, top) Hoping for better luck in the centre, the Bachsuttel infantry form line and begin to advance against the Fenwickian centre.

     (Below) Sadly, in the centre, Barry-Eylund's plan begins to come unstuck. The front lines come into musketry range and, thanks to thick smoke and other sundry events, the Fenwickian battle line begins to sag under the potent Palatinate firepower. But Cavandish snores loudly, and his muttered cry of 'More custard, Frau Hog, all over my toes' seems to do the trick; inspired, bemused, or possibly just frightened, the Imperial infantry line rallies magnificantly. Meanwhile, (in the woods, in white) an Imperial infantry regiment uses a local scout to wheel through the woods into a flanking position. Graf von Barry-Eylund is forced to turn one of his regiments (in blue) to meet it. With his plans to win the early firefight in tatters, and fearing the long-term effects of Imperial lethal volleys, Barry-Eylund hurls forward his guards! 'Forward, faithful soldiers!' cries the Graf, 'Forward to glory and a moderate pecuniary reward at an unspecified later date!'

                                 

     (Below) Himmel! In a result limper than Prince Rupprecht's wedding night, the guard are caned! In counterattacks, the Milchgrau Lieb Garde dissolve in the face of musket fire; and a charge on the Hoffmeister Beyer Grenadiers results in its collapse, though it does take its adversary with it. Barry-Eylund manages to rally his remaining forces and form a new fighting line, but the vigour has been lost from the Palatinate's attack; the steam has been sucked from its kettle; the lead has been lost from its pencil; anyway, you get the idea. (Below right) In a small mercy, a Fenwickian bayonet charge is fought off, leaving the attacking Imperial regiment at the bottom of the hill. Even so, Barry-Eylund's assault has ground to a halt.

     (Above, left) With musket fire now directed onto the flank of the Life Guard cavalry, Cavandish's aide-de-camp orders them forward into the marsh, intent on escaping the flanking fire and also finishing off the Chevauxlegers to their front. After a tough fight, the newts are driven off, and the Bachscuttel cavalry, having been badly bullied by some toads, disappears in a sad expectoration of watery gurgles. The Imperial cavalry though, are now in trouble, sinking slowly into the marsh, kept afloat only by the air pockets between the ears of their oficers.

     (Below) But Lady Luck, no doubt feeling a little guilty, now throws the Palatinate a bone of moderate size!With the centre in stalemate, a final flourish of musketry into the marsh from the flank sinks the elite Imperial Life Guard cavalry, opening the way for the Palatinate's hussars to advance through the marsh and onto the flanks of the Fenwickian infantry. Moreover, von Nitzwitz has shouted himself hoarse and is entirely unable to issue any more orders. But, is it too late in the day?

     (Below) Yes, of course it is. Night falls and with the chances of a victory receding more severely than Prince Rupprecht's chin, Graf von Barry-Eylund orders the withdrawal of the Palatinate's army. The Graf must now savour the bitter sting of defeat, the vile gall of failure, the foul taste of the grisly wibbly bits of ignominious thingyness.

     The Imperial army breaks into spontaneous cheers! Hurrah for Cavandish! Another victory for Grand Fenwick, which now has the only unbeaten army in Mittelheim. For the Palatinate, this has been a rueful experience. A rigorous investigation and reform programme is instituted immediately, and concludes that what is required is more musketry drill and fewer cream teas. Moreover, in a shocking development, the Hoffmeister-Bayer Grenadier's are disbanded as punishment for their lamentable peformance. A new guard regiment will be raised from the districts of Feyer and Tchoklet: the Tchoklet-Feyer Garde! As the last scraps of light fade, the two armies march from the battlefield. There is a moment of silence, and then a sucking, popping sound: a skinny fellow in a black cloak appears swinging a scythe experimentally: 'Ta-daa,' says Death, 'Oh, did I miss anything?'

Nottelbad!

Wherein the army of the Landgravate of Rotenburg under Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste encounters the army of the Burgravate of Nabstria under General Gerhard von Rumpfler.

     It is June 1757. Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste still retains command of the Rotenburg army: having been sentenced by Chlodwig to being quartered (the Landgrave cancelling the hanging and drawing because of the Furst's previous good service), Augustus luckily encounters an executioner that is better with his axe than he is with his fractions - in consequence Augustus escapes with a nothing more than a rather severe haircut. Eager, as it were, to strike the 'furst' blow, Augustus moves the Rotenburg army by forced marches through Gelderland and occupies the environs of the village of Nottelbad. Keen to reclaim his lost southern marchland, Burgrave Falco orders the Nabstrian army to retake the village and its marvellous rococo duck pond. The Nabstrian army has a new commander: General von Rumpfler, employed because of his experience in the First Silesian War and because he absolutely cannot cook. Von Rumpfler brings with him attributes entriely new to the Nabstrian pursuit of war: thoughtfulness; enterprise; vigour; a map.

     (Below, top) Von Rumpler wins the first victory and out-scouts the Rotenburg army: he chooses to go onto the defence. Anchoring his left on a marsh, which he occupies with his light troops, von Rumpler deploys his infantry in a double line. His cavalry is massed on his right wing and deployed in march columns: von Rumpler has a plan for his cavalry so cunning that it probably has a doctorate from the Naffdorff Academy of Alchemie and Wytchcraft.

     (Above) With the wind whistling through his shorn hair, though mercifully not (since he has procured another pair of trousers) through his legs, Augustus places his artillery on his extreme left and his cavalry on the right. The Furst concentrates his entire infantry force of nine regiments into a three line formation: this battering ram of flesh and steel he plans to throw against the Nabstrian line in a bid to overwhelm von Rumpfler's army.

     (Below, top) And so the Nabstrian plan is revealed! Von Rumpler is able to elicit from his horsed arm previously unheard of exploits: forward movement; a gallop; a useful contribution to the battle plan. Under the command of both Michael von Pfanenstiel and Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire, the Nabstrian cavalry speeds forward, intending to pass the Rotenburg left flank.

     (Above, left) In the meantime, on the Nabstrian left, the Rotenburg cavalry, containing the flower of the Landgravate's nobility, surges forwards with brave cries: 'Charge! Charge! Death to Nabstria! Higher taxes for poor people!' After 500 yards, weary and saddlesore, they dismount for a cup of the new-fangled coffee and nibble from some baked leeches: they spend the remainder of the battle watching the exploits of their infantry and complaining about their manners.

     (Below) In a frankly never before seen bout of frenetic cavalry aggression, the Nabstrian horse flanks the Rotenburg infantry and artillery: von Gank's Horse (in white) form line and advance menacingly, whilst the remaining cavalry push past Nottelbad and threaten to sweep around to the rear of the Rotenburg assault column. Stunned at seeing cavalry simultaneously sitting on their horses and moving, the Furst is forced to begin swinging elements of his infantry to his left in order to cover his flank. The Nabstrian attack begins to falter ...

     (Below) Huzzah! With swords glittering the elite of the Nabstrian cavalry thunder down upon the artillery. The gunners pause, musing 'Can anybody hear that drumming sound?' - then, von Gank's Horse roar; swords glint redly; gunners scream and gurgle; and before one can say 'Ooh, that smarts' a battery of Rotenburg artillery are reduced to a bloody heap. Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire (in red) laughs roundly at the discomfort of the Rotenburg gunners; which he shouldn't, given the silly little flag that he has sticking out his hat.

     (Below, to the right) ) the crisis approaches! Defying all of the rules of war, Pfanenstiel leads his hussars in march column right around to the rear of the Rotenburg army, causing chaos - Rotenburg units are ordered to about-turn to meet the new threat. Satisfaction on the part of the hussars at a job well done is short-lived as the consequences of their intrepid ride become clear. Two Rotenburg units level their muskets at the march column. The infantry commence volley fire! Sadly for the Notable commanding the hussars, one of the Nabstrian musket balls has his name on it: and, as his name is Lord Michael Heironymous Wilhelm-Franz Igor Rudolph Susan von Pfanenstiel, it is quite a large musket ball. Von Pfanenstiel's remains are packed into his ivory snuffbox for posting back to his widow, and, as the smoke from the Rotenburg volley slowly clears, the hussars are now nothing more than heap of bleeding, though still stylishly attired, corpses.

     (Above, left) Perhaps the most critical effect of the death ride of von Pfanenstiel's hussars has been to reduce the Rotenburg infantry assault to a single line of troops. As the infantry come within range of one another, a sanguinary contest is inevitable given that both armies fire with lethal volleys. Along the lines, thunderous volleys crash forth. Having favoured Nabstria, winsome Lady Luck, tipsy, no doubt, on plum brandy, decides now to favour Rotenburg. Bringing up the second of his elite regiments (above, in white, about to join the line), Augustus musters a full line of four regiments and he orders his infantry to commence firing by battalions: they deliver a stunning volley that brings the Nabstrian front-line regiments perilously close to rout. From a distance, von Rumpler tries to rally his infantry: 'Steady men! There stands Paul, Duke of Clarkshire, like a stonewall, but in a silly hat'. His troops are unimpressed, and the Nabstrian line begins to waver.

     (Below, centre) Lady Luck, moving on to the brandy and babychams, smooches Augustus wetly once again: the Nabstrian Hussaren von Sock (in grey) have advanced too precipitously and stand ready to take the volleys from two Rotenburg regiments: to their flank, the Rotenburg artillery help the hussars to their five-a-day with another serving of grape. Before one can say 'Cut to pieces by deadly Rotenburg fire' the hussars are cut to pieces by deadly Rotenburg fire, and suddenly Furst Augustus seems to have the upper hand!

     (Above, foreground) Luckily for von Rumpler, Lady Luck vomits in the Rotenburger kettle: a dismal Rotenburg volley fails to break the wavering Nabstrians, and the Nabstrian infantry, their morale improved, no doubt, by the suffering of the cavalry, deliver a shocking round of platoon fire against the Rotenburger firing-line: one of Augustus' elite regiments breaks: now his front line has a gap! Augustus wails, gnashes his teeth, and searches in vain for some hair to pull out: with the wide gap between his troops he knows that his cannot rally his whole line with a single order!

     (Below) With the cohesion of the Rotenburg front line broken, Augustus chooses to rally his remaining elite regiment (in white): 'Soldiers!', he cries, 'remember your honour! Remember your country! Remember who owns the thumbscrews!' His elite troops quickly dress their ranks. But, as the Nabstrians commence firing again, one of the other remaining Rotenburg front-line units breaks under the galling Nabstrian volleys: the Rotenburg firing line now musters only two regiments whilst the Nabstrians still have four.

     (Below) Seeing his chance, von Rumpfler sends his whole line on to the attack: two Nabstrian regiments surge forward into each of the remaining Rotenburg units. Bayonets are thrust; bodies are pierced; britches are soiled; and finally, despite heroic efforts, both of the Rotenburg regiments are destroyed! To compound matters, Augustus has spent so much of the battle riding hither and thither, and shouting orders from long distances, that he is now utterly exhausted and must rest before he can issue any more orders.

                                  

     (Below) Sensing that the battle has turned decisively against him, and judging that Lady Luck, having undoubtedly passed out on the sofa, is unlikely to intervene again, Augustus realises that his chances of success are, unlike the Furst himself, rather slim. Outnumbered nearly two to one in infantry, the Rotenburg general signals a withdrawal.  Helped by the exhausted state of the Nabstrian horse, he begins to extricate his army.

     (Above, left) The five remaining Rotenburg infantry regiments (in red) withdraw from the field. The Rotenburg cavalry (above, right) pack away their coffee and nibbles, tutting at the exploits of their Nabstrian counter-parts who seem to have forgotten that, as a cavalryman, it is not the winning or losing that matters but, rather, how stylish one looks in the execution: claiming a fashion victory, they file slowly from the field.

     A victory for Nabstria! Wishing to reward his army for their exertions, von Rumpfler orders his commissariat to prepare a grand feast for the troops. Eyeing the heaps of broken Nabstrian horse-flesh, the Nabstrian quartermaster, Colonel Findus, breaks out his famous recipe for beef bolognaise.  Von Rumpfler, meanwhile, acknowledges the adulation of his troops. Nottelbad is once again Nabstrian: hurrah for Rumpy! Long live Burgrave Falco!

     Death, meanwhile, takes a short break from his work and tries to coax a tearful Lady Luck out of the water closet, where she has locked herself.

War!

    
     Revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold: and in Rotenburg usually with a side-helping of leech fricasee. Brooding darkly, Landgrave Choldwig of Hesse-Rotenburg plots revenge against King Vlad. The punitive reparations imposed by the Peace of Kayck have ruined the Landgrave's grandiose plans for a new age of Alexandrian splendour. To cap it all, stepping carelessly backwards in the harbour a sailor has knocked over the 'Great Lighthouse of Alexandopolis (Not to Scale)'. And the marble-lined Acropolis Potting Shed leaks when it rains heavily. Utilising the services of Rotenburg's well-oiled Secret Police machinery (though in Rotenburg many things are well-oiled, not least the Landgrave's midriff), contact is made with elements in Vlad's own Royal Guard, disgruntled, it transpires, that they now seem only to do night shifts. Plans are laid to smuggle into the palace quantities of garlic baguettes, of which Vlad is reputed to have a fatal aversion, hidden inside crates of Vlad the Impaler and Swiss Musical codpieces. Still blaming Nabstria for their defeat in the Seven Beers War, Choldwig also establishes secret communications with Nabstria's adversary, Grand Fenwick. Once Vlad is laid low, Rotenburg and Imperial troops will march on Gross Schnitzelring and establish once again a Mittelheimer monarch in Gelderland. Smiling grimly, Choldwig ruminates on the ills done to his Landgravate and looks forward to a time of change. Revenge!

     'Revenge!' cries Burgrave Falco of Nabstria. In Nabstria, the mood has become increasingly febrile. Members of the party known as the Enten Gesellschaft have taken to wearing stuffed ducks as headgear and shouting 'Liberate the water-fowl of Nottelbad!': they receive a major boost when Burgrave Falco is seen at the theatre wearing a stuffed mallard as head-wear. His wife, the Burgravina, has also done the same (or possibly grown  a mutton-chop beard - it seems impolite to ask). Unreconciled to the loss of Nottelbad and its handsome duck pond, Falco comes to the conclusion that war must be contemplated if Grand Fenwick refuses to give it back. Seeking desperately to rehabilitate himself, Bishop Munschrugge consults the most able of Nabstria's legal profession, and declares to his Burgrave that he has 'a cast-iron legal and moral case for the renunciation of the Peace of Kayck': to whit 'I had my fingers crossed.' Upon this sound legal premise, Nabstria plans for war. Falco is clear, however: Nabstria must not be seen to be the aggressor - some way must be found of provoking Grand Fenwick.

     'Revenge!' cries Emperor George of Grand Fenwick. For the fatal wounding of Baron Stensch, King Vlad has ordered that Joachim, heir to the throne of Grand Fenwick, should be arrested 'and then damn well hung'. This edict is met with a refusal from Emperor George and the comment from Joachim that this would be an entirely redundant activity since, as his codpiece surely indicated, he was 'already hung damn well'; Joachim then reportedly made a lewd gesture to the Gelderland ambassador and invited King Vlad to take a most unlikely anatomical excursion with a soup spoon. Announcing  'no compromise and no un-'cod'-itional surrender' to Vlad's unreasonable demands, Emperor George imposes a ban on the import of codpieces, and defenestrates the Gelderland ambassador. In the town of Fenwick, incensed mobs roam the streets searching for Gelderland citizens: however, both have already slipped away, and when the crowd happen upon a vegetable stall with a vaguely suggestive parsnip, thoughts of violence are quickly lost in an evening of traditional Fenwickian 'fnars.'

     'Pigs!' cries Prince-Palatine Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel: 'I love them', he declares; 'and I want more'. Having gauged correctly the rather limited nature of Bachscuttel's foreign policy objectives, Bishop Munschrugge is able to secure a secret alliance with the Palatinate at the cost of  forty Nabstrian Old Grunters, peerless porcine breeding-stock, and a large collection of antique pork scratchings, reputedly belonging to Pope Gregory the IX and taken on Crusade against the Saracens: being both holy and pig-related, Rupprecht has the latter placed with reverence in his private chapel.

     'War!' shouts King Vlad. The Rotenburg-Fenwickian plan goes terribly awry. As bad luck would have it, the crates of codpieces arrive at Vlad's palace at the same time as emissaries from the Duchy of Kurland. Unable to resist the temptation of the archaic groinal protruberances, the emissaries help themselves. Sadly more familiar with medieval fashion than with fancy French bakery products, the Kurlanders wear the baguettes as well. In the chaos that follows, Vlad loyalists are able to knock the baguettes into the moat using the butts of their pistols and, once their eyes have stopped watering, the Kurlanders are able to explain the source of their ill-chosen sartorial accoutrements. A search of the crates provides conclusive evidence of the provenance of the plot:  a receipt signed by the Rotenburg treasury; a voucher made out to Choldwig for a third off his next purchase; and  a small greetings card made out to Vlad from Emperor George of Fenwick saying 'Die, you bastard'.
    
     In Gross Schnitzelring, King Vlad has had enough: dismissing Choldwig's protestations of innocence as an 'infamous concotion of lies, calumny, slander, untruths, half-truths, semi-truths, and mostly-porkies', Vlad declares: 'Who will rid me of this turbulent Landgrave?'; and then, in case no one has heard, he has this published in seventeen different Mittelheim newspapers. Declaring himself to be 'the most loyal of the King's allies,' Burgrave Falco declares war upon Rotenburg! Amidst riotous scenes of enthusiasm in the village green, the Empire of Grand Fenwick asserts its support for Rotenburg and declares war against Nabstria! Nabstria activates its alliance with Bachscuttel, which declares war on both Fenwick and Rotenburg in the name of the King!

     Having completed his limbering up routine in Bohemia, Death takes a practice swing or two. The armies of Mittelheim are again on the march! The Cod War has begun!

Crisis!

     A year has passed. How shall we measure the achievements of King Vlad's rule? In Mittelheim, half the peasantry are starving; the region's chief scientific innovation over the last 12 months has been the invention of the Steinhagen Patent Pig Polisher; the main cultural achievement has comprised the publication of four books, two of which consist entirely of pictures (one being an 'artistic' pamphlet of somewhat specialist taste produced for the Landgrave of Rotenburg). And yet, despite this golden age in Mittelheim, all is not well.

     For the last six months, there has been rising opposition to Vlad's transparent preference for all things Transylvanian at the expense of good, decent Mittleheim trappings. Not for Vlad, hearty Mittleheim fare such as pickled leechkraut or boiled pig's knees; not for him dapper Mittelheim elegance embodied by Nabstrian stoat-skin breeches, or wigs of quality Rotenburg nasal tuft; absent from his court are the usual staples of the Gelderland monarchy such as stately Mittelheim sock music, weekly cow rubbing and a monthly bath, whether needed or not. Instead, Vlad has surrounded himself with Transylvanian lackeys who have brought with them Transylvanian culture and Transylvanian mores.  Some continue to defend the new king, arguing that he lacks the advantage of skilled advisors: most of his intimate circle of Mittelheimers have disappeared - the last, Graff Wernar von Wormer, Royal Treasurer, recently resigned, describing himself as 'drained.' But many other Mittelheimers long for the good old days of King Karl-Rudolph III: when it was possible to beat a poor person to within an inch of their life and then sue them for the damage that they had done to one's cane; when the word 'tax', like the words 'cabbage' and 'thank you', was something uttered only by uncouth common folk; and where a man could ask the monarch whether or not he would like a steak without being suddenly being subject to a tirade of abuse, quickly followed by exile.

     These dark mutterings have been compounded by another emerging crisis: the influx into Fenwick of a veritable tidal wave of Herzo-Carpathian codpieces. With the removal of Nabstrian import duties, Fenwick has now become the key transit point for the shipment of codpieces into Fenwick's northern neighbour, Nabstria. Given that the Fenwickian love of double-entendre meant that the Empire barely coped with the arrival from France of the baguette, the effect on the Fenwickians of Herzo-Carpathia's antiquated sartorial accoutrements has been little short of catastrophic. Normal political and economic intercourse has ceased: and most of the other sort, as well. The Empire is in crisis: the mere sight of a crate of Swiss Musical Codpieces or 'Mister Stay-Puffed' horse-hair codpiece plumpers is enough to reduce the locals to gargling, despairing 'fnars'.

     Events have been brought to a head, as it were, by a terrible accident involving the Emperor's son Joachim. Whilst most sensible Mittleheimers view codpieces for what they are: a medieval fashion faux pas long deposited, quite sensibly, into the chamberpot of inelegance, Joachim, being young and foolish, has taken to sporting one, mainly as a method of terrifying the local clergy. However, disaster struck on the occasion of an imperial ball. Whilst possession of the vigour of youth may well be, under ordinary circumstances, something of an advantage, it is less so when one is in a crowded ballroom wearing a choice 'Vlad the Impaler' style codpiece: under such conditions, being 'young and thrusting' can be a dangerous, if not life-threatening, condition and so it proved to be. Baron Stensch, a noted Gelderland noble, was stabbed inadvertantly by Joachim after the latter slipped on a carelessly discarded eclair. In Gelderland, Stench's family are calling for Joachim to be tried and hung; in Fenwick, the Emperor has put himself at the head of an anti-codpiece movement known as the 'Real Men Wear Stockings' party. Tensions between Gelderland and Fenwick continue to rise.

     All of this has taken place against the backdrop of continued military spending by the various states of Mittelheim. Inexperienced conscripts have been diligently trained into the lumpen human automata required for modern warfare; armories have been re-stocked; magazines reconstituted. In Nabstria, the discovery that General Tonifruttipandi is not, in fact, a Great Captain has prompted the Landgrave to recruit two more infantry regiments to bolster his army. Sceptics have questioned the wisdom of arming these new troops, however, on the basis that it will simply impede their ability to sprint rearwards at the first sign of trouble. In Bachscuttel, the Palatinate has begun laying in stocks of salted scones to feed its troops in any future campaign. Having triumphed in the Seven Beers War, the commander of the Bachscuttel army, General Graff von Barry-Eylund, has declared the performance of the Palatinate's army to have been a vindication of his policy of promoting officers only when they reach a certain weight.

     Cognisant of these worrying developments, Death sharpens the larger of his scythes and makes arrangements for Famine to look after his cat.

Peace!

     And so, the din of war subsides: the cannons fall silent; the rolling of drums ceases; the womanly screaming of Nabstrian and Rotenburg soldiery fades into the distance. Death, laying aside his scythe, pauses to inhale an imaginary lungful of peaceful Mittelheim air, before gagging on it. With the final victory of the Mockers' party at the battle of Heyenkarbz, Juan Cornetto's bid for the Gelderland throne is at an end. Amid extraordinary displays of Gelderland pomp that consume nearly seven sacks of tinsel, Vlad Drakul enters the Gelderland capital, Gross Schnitzelring, where he is crowned as King Vlad I. Vlad immediately sacks the palace's French Chef because he 'likes not garlic' and orders an expansion of the royal cellars for 'er, you know, storage.'

     Meanwhile, on neutral ground, outside of the Zentan border town of Kayck, plenipotentiaries from the respective belligerents meet to negotiate a measured and lasting peace settlement. Their Zentan hosts lay out in the lush meadowlands surrounding Kayck a new village of silken tents and log cabins, all provided with the best comforts that the Sanjak can provide. The ensuing days of negotiation prove to be an epic adventure in labyrinthine skullduggery and political machination. Representing the Burgravate of Nabstria is His Excellency Reinhardt the Bishop of Munschrugge; Rotenburg relies for the defence of its interests on the shrewd Austrian, Wilhelm the Baron Woffeltop. Representing the Empire of Fenwick is the Emperor's younger brother, Franz; Saukopf-Bachscuttel places its trust in the scholar-pig farmer, Baron Albrecht Steinhagen. The negotiations are not easy. Steinhagen, in particular is a difficult fellow: describing him in his dispatches home, the British observer Sir Malileu Fitzbuttress asked his superiors to 'imagine an idiot-savant who, sadly, is just an idiot.' Bachscuttel, it would seem, has foreign policy objectives that do not extend much beyond the acquistion of pigs, an objective which renders redundant some of the subtler schemes for Mittelheim power-balancing pursued by the other diplomats. In the end, a settlement is acheived mainly by ignoring Bachscuttel, Steinhagen instead spending his time measuring local pigs and sketching out plans for the sty of his dreams.

     After three days, the Peace of Kayck is signed. The Empire of Grand Fenwick takes the Nabstrian border village of Nottelbad, a place long-coveted by the Emperor on account of its strategic positon and marvellous duck pond. Ruprecht, the Prince-Palatine of Bachscuttel, is made Bishop of Schrote, the previous incumbent having disappeared mysteriously after being invited by King Vlad 'for dinner'. Despite the best efforts of Bishop Munschrugge and Baron Woffeltop, reparations set at some 100,000 marks are extracted from both Nabstria and Rotenburg. Levies of such magnitude quickly have serious repercussions: in Rotenburg, for example, Choldwig's plan to grace Alexandopolis with a marvellous copy of far-off Athens' Parthenon must be down-scaled to neo-classical renderings of a small gazebo and potting shed. Duties are also placed on Rotenburg false moustache and leech exports, whilst Nabstria is required to remove its punitive tarriffs on the import of Herzo-Carpathian codpieces. The Bachscuttel army withdraws from Nabstria with a spring in its step: having survived for some weeks on fiberous local muesli, even the conscripts are now remarkably regular. In Rotenburg, the Imperial army receives commemorative victory leeches before heading for Fenwick and home.

      Finally, as the plenipotentiaries leave Kayck, the Zentans can only look on in a mixture of bemusement and horror at the consequences of the Mittelheimers presence: not a maid's backside has gone unpinched; not a bottle of wine remains unopened; not a bathrobe, coffee pot or small package of complimentary biscuits remains in their tents. Pockets bulging with individually packaged soaps, the plenipotentiaries leave the Sanjak like a horde of steppe nomads, many dressed in Zentan bath caps and slippers, and carrying packages that look suspiciously like they contain the breech-presses provided by their thoughtful hosts. Nevertheless, even as the rest of Europe continues to tear itself apart, in Mittleheim, surely, a new golden age of peace has commenced.






    

Heyenkarbz!

The Battle of Heyenkarbz, July 1756

Wherein the army of the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg under Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste encounters the army of the Empire of Grand Fenwick commanded by Marshal Ignacio Grace a Dieu Cavandish

     The village of Heyenkarbz, half a mile south of the Rotenburg capital, Alexandopolis: the Seven Beers War reaches its final climactic encounter. After three victories, the Mockers' star is in the ascendent - the Transylvanian pretender to the throne of Gelderland, Count Vlad Drakul, is already reputedly measuring the Gelderland palace for new blackout curtains and an extension to the graveyard. Rotenburg now stands alone: after two sharp defeats, their Nabstrian allies have fallen back in disorder on their capital Falkensteinburg. The Rods' candidate for the throne, Juan Cornetto, now mopes disconsolately in the Rotenburg capital, praying for a miracle and also a meal that, for once, doesn't include pickled leeches.

     Luckily for Choldwig, the Landgrave of Hesse-Rotenburg, the Mockers' plan for a two-pronged Bachscuttel/Fenwick assault on Rotenburg has come to nothing. The Bachscuttel commissariat has collapsed, leaving their army stranded in the Nabstrian town of Wunderdorf. Completely out of scones, and having emptied the surrounding countryside of waffles, stollen, and all available morning goods, the Bachscuttel army now barely survives on salads and a foul local concoction known as muesli. Rubbing their swollen tummies and scratching their hessian underbritches, the Palatinate's army is in no condition for campaigning. Undeterred, the Imperial army under Marshal Cavandish has marched northeastwards across Gelderland, intent on invading Rotenburg and ending the war. Having crossed the border two days ago, the Imperial army is barely hours from the capital. There is nothing for it: Furst Augustus concentrates the Rotenburg army in a blocking position, and leads his forces onto the attack to save his Landgrave, his country, and his honour. On a bright summer's morning, the two armies array themselves for manly combat.

     Ordinarily preferring to command from the comfort of his bed, Marshal Cavandish is fully awake, an unwelcome and unnerving condition for him, caused by the capture, at the battle of Furkohl, of General Tonifruttipandi's entire stock of cappucinos. Surveying the Imperial army, Cavandish tries to devise a plan that can be communicated to his adjutant through the medium of mime: for the Marshal has long ago realised that the Fenwickian love of double entendre has rendered pointless any attempt to conduct a conventional orders group. In the past, the Marshal's attempts to issue verbal orders have rarely got beyond the opening comment 'Adjutant, will you hold my baton, please' before the Imperial officers are reduced to a hopeless scrum of snickering 'fnars'. (Below, right) Through crude gestures, not all of them related to orders, the Marshal succeeds in deploying his troops into two lines. The open terrain allows him to concentrate his cavalry on his right; his infantry is positioned astride the Heyenkarbz road; his artillery is deployed into two batteries to give maximum fields of fire.

     (Above) To the rousing beat of regimental drums and flutes, the Rotenburg army leaves its encampment and readies itself for battle. Deploying his cavalry in front of Heyenkarbz on his left, Furst Augustus concentrates his infantry and artillery to his right. Two units of mercenary irregulars are deployed into the woods that connect his infantry and cavalry: there, they can cover the centre and menace any woodland creatures of moderate size or smaller. The globular Furst Augustus has a cunning plan: well-equipped with some wiley stratagems, he believes that he is in a position to advance upon the Imperial line, steal the first volley and augment it with some deadly fire: combined with the Landgravial army's capability for lethal volleys, this will surely carry the day. 'What can go wrong?' he coos to the handsome tavern wench with whom he has spent the night frolicking, a maid by the name of Tabitha Fenwick-Spye. 'What indeed', says Tabitha, twirling her moustache and rummaging through the Furst's pockets.

     (Below) 'Forward!' orders the Furst; 'forward to glory; also, where are my trousers?' Orders pass down the line; the drums beat; the flutes shriek; harness jingles; and the Rotenburg line advances. Marshal Cavandish rides up and down the Imperial lines: at the sight of him the troops roar 'Fenwick forever!,' 'Death to Rotenburg!,' and 'Who is that fellow on the horse?'

     (Above) As the Rotenburg troops advance, the Imperial artillery, professionals all, pour fire into the outside of the Rotenburg line, forcing it to halt momentarily to dress ranks in order to fill the bloody holes. Losing himself in the moment, Cavandish howls 'That's it, men: give them a taste of ball!', a comment which has the predictable effect of replacing the volleys of cannon fire with a fusillade of 'fnars!'. The Rotenburg line begins its advance again:  'Death or glory!' shout the Rotenburg troops, 'but preferably the latter!'

     (Below) As the Rotenburg line reaches musket range, a strange and momentary silence descends on the field as the two forces poise to fire. 'Messieurs les Rotenburgers, tirez les premiers' offers an Imperial officer. The Rotenburgers peer suspiciously: 'What's he say?'; 'I Don't know - is he asking the way to the beach?'; 'Fire you fools,' orders Furst Augustus, 'Fire first,dammit, fire! Fire!'. It is clear, however, that something has gone terribly wrong. A colossal intelligence failure seems to have given Cavandish the Furst's plan and Augustus has somehow lost the vital initiative that he had hoped to have in the crucial opening volley. As rolling fire begins to commence down the Rotenburg line, the Furst wails: 'How! How has this happened?', whilst Tabitha, wearing a new pair of trousers, shuffles off slowly, staring upwards and whistling tunelessly.

     (Above) But the Rotenburg goose is not cooked yet. The opening Imperial volley is a dismal expectoration of smoke and random musical noise: indeed, only the Imperial artillery inflicts any casualties. The Rotenburg troops now reply with a well aimed salvo, staggering the Imperial line, and an extended firefight begins: each side pouring volley after volley into the other; as casualties mount, only the presence of the respective commanders succeeds in keeping the troops on the field. 'To me, men' shouts Furst Augustus, 'For our Landgrave's sake! For our country's sake! For God's sake, where are my trousers?'.

     (Below) However, as the terrible musket duel prolongs, the Imperial troops begin to improve the accuracy of their fire. Under the weight of deadly volleys, the Rotenburg infantry battalion on the Furst's extreme rightwing breaks and runs. Busying himself with inspiring his troops, Furst Augustus cannot spare the time to put his troops into an extended line, making it more difficult for him to bring his numbers to bear.

(Below) Marshal Cavandish seizes the moment: 'Grenadiers forward! Charge!' he orders, and the Imperial infantry advances against the Rotenburg troops.'For the King!' shouts Furst Augustus, as his troops cross bayonets with the Imperial troops.

     (Below)  In the vicious melee that ensues, two more Rotenburg battlions are broken on the right of their front line: but two Imperial battalions are driven back through their own lines, disintegrating in the process. Again, the attack dissolves into an extended musketry duel.

     (Below) The battered troops on both sides take heavy casualites. Exhausted, four more battalions on each side break.

     Cavandish, though still has his Grenadiers in reserve and orders them up. Faced by a three to two advantage in numbers, the exhausted Rotenburg infantry cannot take any more and they flee. (Below) Having exhausted his stock of infantry, the Furst looks back at his remaining troops, searching for options. In the woods, the irregulars studiously avoid making eye contact with Augustus and instead busy themselves frisking a middle-aged squirrel. Then, to wild cheers from the two irregular battalions, Furst Augustus orders forward his cavalry in a final death or glory charge.

     (Below) Checking their dressing, and some also their life insurance, all four Rotenburg cavalry regiments bear down on the Imperial line. Cavandish sees the threat: with both armies perilously close to breaking, the Rotenburg cavalry aims to pin the Imperial cavalry to the front, whilst hussars ride down Cavandish's guns and then sweep onto the right flank of his remaining infantry. With loud cheers, the Rotenburg cavalry put their stirrups in and crash into the defending Imperials.

     (Below, centre) With anguished cries, the Imperial artillery are sabred to a man! Luckily for Cavandish, no one in the Imperial army sees to care very much: 'I never liked them,' comments one cavalryman. In the cavalry melee, charge and counter-charge commence, before, finally, one of the Rotenburg regiments breaks: with it, the whole army gives up in despair and begins to quit the field. Victory for Grand Fenwick!

     The road to Alexandopolis is open; the war, surely, is now over. On the battlefield, Marshal Cavandish surveys the happy faces of his troops. For a moment, he feels almost well-disposed to his battered soldiery, a feeling that soon disappears when he realises he must now find some way of communicating to them the need to pursue the Rotenburg irregulars, but without using the words 'ride,' 'rear,' or 'wood.' In Alexandopolis, Landgrave Choldwig takes the news of the defeat comparatively well: refusing, on account of his previous good service to Rotenburg, to have Furst Augustus hung and drawn, the Landgrave merely signs an order to have him quartered. Meanwhile, putting on a false moustache, of which there seem to be an inordinate number in Rotenburg, the pretender Juan Cornetto slips out of the Landgrave's palace and searches for the next cart to Turin.

Wunderdorf!

The Battle of Wunderdorf, June 1756

Wherein the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, led by General Graff von Barry-Eylund encounters the army of the Burgravate of Nabstria, commanded by General Tonyfruttipandi.

     As summer arrives, the Seven Beers War continues to rage. Rallying the Nabstrian army after its setback against Grand Fenwick, General Tonyfruttipandi leads his forces to meet an invasion by Bachscuttel. The Nabstrian commander is happy to be on campaign: rumours have told him that in Falkensteinburg, the Nabstrian captial, his secret past has been discovered. It transpires that the man known as General Lord Tonyfruttipandi, graduate of the Scholae Militaris and soldier of fortune, is actually Meester Luigi Tuttifrutticandi, a wandering sous-chef.  Recognising that only a victory can save him from some hot poker-related Burgravial displeasure, the General marches swiftly eastwards to confront the forces of General Barry-Eylund. Outscouted again, the army of Bachscuttel finds itself with the burden of attack. The objective: the hamlet of Wunderdorf, four miles inside Nabstria and the perfect base from which the Palatinate's troops can pillage anything that isn't nailed down; and then, after a rest, steal the stuff that is nailed down too.
    

     (Above) Anchoring his left on Wunderdorf, the wily Tonyfruttipandi deploys his infantry into two lines. Thanks to its rough handling in May by Fenwick, the Nabstrian army now has three battalions of conscript infantry. These are placed in the front. To the rear are the Garde du Corps (green flag) and the trained troops. A battalion of irregulars holds the hamlet: another holds itself ready on the right to move forward into woods and from there threaten the flank of the enemy advance. The cavalry are divided between the two flanks. With his guns in the centre, Barry-Eylund responds to the Nabstrian deployment by placing six battalions of infantry in line on his left. On the right, four cavalry regiments and two battalions of irregulars are deployed. Four infantry battalions are placed in reserve columns. Exhausted by his exertions, Barry-Eylund has some hot milk and a nap.
     With loud cheers from both sides, the battle commences. On the right of the Bachscuttel line, the cavalry, commanded by Alain, Comte de Finay, advance against the Nabstrians, supported by the two irregular battalions. (Below)

     Soon, the pressure on the Nabstrian left begins to mount, as the combination of the irregulars and cavalry begin to  push back the Nabtrian forces. Inexplicably to Tonyfruttipandi, and with some ungentlemanly snickering from his adversaries, his hussar regiment rides into the nearby marsh rendering them as much use as a cat-flap in an elephant house. It is a moment of mounting military crisis, and Tonyfruttipandi, General and some-time chef, does what he always does when facing a complex battlefield problem: he asks himself 'What would Delia do?' The answer is obvious. The pressure on his left is temporarily relieved when the Bachscuttel horse are forced to a peremptory halt by an unexplained marsh: 'That's not on the map!' claims the Comte de Finay sniffily. In the centre, the Nabstrian commander throws his entire infantry force forward in a bold counterattack - with loud 'huzzahs' (and some weeping from the ranks of the conscripts), the drums roll, and the Nabstrian battalions march steadily forwards (below) 'God and Nabstria!' troops cry; 'Charge! Charge!' shout others; 'I resign! Help! Help!' murmur the front ranks.

     (Above) Barry-Eylund snores loudly, turns in his bed and says 'No more turnips mother: the squirrels have eaten my nuts.' This his adjutant interprets as an urgent order to send forward the four reserve battalions currently behind the guns: they will form line to the left, placing themselves in a position to enfilade the open flank of the advancing Nabstrians. As their enemies advance, the Bachscuttel battalions prepare to fire, recognising that in an extended musketry duel the lethal Nabstrian volleys are likely to tell. (Below) However, the ensuing fight is disastrous for the Nabstrian infantry and their position collapses quicker than one of Tonyfruttipandi's souffles.

    As volleys roar along the line, two Nabstrian conscript battalions are soon put to flight. Worse, the Bachscuttel reserve battlions deploy into line and then push against the open flank of the Nabstrian infantry, bayoneting the wounded and any Nabstrians that seem quite small. With thoughts of hot pokers looming large in his mind, Tonyfruttipandi orders up the elite von Gank Horse for a desperate charge: if they can just break through the Bachscuttel reserves .....

(Above) Alas, it is all to no avail. Turning to face the elite Nabstrian cavalry, the Bachscuttel infantry succeed in driving them off. Amidst the swirling smoke of the main infantry firefight, the last of the Nabstrian conscript battalions is broken; and then the Burgravial Garde du Corps; and then another of the three remaining infantry battalions, along with Sir Theodore Creasey. The battle is lost for Nabstria! As the Burgravate's remaining forces stream from the battlefield, Tonyfruttipandi rides his horse disconsolately back towards Falkensteinburg, his experience an object lesson in the fact that an ability to create mouthwatering frangipans is no substitute for military competence, no matter how light the pastry.