Retreat!

Meanwhile, many miles from the Nabstrian council chamber, the Burgravate's army continues its withdrawal after the battle of Hansel and Gretel. General von Rumpfler is standing with one of his staff officers, a Major Seewurd, upon a low hill, watching his troops trudge disconsolately past. For the moment, however, the retreat has halted: elements of the supply train have become entangled with a troop of cavalry and a portion of the officers' baggage, causing a chaotic melange of leech biscuits, cavalrymen and ladies undergarments. Attempting to restore order to this unedifying scene is a tiny, stooped fellow in an ill-fitting uniform: the commander of the baggage train, a certain Captain Schmeckohl, a slimy creature, as dark as darkness. Schmeckohl seems rather to have lost his cool, and now appears to be trying to strangle one of the horses with his tiny hands. 'Curses', cries Schmeckohl, 'Baggage! We hates it! We hates it forever!' The horse seems unperturbed; unsurprising, since being strangled by the little supply officer is about as dangerous as wearing a slightly tight cravat.

'Really', says von Rumpfler, 'is that the best baggage officer that we could find?'
Seewurd shrugs, a complex movement communicating simultaneously the meanings 'yes'; 'please don't have me beaten'; and 'this coat is a little bit small for me'.
Down below, Schmeckohl is suddenly wracked by a terrible cough: 'Gollum! Gollum!' he expectorates.
A quizzical look appears on the General's face.
'He's Captain Schmeckohl, sir' says Seewurd. After giving the General the few sketchy details that he has on the Captain's background, the Major adds: 'and he has a very strange cough.'
Down below, the little Captain is wracked once again.
'Game Pie! Giraffe!' coughs the little baggage officer: 'Golfballs! Game over!' he continues.
'He's an odd chap' ventures the Major. 'Hey, Schmeckohl' he shouts down to the Captain, 'Did you hear about the fellow that was crushed to death by a pile of books?'
Schmeckohl looks up momentarily.
'He only had his shelf to blame!'
Schmeckohl gives the staff officer the benefit of one of his digits. 'He really doesn't seem to like riddles, does he' says von Rumpfler wearily.
'Glutinous! Gazpacho!' coughs Schmeckohl.

The General and the Major turn to other business. Seewurd produces the latest report on the army's withdrawal, and proceeds to inform von Rumpler of the latest developments on his army's retreat. But von Rumpfler is clearly tired; as Seewurd drones on, with his tales of the march rates, logistics and intelligence, the General's thoughts drift inexorably towards his paramour, Nora Hindquarters: her marvelous eyes, her splendid shoulders, and her pair of ...
'Remarkable hillocks, sir'
'What's that, Major?' says a startled von Rumpfler.
'Any attempt to move north eastwards is hemmed in by some tricky high ground, Sir.'
'Oh yes, quite, quite, Seewurd: carry on.'
Seewurd returns to his report and von Rumpler returns to contemplating the memories of his mistress: her trim waist; her milk-white thighs; the fragrant lure of her...
'Tangled expanse of heathland'.
'What?', says von Rumpfler.
'There's little forage to be had, sir; what with the moors and such.'
'Oh yes', says the General. The Major continues; ration strengths, scouting reports. Von Rumpfler closes his eyes, squeezing out the mundanity of his army life, the banality of it all; taking himself back to the early days in Falkensteinburg - the carefree days in the early stages of his relationship with Nora; the eager, fleeting moments, when he could throw her to the bed, urgent in his desire to place his tongue upon her...
'Weevils, sir'.
'Christ, what?'
'The biscuit is riddled with them, and the men will soon be on half rations.'
'Terrible, I'm sure' says the General, 'Hmm - but did you mention that the scouts have returned? What reports do they have of the enemy's pursuit?' Von Rumpfler listens carefully. His army is fragile, and the last thing that he needs now is a close pursuit by troops from the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel.
Seewurd nods: 'The scouts have returned. They report a serious tussle with some of the Palatinate's dragoons, but there seems to be no sign of the rest of the enemy's army.'
'And the casualties?' says the General.
'None killed, sir, but two did have their lunch money stolen and another apparently was captured temporarily and subjected to some eye-watering wedgies.'
'Will he survive?' asks the General solicitously.
Seewurd shrugs. 'It's touch and go, my Lord: it depends whether the physician can extract the poor fellows britches from his nether regions or whether he might, instead, have to have his buttocks amputated.'
Von Rumpfler nods: 'Ah, the perils of war in Mittelheim', he adds. 'But did the scouts provide any useful information? How large is the pursuing army?
'Countless, Sir.'
'Hmmm' says the General, 'That's not reassuring.'
'No sir: although given the poor grasp of numeracy in our army, that could mean anything upwards of three.'
Von Rumpfler nods, looking back down at the baggage train.
'Gabardine! Gadgeteer!' coughs Schmeckohl, restoring some kind of order to the wagons.

The General sighs, struck by a new and pleasant memory: a marvelous morning, entering Nora's bedchambers unexpectedly to find her bent over, and he suddenly seized with the urgent desire to get his hands all over her...
'Embarrassingly large trouser-tent'.
'What?' says von Rumpfler.
'It's frightening the men, sir,' says Seewurd, pointedly looking  upwards and waving generally in the direction of the General's crotch.
'Eh? Oh'. Von Rumpfler gives up his reverie. Only duty , it would seem, is to be his mistress for the rest of this campaign: and he doesn't like the size of her ankles.
Below, the baggage difficulties seem to have been resolved. Sitting on the lead wagon is Captain Schmeckohl: as it finally sets off, bouncing alarmingly along the muddy track, the little Captain begins to howl.
'Why is he so unhappy, says von Rumpfler, 'Didn't you say that the Captain was rich?'
'No, my General, 'says Seewurd: 'I said that he had piles. It's quite different.'
As the wagons judder across the rutted pathway that passes for a Gelderland road, Seewurd winces at the cries from Captain Schmeckohl: 'Ow! My ring! My ring!'
'Bah!' says von Rumpfler, 'there's no need for him to be so precious'.

Decisions!

.... we're going to have afternoon tea'.
The mood in the council chamber lightens immediately, the assembled councillors agreeing amongst themselves that there is no knotty problem of strategy, no fundamental misalignment in the means, ways, ends relationship, no disharmony between tactical, operational, and strategic levels of war, that cannot be made better by a scone and a cup of tea. As a bell is rung to summon the afternoon's refreshment, Bishop Munschrugge addresses the council expansively:
'What we face, gentlemen, is a difficult problem of strategy. We have King Wilhelm; but now we don't really want him because it would seem that our adversaries are fighting this war slightly better without him. But we can't just give him back, because that would make us look weak. So what do we do? We face, good Sirs, a strategic Gordian Knot.'
'Gordon who?' says the aged Count Beckwurz, Minister for Treacle and Public Education.
'Gordian knot', says von Wornitzdaun.
'He's not what?' says the Count.
Groans and hoots ensue, until someone loudly shouts 'Treacle leakage!', causing the aged Minister to hurry from the room to deal with this presumed crisis.
The Chamberlain arrives, organising the servants as they provide the assembled councillors with high tea: toast, biscuits, and ...
'What's this', says Munschrugge: 'Where are the scones?'
'Well my lord', says the Chamberlain apologetically, 'It seems we have a shortage of scones; so I took the liberty of replacing them with ...'
'Brussels sprouts. Why am I looking at Brussels sprouts', says Munschrugge.
'It's King Wilhelm, my lord', says the Chamberlain. There is a groan from around the table.
'Out with it: what has that Dark Lord of Lard done now?'
'Well, my lord, it seems that he has been whiling away his hours of captivity by engaging in eating games with his guards.'
'His guards?'
'They get bored, sir. Guarding his door seems so pointless because he's too porky to get through it. To open a means of egress large enough from him to escape through would require the use of a substantial piece of siege artillery; and the guards are confident that they could hear the squeaking of the cannon's wheels from some distance away. And if Wilhelm could make a sprint for it, he would be able to escape the pursuit only with a seven month head-start and a system of winches and pulleys that would be very, very difficult to sneak into the prison in a pie.'
'And'
'And so his guards saw little harm in humouring him when he desired to engage in a traditional Gelderland eating competition.'
'And it's a competition with scones?' says Munschrugge.
Yes sir - the Game of Scones. You win or you barf, apparently.
'And the prize?
'More scones.'
'I see. Chamberlain...'
'Yes, My Lord?'
'Leave this room and go to the guardhouse. Tell the guards to arrest you and have you executed.'
'Chamberlain?', says Munschrugge, as the Chamberlain walks dejectedly towards the door.
'Yes, my Lord?', says the Chamberlain, turning hopefully.
'Get us some more jam, first.'

Finally, to the late afternoon sounds of birds, distant harpsichord music, and a small firing squad, Bishop Munschrugge outlines his plan: 'Our witless opposition will presume that the campaign season has now ended. But we will surprise them. What we will do is to send messages post-haste to our allies in Grand Fenwick. As soon as our army has recovered, we will order von Rumpfler to march and join up with our allies: this combined force will march rapidly upon Grosschnitzelring, crushing our divided opposition on the way. In the meantime, Colonel Zeigler and a small force of troops will wheel King Wilhelm back to Grosschnitzelring, and, using Ms Hindquarters' information, they will break the King back into the capital city, wedging him into a convenient doorway. Our army will advance upon the capital and lay siege; but with King Wilhelm back in command, Grosschnitzelring should be easier to get into than a butter covered midget. We'll have complete victory and be back in Falkensteinburg in time for tea and scones. Or at least', says Munschrugge, eyeing his plate dubiously, 'tea and a more acceptable scone substitute.'

After a moments silence, the council room erupts into a round of applause.

Von Frerkingheil hops up and down excitedly: 'This is going to be brilliant! Nothing at at all, ever, could possibly go wrong with this plan, my Lord.'
Graf Decksluder groans: 'You had to say it, didn't you Frerkingheil; you just had to go and say it.'

Cogitation!

'Bugger'.
Bishop Munschrugge drops the despatches from General Von Rumpfler. His head sinks and he begins gently to knock it against the table-top.
'Bugger' *thunk*, 'bugger' *thunk*, 'bugger' *thunk*, 'bugger' *thunk*, 'sod it' *thunk*, 'bugger' *thunk*.
'Is it good news?' Graf Deckscluder asks hopefully.
The Bishop raises his head, his wig now perched precariously askew.
'No, my good Graf, it is not. Von Rumpfler's army has been defeated and is now retreating back towards Falkensteinburg. Moreover ...', the Bishop waggles his finger at Graf Decksluder, interrupting the Graf's attempt to speak, ' ... I do not think that any exercise of maritime power in the littoral environment is likely to reverse the outcome.'
The Graf closes his mouth, and sits back disappointed.

The Nabstrian cabinet receives reports that
King Wilhelm is unhappy

Burgravial Treasurer Werner von Frerkingheil stands suddenly and addresses the assembled council.
'Dammit! We cannot have another defeat: we must win the battle of the narratives; we must triumph in the influence campaign! We must ensure that all of Europe believes that we have won a great victory!'
Munschrugge shakes his head vigorously, his wig twirling: 'Good Treasurer - our army is retreating.'
Frerkingheil looks triumphant: 'Only in a geographical sense, my lord.'
'Is there any other sense?'
'Metaphysically, my lord, I think that we could say that the good general von Rumpfler is advancing towards Falkensteinburg. And the dogs of Saukopf are falling back from their capital city of Pfeildorf.'
Munchrugge seems unconvinced, but Frerkingheil continues:
'This defeat is, I should say, a blessing in disguise.'
Munschrugge sighs: 'Hmm, well, if so, I have to say, it's a very good disguise because I can't see how this helps us at all.'
'We can spin this into a victory!' says the Treasurer.
'Spin it?' says Munschrugge wearily, 'It'll require more than spin: it'll need cartwheels, handstands and a very special kind of trampolining if we are to sell our current predicament as a success. The Burgrave really isn't going to be very happy.'
Frerkingheil nods excitedly. 'It provides an opportunity to test some alternative instruments of statecraft. I've already been doing some preliminary work in the realms of propaganda. Count: let them into our plan.'

The aged Count Leopold von Beckwurz, Minister for Treacle and Public Education,* stands unsteadily.
'Gentlemen. We need time to re-organise our army; time to train them; time to equip them with new muskets and uniforms. Time also, perhaps, for a new approach to this war. To gain that time we must exploit the power of the printed word! Behold, the first step in our new literary offensive!'
'I have a bad feeling about this,' mutters Graf Decksluder, doodling a three-deck ship of the line with his quill, and writing the words 'all mine' underneath.
With a flourish, Count Beckwurz produces from his coat a slim volume.
'Here, honoured gentlemen, is the first weapon in our new offensive against the Wilhelmites: a set of verses parodying the limp-witted Prince of Saukopf-Bachscuttel.
Munschrugge seems to perk up at this. 'Yes, that just might have some impact if it were written by a skilled, witty, and highly intelligent word-smith.'
'Er', says Count Beckwurz.
Munschrugge's eyes narrows: 'So, you engaged the services of Voltaire, yes?'
'I extended to him an invitation', replies von Beckwurz.
'And?'
'He extended to me a finger'.
'And then you obtained the services of, say, Jean Jacques Rousseau?'
'Er, no'
'Laurence Stern?'
'No'.
'Henry Fielding?'
'No'
'So basically, you haven't got a skilled writer.'
'No, not really'.
'So, in fact, you probably just asked someone that you knew.'
'Yes'.
'In fact, you probably wrote it yourself, didn't you.'
'Basically, yes.'

Munschrugge takes a deep breathe 'Fine, marvellous; let's take a look at it: get copies for everyone.'
The script is distributed. Munchrugge reads it resignedly. His compatriots also look at it, most moving their fingers slowly along each line, silently mouthing the words.
Graf Decksluder is the first to speak.
'Well, ah, it's very moving, but I can't help thinking that we need something with a little more emphasis on creating a narrative structure to this war in which our Burgravate embodies strong moral qualities, whereas our enemies are portrayed as ethically compromised; and also at the same time, rather less use of bottom jokes.'
Count Beckwurz bridles: 'Well, what changes do you suggest?'
'Well, it's just ... well, here, you see', the Graf points to the third line', perhaps a better tone would be created by the use of the word 'blunder' rather than 'chunder'. Or here, perhaps 'tardy' rather than 'lardy'. And I must insist that we find some more appropriate words that rhyme with 'luck' and 'anchor'.
Munschrugge steps in: 'So, what - you intend to distribute this throughout the Burgravate?'
'Indeed, good Bishop,' replies Count Beckwurz enthusiastically, 'it will be read from one side of Mittelheim to another.'
Munschrugge makes a face: 'It will be read. Really? Tell me: what is the literacy rate amongst the peasantry?'
'Not high,' chips in the Graf.
'But our treacle stocks have never been higher', interrupts von Frerkingheil defensively.
'So', says Bishop Munschrugge, 'What would an average peasant do with a volume such as this?'
'Light a fire', laughs another counsellor.
'So actually,' says Munchrugge, 'what we'll be distributing are ...'
'Firelighters', admits Count Beckwurz.
'Precisely,' says the Bishop: 'Any other ideas for this new enterprise?'

A peasant poetry reading gets out of hand

Momentarily nonplussed, Count Beckwurz quickly rallies. 'Indeed yes', he says. The Count then describes a second line of operation. He has taken on the services of an expert artist, Osker Siber, who has been tasked with working on a whole range of scurrilous wood cuts, lampooning the Burgravate's enemies. 'Here is the first', announces the Count, grandly. At a nod from the Count, a servant begins to distribute copies of the woodcut. There is a moments silence as the assembled councillors review the work.
The Count explains: 'It is a picture of donkey, which is labelled 'Prince Rupprecht': the message is that Prince Rupprecht is a donkey'.
'Yes: a subtly subversive image,' says Munschrugge.
There is another silence.
'Hmmmm,' says Graf Decksluder, 'this donkey doesn't look right. I thought donkey's looked like horses. This one looks odd.'
'Yes' says Baron Friedrich, Minister for Corsets and Public Transport, 'it hasn't got any udders.'

Nabstrian peasants celebrate wildly after news of
von Rumpfler's latest victory

Freidrich's compatriots stare at him. 'Donkeys don't have udders', says Graf Decksluder.
Freidrich looks perplexed - 'Then what is it that my wife has been milking?'
Decksluder chokes on a gulp of wine, and there is an embarrassed silence.
'Well', pipes up another councillor, 'it's got a bushy tail, and large ears. Actually, this donkey looks a bit like, you know, a dog or something.'
Graf Decksluder nods: 'Actually, I think this is a picture of a fox.'
Munchsrugge, sighs: 'So, what this woodcut actually says is that Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel is a fox. We are implying, therefore, either that (a) he is wily and cunning, or that (b) he is a saucy minx that we should like to take out for some dancing and a light supper.'
'They do say he has nice ankles', says Friedrich.
Graf Decksluder winces, and tunelessly whistles a sea shanty to fill the icy silence that follows.

Bishop Munschrugge stands slowly. 'Gentlemen, I fear that your influence campaigns and Siber attacks will not have the decisive effects now required. I have decided on a plan of action to recommend to the Burgrave: this is what we're going to do ....'











* This post in the Burgrave's government combines two purviews; responsibility for managing the Burgravate's treacle supplies, and the education of the poor. The budget for the former is considerably larger than for the latter.

Hansel and Gretel!

Wherein the army of the Burgravate of Nabstria, under the command of General Heironymous von Rumpfler, encounters the forces of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, under the command of General Barry-Eylund.

General Graf Redmond von Barry-Eylund stands in front of his staff officers, wearing a silk dressing gown, cap comforter, scarf and slippers. Though there is a faintly regal air about the way the sixty-two year old carries himself, it is fair to say that his manner of dress means that he probably won't be bringing sexy back. Not that that would worry Barry-Eylund at the moment; for at this point in time he is berating the officers of his commissary department. The Graf's attempts to make a secret flank march against the Nabstrian army have been ruined. Instead, the Nabstrian army has managed to surprise the Bachscuttel forces in the vicinity of the small villages of Hansel and Gretel; led there, thanks to a Bachscuttel bakery malfunction, by a conspicuous trail of breadcrumbs. 

(Below) Having been out-scouted and forced onto the defence, Graf Barry-Eylund assesses his options. The Nabstrian army, he knows, has suffered heavily at the battle of Zorninhaf, and contains many conscripts; but it also has a good proportion now of elite soldiers. With both Bachscuttel flanks anchored on problematic terrain, the General guesses that the Nabstrians may try for a brutal frontal assault, elite troops to the fore, utilizing the advantages of their lethal volleys. On this basis, he places his irregulars where they can do the least harm, garrisoning the village of Gretel: they have explicit orders not to touch anything sharp, run with scissors, or to bugger about in their usual manner. He deploys most of his musketeers in two lines, with his guns distributed between the regiments so that they can add their canister to the expected duel of musketry. Three regiments are placed in reserve columns in case of emergencies. With no room in his centre for his Horse, and not wanting to isolate them beyond the stream on the left, Barry-Eylund places his cavalry on his right: they are ordered into march columns to maximise their flexibility.

General von Rumpfler, though, has things other than a frontal assault on his mind: his mistress, the lovely Nora Hindquarters, has been used as the bait in a cunning ruse designed to capture King Wilhelm and perhaps end the war. But the whole underhand plot has left a bad taste in the General's mouth: though not quite as bad a taste, it has to be said, as the one that afflicted Ms Hindquarters. Sighing, von Rumpfler turns his attention to the coming battle. With his troops well-versed in cadenced drill, the wily fellow believes that he has the advantage of manoeuverability - but where can this advantage best be brought to bear? Scanning the Bachscuttel lines with his telescope, he spies on the left within the village of Gretel, the tell-tale signs of looting, drinking, random street violence, and rampant sock-puppetry that can speak only of the presence of irregular troops. The village looks rather vulnerable to a well coordinated attack with regular infantry. The left, then! It will be the left! If the General can get some stout Nabstrian Grenadiers to the village of Gretel, then they will surely be able to oust the irregulars with a combination of fire and bayonet. Then, the onus will be on Bachscuttel to take the vital village back! But, having wedged themselves in so tightly to their defences, von Rumpfler judges accurately that such an enterprise is likely to be very difficult for his enemy.

(Above) So, von Rumpfler hurriedly issues his orders. His light infantry and cavalry are likely to be auxiliary elements to this plan, so he deploys them on his right wing. All of his infantry, five regiments of elites, one of mercenary Zentans, and four of conscripts, are deployed into march columns: the elite are deployed furthest to the left. Von Rumpfler's plan: a rapid advance against the Bachscuttel flank with the elite troops: then, he will deploy them into line utilising cadence step; then, these troops will destroy or drive off the cavalry; and then they will launch a quick assault on Gretel. Von Rumpfler signals to his aides; the trumpets sound, and with a loud 'Huzzah!' the Nabstrian army advances!

Watching the advance with interest are two fellows in black cloaks: one has a scythe and the other a very commodious lunch box. After the casualties at Zorninhaf and Grosse Varnische, Death has decided to get to this encounter extra early. Famine eats a second breakfast and watches whilst the Grim Reaper does some limbering up. It is surely going to be a busy day.

(Above) With excellent precision, Nabstria's infantry regiments stride past the wood, bearing down upon the weak Bachscuttel wing. To their right, von Rumpfler begins to form up the remainder of his army at right angles to the Bachscuttel line. This will give his artillery a clear field of fire. It is becoming clear to Barry-Eylund that the village of Gretel is the main objective of the Nabstrian attack: the remainder of von Rumpfler's forces are clearly being deployed to protect this elite flank attack. The Nabstrian advance is rapid; luckily, with his horse in column, Barry-Eylund is able to move them swiftly out of the way, and they pass down through his centre. Two thoughts now worry the Graf: can he get supporting troops to Gretel quickly enough; and, even if he can, will the garrison of irregulars be up to a fight with the Nabstrian elites?

Meanwhile, in Gretel, some of the few literate irregulars are fighting over a large sheet of parchment, marked with symbols, that that they have found in the village.
'Give us a go of your tea towel,' says one.
'It's not a tea towel', says another: 'it's a map.'
'No it ain't', says yet another, 'it's a sock. '
The others look at him: 'It's not a sock - how can it be a sock? There's nowhere to put your foot.'
'What does it do?' an interested onlooker asks.
'It shows you where you are.'
'But I know where I am - I'm here.'
'Yes, yes, but what if you don't know where 'here' is.'
The soldier pauses: 'Clever, clever: well, put it on then, and tell us where we are.'
'I'm not sure: which way up should it be?'
'Are we near that marsh over there?' one says.
They look non-plussed 'There's no marsh marked on this sock.'

(Above) Indeed, approaching Gretel, the Nabstrian advance suddenly grinds to a halt at the sudden appearance of an expanse of unexpected bog. 'Jupiter's kneecaps', groans von Rumpfler wearily: 'why is nothing ever marked on my fricking map?'

(Above, top) The unexpected marsh is a disaster for the Nabstrian advance. Four regiments try and circumnavigate the stinky obstacle: but it all takes time, and it condemns the elite infantry to attack on a one regiment frontage. Still hoping to push the irregulars out of Gretel, though, the fifth regiment is ordered to fix bayonets, head across the marsh, and give the irregulars some cold steel. (Below, top) As the Nabstrians try and manoeuvre around the marsh, Barry-Eylund has plenty of time to seal the gap on his flank: he pushes forwards his two guards regiments: the Tchokolet-Feyer Garde (Red and yellow flag), and the Milchfrau Lieb Garde (white flag). Soon, the lead Nabstrian regiment is engaged in an extended firefight with the Feyer Garde.

(Above) In the interim, the irregulars pepper the marsh-bound Nabstrians unsuccessfully with musket fire, who, being in the water, cannot reply. 'I know the way! I know the way' shouts one of the irregulars, who seems to have some soggy paper wrapped around his feet. Round after round, the irregulars throw their fire at the increasingly depressed Nabstrians in front of them. Round after round, the effects are negligible: smoke, some deaf toads, and, as they stand forlornly in the water, some increasingly wrinkled Nabstrian toes.

(Above) For the remainder of the Bachscuttel army, the battle proves to be very restful. There are a couple of casualties, inevitably, as a few of the musketeers shoot or stab themselves accidentally. And there is a messy incident mid-morning when one of the cannoneers tries to check how full one of his powder-barrels might be by peering in with a lighted taper. But in general, for the new recruits to Barry-Eylund's force, it is clear that war is hardly the bestial, terrifying experience that they had been led to believe. War, it appears, consists mainly of some light aerobic exercise, as one deploys into formation; and then a leisurely afternoon, eating snacks and listening to the artillerymen making jokes about the length of their barrels. Contrary to wider opinion, it is clear that what the world needs is more war, which would certainly improve the cardio-vascular health of the population at large, as well as providing a relaxing opportunity to socialise with friends.

(Above) Equally, the remainder of the Nabstrian army remains defiantly immobile. The unit of Zentan mercenaries provides a stiffening to what is otherwise a collection of ill-trained conscripts. But the conscripts remain well out of range of the Bachscuttel battle-line. The day passes slowly, punctuated with some fist-fights and word games. With little activity exhibited by the main Bachscuttel battle-line to their left (if one excludes an explosion in the morning, which goes off with a loud 'whump!'), the conscripts spend the day largely unconcerned, except, perhaps, from some mild alarm caused by the stiffening of the Zentans.

For the two black-cloaked observers, the battle proves to be a gigantic anti-climax: there is really nothing to do. As the hours pass by, Death and Famine try a game of 'I spy', but it's no fun: all Death can see is decay, dust, despair, the ever dwindling of the human life-force, draining away like specks of dust in the hour-glass of time. None of which is massively useful when trying to guess the word 'tree': Famine is also rubbish, since most of what he spies with his little eyes can be covered by the words 'sandwich', 'cake' or 'fritters'.

Near Gretel, the very, very long musketry duel continues. But with only a single regiment on each side, there is no decisive result: with both Generals nearby, every incidence of musketry related disorder is quickly remedied by some rallying. The entire battle becomes focused on this single encounter.

Von Rumpfler realises that the battle is slipping from his grasp - his forward momentum has gone, but a withdrawal will take forever. Perhaps now is the time for the bayonet charge through the marsh against Gretel? But, surveying the situation, von Rumpler realises that this is unlikely to work -the marsh-bound Nabstrian regiment has suffered badly: giving up on their muskets, the irregulars have resorted to attacking the elites with insults and bad language, some of which have been very hurtful. Between this, the progressive shrinkage in their uniforms, and a critical shortage in flotation aids, this is a Nabstrian bayonet charge doomed to defeat. (Above, top) Finally, trying to break the dead-lock, von Rumpfler orders his lead regiment forward in a desperate bayonet attack against the Bachscuttel guards- but the Nabstrians' hearts aren't really in it and it turns out that they really are worse than a Tchokolet Feyer Garde. The latter remain in good order, and the attack is easily driven off. Exhausted, and with many other better things to do, the Nabstrian regiment quits the field.

Nearby, the two fellows in cloaks seem to have given up entirely on the battle. 'Blimey, I'm hungry:' Famine seems to be eyeing in a calculating fashion an object in the grass. Death looks more closely and then recoils. Famine picks up the remains of an arm, which seems to have a lighted taper clasped tight in its hand.

'You can't eat that!' says Death, appalled.

 'Oooh, you're right' says Famine, and removes the taper - 'it could have stuck in my throat or something.'

(Below, top) Another Nabstrian regiment moves up and exchanges volleys with the Bachscuttel Guards. In a manoeuvre that is a little too clever by half, Barry-Eylund decides not to rally the Feyer Garde, but instead to retire the regiment back through its sister Guard regiment in a perfect display of retrograde action, presenting the Nabstrians with a new and entirely fresh adversary. In Mittelheim warfare, though, attempts at being clever seldom go unpunished.

(Below, top) And so, predictably, confusion strikes the Bachscuttel line. Interpreting the order 'fall back behind the Milchfrau Lieb Garde and then rally' to mean 'fall back behind the Milchfrau Lieb Garde and then bugger everything up by advancing back through them again, distributing disorders like confetti and raising my blood pressure', the Feyer Garde hokey-cokey their way 'in out, in out' before 'shaking it all about' back where they started, but in a more knackered condition. This could be von Rumpler's chance! A good volley could sweep away the Feyer Garde, a result that might open up an angle that would allow some musketry to brought to bear on the irregulars. If the irregulars can be driven off, then the regiment in the marsh might be able to move forward, and then, well, who knows - or dares to dream?

This is all, of course, a fantasy, and the crucial Nabstrian volley has all the vigour in it of a Russian corruption investigation. Under the watchful eye of their General, the Feyer Garde dress their ranks and they are quickly returned to order. Soon, both sides are back to their musketry duel, although in truth, dueling banjos would probably be likely to deliver a more decisive result. In Gretel, the irregulars join in the fun, dropping comedy anvils on one another.

Nearby, Death has toppled over. With a hurt tone in his voice he berates his tubby companion, who seems to be squatting over a small pile of bones, licking his lips.

'Gimme it back!', says Death.

'Give what back?' says Famine innocently.

'My leg! You just stole my leg!'

'No I didn't. You must be mistaken.'

'I saw you do it, you malevolent miscreant!'

'It could be someone else's leg.'

'It's still got my britches attached to it.'

'Oooh, yes: you've got me there. But, you know - you're sort of magic- you'll grow another.'

'It's the principle', says Death wearily. 'And I need my trousers back: this is undignified.'

Across the battlefield, drums and trumpets sound, signalling the retreat of the Nabstrian army. Von Rumpfler has concluded that a decisive breakthrough cannot be made, and he judges that it is best to quit the field in good order. Graf Barry-Eylund allows the withdrawal to continue unmolested: his army is poorly deployed to commence any sort of counter-attack. Besides, most of his attention must now be applied to dealing with the complaints of the inhabitants of Gretel, and getting his light troops to put their trousers back on. Issuing from the village is a ragged line of irregular infantry carrying an array of very chubby local lasses over their shoulders: as it transpires, they are, quite literally, bringing booty back.

Meanwhile, Death, finally, has had enough - there is really no work to do here, and he is being menaced by a corpulent cannibal with a large appetite and short attention span. Hefting his scythe, Death disappears off to Moravia in a puff of smoke and a hollow 'pop!' Alone, Famine sits on the grass; in the distance he can hear the sounds of birds, the occasional volley of musketry, and the clang of anvils. He whistles tunelessly for a while, and then stuffs the end of his cloak into his mouth. After a few chews he spits it out and then gazes hungrily at his forearm.

As the day draws to a close, Barry-Eylund stands with his staff, watching the last of the Nabstrian troops disappear into the distance. The Graf ostentatiously takes in a large lungful of air.
'Smell that air, men: remember it - that's the smell of victory'.
'To be honest, Sir', pipes up one of his staff officers, 'I thought that victory might smell a bit better'.
The Graf nods: 'That's the irregulars - they'll be downwind in a minute'.
As Barry-Eylund orders out his cavalry picquets, the Nabstrians trudge sadly back towards the frontier. Another victory for the Wilhelmites!

Dungeons!

Nabstria - the dungeons of the Burgrave's fortress, Falkensteinburg. Dank. Deep. Drowned in darkness. This place has an evil reputation. Legends tell that this was an ancient fastness of the nibelungen, or dark dwarves: these dwarves mined the shadow places of the earth for precious things. But they delved too deep, and they delved too greedily; and they broke the plumbing. And a great evil flooded up from the depths; and it smelt really bad, and it flooded all of the floors, and the dwarves left because their wives nagged them until they moved somewhere nicer.

The ancient Kings of Nabstria:
 a powerful argument for democracy

Later, these dark passages were used by the ancient Kings of the tribes of the Nabstiri as a secret place to hide unspeakable things that were 'Best Not Seen By Man', or at least, best not seen by their wives. But then their wives, searching for towels, found these passages and the dirty things within, and they wailed, gnashed their teeth, and called the Kings of the Nabstiri 'Dirty old men who would go blind and whose bits would drop off' and the Kings were forced to dispose of these things, and the passages were blocked up, and they were lost to history.

It was in the reign of the present Burgrave's great grandfather that the underground passages were found again. Used initially as a place to store salted leeches, they were later converted into a resting place for those foolish enough to believe that, when the Burgrave said that he wanted 'honest, open opinions' on his latest policies, what he wanted were honest, open opinions. It is in this place that Burgrave Falco now incarcerates the enemies of the state: revolutionaries; Italians; anyone that mentions the Burgravina's facial hair. It is here that King Wilhelm of Gelderland is now held: and here he shall stay until he agrees to announce an end to the War of the Spanish Suck Session on terms acceptable to the Burgrave.

Colonel Zeigler arrives in the dungeons and approaches King Wilhelm's cell. Terrible sounds issue from within: strangled cries and sobs: 'No, in God's name I beg you - no more!'. Zeigler turns to the wincing sentry.
'Are we successful yet?'
The soldier shakes his head, sadly. There is more wailing and gagging.
'They are working the King hard, it seems', says the Colonel.
'That's the servants cleaning out the King's chamber pot, Sir: the King is still at breakfast'.
Zeigler is apoplectic: 'God's wounds - this is a prison not a hostelry'.
'We've been quite harsh on him, Sir: nothing but muesli and fruit juice.'
Zeigler storms off. Truthfully, things have not gone according to plan. Despite ingenious forms of torture doled out by the Burgrave's Sicilian Chief of Police, Wilhelm refuses to crack. In fact, there is a suspicion that he might even be enjoying himself. The only words that the King seems able to utter are 'More biscuits, please'. Perhaps the only source of real inconvenience for the King are the regular visits to his cell by Miss Nora Hindquarters, who, having checked that Wilhelm is properly restrained to his bed, then repeatedly kicks him in his conkers, on the basis that, as an activity, 'it never gets old.'

The dungeons of Falkensteinburg: poor views and no
 tea-making facilities - no stars. 

In the Burgrave's council chamber, a fractious debate is in full flow: there is little agreement on how things should now precede. Arguments that the King should be ransomed back to Gelderland for his weight in gold are rejected as 'ludicrous' on the basis that such a sum of gold does not exist in the whole of Europe. It is not entirely clear, in any case, that anyone in Gelderland actually wants him back. Following Nabstria's announcement of the capture of the King, both Bachscuttel and Rotenburg issue strenuous denials, arguing that all Nabstria has done is to create a ridiculous facsimile of the King by putting a walrus in clothes. Nabstria's response of showing Wilhelm in public seems in the minds of most actually to confirm, rather than undermine, this assertion. In Gelderland, the failure of the King to appear in public for a week initially piques the curiosity of some, but the Royal Chamberlain then announces that the King is fit and well, and has merely become wedged in a doorway - and that as soon as he has slimmed down enough to free himself, he will return straight away to the business of government. Indeed, the news that Wilhelm might be unable to exercise the reins of power for a spell has seen a dramatic rise in business confidence within the Kingdom and the sudden hope that the War of the Spanish Suck Session might be brought to a more speedy conclusion.

Above the hubbub of conflicting opinions, Bishop Munschrugge calls for silence. 'If we cannot use King Wilhelm in the way that we had planned, my Burgrave, then can we not make use of the information provided by Miss Hindquarters?
'What information is this?' pipes up Graf Decksluder, for once not banging on about the advantages of contingent maritime power in the joint littoral environment.
Second Councillor Hubert von Wornitzdaun, stands. 'I have seen Miss Hindquarters' report: the Gelderland capital may be surrounded by strong walls of the latest military fashion; but there is a weakness. There exists a little used postern gate in the walls on the eastern side. From there, it is possible to reach the mechanism that controls the main gate. A body of elite troops, well disciplined and well motivated, might be able to exploit this.'
'Yes, yes', says Graf Decksluder, 'but what about our troops?'
Wornitzdaun nods. 'If the force were commanded by an officer of vigour and enterprise, then that might suffice. Perhaps Colonel Zeigler, the man who captured King Wilhelm, would be just the man for the job'.
'Have you asked him?', asks Munschrugge.
Wornitzdaun nods: 'I broached the subject with him this morning when I encountered him in the courtyard.'
'Did he agree?'
'I couldn't quite hear what he said, but the hand gestures suggested that he wasn't keen.'
'Could he be incentivised?' asks Graf Decksluder: 'perhaps we could threaten him with Miss Hindquarters - show him the state of Wilhelm's conkers.'

As the debates rage in the council chamber, a dishevelled officer of Hussars hurries in waving a letter.
'My Lord, my lord! News from General von Rumpfler - our forces have engaged those of Bachscuttel!'
Bishop Munschruge takes the proffered missive and opens it, eager to learn who has triumphed: perhaps the judgement of battle has resolved Nabstria's strategic quandary .....

Kidnapped!

It is morning, in the guest room of the Wobbling Dog Inn, not far from the Gelderland-Nabstria border. The room is the most spacious in the inn; but at the moment it seems curiously confined. This is unsurprising, of course, since the room contains the comatose form of Wilhelm of Gelderland: King; Knight Commander of the Order of St Theresa; and colossal lard-arse.* This latter item rests uncomfortably in a four poster bed, and looms ominously over the supine form of a handsome young woman - Nora Hindquarters; winsome actress; Wilhelm's new mistress; and unknown to Wilhelm, a Nabstrian spy. Nora has had a difficult night of it. Promised by King Wilhelm a 'rollercoaster ride of pleasure and excitement', the actress has experienced something more akin to a short sedan chair ride of dampness and discomfort. If one could create an appropriate metaphor for the the previous nights activities, it would that of a small skiff in a heavy swell, knocking repeatedly against the side of a monstrously large galleon. If the galleon were very sweaty that is, and snored. Really badly. Nor, on reflection, was there much of a swell. Nora has been tasked with eliciting from Wilhelm information that might be useful for the Nabstrian war effort. Using her feminine wiles and a large bottle of fortified brandy (the latter more for her own consumption), Nora has spent the night pumping Wilhelm hard for information: an unsavoury activity, the consequences of which include some interesting snippets on the defences of Grosschnitzelring as well as other, more glutinous, products. Nora shudders, remembering an accidental gaze up Wilhelm's night gown and an unwanted look at the royal posterior: surprised to see the letters 'Backside' stencilled on it in gothic lettering, it wasn't immediately clear if what she was looking at was a pair of buttocks or a storage facility for morbidly obese Yorkshiremen. Still, having slipped a little something into Wilhelm's drink, Nora has ensured that the King won't be waking up any time soon. Smiling, she counts the time away, awaiting the implementation of the next part of Nabstria's cunning plot.

Downstairs, the King's entourage, an assortment of flunkies and monkeys, amuse themselves in the inn, drinking heavily and throwing dominoes at one another. Order is maintained, barely, by the efforts of the local bar maid, Heidi Holl, an intimidating no-nonsense sort of girl with a clear appreciation that the way to a man's heart is through his rib-cage. Outside, the coach drivers occupy themselves making emergency repairs to the suspension of the King's carriage. (Above) The King's guards consist of three units: a platoon of grenadiers drill outside of the inn under the energetic supervision of the guard commander, Colonel Ernst Leopold Rheinfunkt, a Brave but Unpredictable fellow; a platoon of light infantry occupy themselves on a hill beyond the barn, taking a few pot shots at local fauna. A second platoon of light infantry has not yet arrived. They have been charged with carrying the King's commode, a bulky item of reinforced Kurlandian iron: the men take some succour from the fact that, however heavy their burden, it is unlikely to be more substantial than that which is imposing itself on Nora Hindquarters. A few local farmers tend their fields and livestock. They are unperturbed by their new visitors - being pig farmers, the snuffling, grunting, and trumping associated with Wilhelm's presence is nothing out of the ordinary.

(Above) Ooooh, but what's this! The second part of the Nabstrian plan swings into action: an elite force of troops has infiltrated the border and now approaches the inn: their task - kidnap Wilhelm, and return him post-haste to the dungeons of Falkensteinburg! The force consists of three platoons. There is a platoon of the newly raised Nabstrian Foreign Regiment, regulars in lovely white uniforms; but they are accompanied by two platoons of a new type of Nabstrian soldier: rangers! With a Bachscuttel navy imminent and the interdiction of his sea lines of communication a real possibility, Burgarve Falco has ordered the rapid formation of an expeditionary force to defend his far flung holdings in New Mittelheim. Before being shipped off to New Mittelheim, the force has been entrusted with this important mission. The rangers are an irregular force, formed from the worst kind of scum: criminals, villians, ex-politicians. Commanded by the polish soldier of fortune Captain Jaroslav Glosgau, the rangers have been hastily trained as scouts, a process that has seen bemused Nabstrians accosted by green-clad soldiers, saying 'dib, dib, dib', and asking if they can help them with odd jobs around the house or garden.

The force as a whole is commanded by Colonel Zeigler, an Unpredictable Backstabber. Zeigler plans a two pronged attack. (Above top) The regulars form a two deep firing line and move to engage the Gelderland grenadiers and light troops; (above, right) the two units of rangers begin a rapid sweep to the right to take the inn from an unexpected direction.

The early fight goes well for Nabstria. Being rather too unpredictable for his own good, Rheinfunkt moves a little distance from his own troops and is spotted by the Nabstrian regulars: a volley crashes out and, before you know it, instead of covering himself in glory, Rheinfunkt gets covered in his own brains. Still, the Colonel's untimely expiration seems to have no effect on the morale of his troops. Being phlegmatic, they view the glass as being half-full, unlike their Colonel's skull: they haven't so much lost an officer, as much as gained a promotion slot. Suitably inspired, volleys from the Gelderland light troops and grenadiers combine to inflict heavy casualties on the Nabstrian Foreign Regiment. With cries of 'Retreat!', 'Flee!' and 'Help, this attack is rubbish' the surviving Nabstrian regulars fall back beyond the hill (Above, top).

(Above, left) Nevertheless, the Nabstrians press their attack. Glosgau's rangers move up behind the inn, but, clearly having failed to obtain their badges for excellence in camouflage, they are spotted! The Gelderland infantry exchange fire with them for a while. Inside the inn, Wilhelm's flunkies hear the commotion and decide that someone should be sent out to find out what's going on. Old Fritz is pushed outside to see what the commotion is (above, middle). Blind to the festivities, indeed, blind to everything since he is, in actuality, blind, Old Fritz steps out of the door of the inn. What he should then have said, of course, is something along the lines of 'Jupiter's nuts! There's a contingent of heavily armed Nabstrian rangers heading for the inn! Alarm! Danger! To Arms! Get with it! Tool up!' Instead, Old Fritz pauses for a moment, comments 'Blimey, it's still dark out' and returns to the warm comfort of the inn. Still, with the Nabstrian regulars driven off, things don't look too critical. With no sign yet of the King, his minions arm themselves with swords, pistols and dominoes, and prepare to the hold the inn until the King is ready to make his escape.

(Right, to the left) Zeigler makes his move. The first ranger platoon rushes towards the doors; the second takes position behind the walls of the field, engaging the Gelderland light troops with musketry. In a brisk melee for control over the door handle, Old Fritz gets what he deserves and is pummelled to the ground, forcing one of the rangers to give up his badge for helping the elderly. The rangers burst through the door into the inn! Upstairs, Nora prepares for her rescue. She dresses herself quickly, before rolling Wilhelm off the bed. Outside the inn, the Gelderland Grenadiers gird themselves for a counter-attack into the inn: with a 'Hooah!' they fix bayonets and prepare to get medieval on the Nabstrian interlopers.

The result is a Gelderland disaster of epic, Homeric proportions. The rangers assault into the ground floor of the inn sweeping aside one of the clumps of Gelderland civilians. One ranger reaches a window, and, seeing the grenadiers massing outside, looses a shot into them - one grenadier spins to the ground, gurgling in a fountain of blood. Shot at close quarters, the grenadiers scream like Rotenburg conscripts and quit the field. About the only thing medieval about their performance is the way that they bravely Sir Robin their way down the road, having first stolen the King's coach (below, top).



As it transpires, the only real man amongst the Gelderland defenders turns out to be the inn's serving wench, Heidi. As more rangers burst into the inn, she uses a pistol to dispatch one ranger; a tankard to dispatch another; and a third is consigned to Hell with an impressive combination of imagination, a quantity of dominoes and some remarkable manual dexterity. Sadly for Heidi, the rangers are made of sterner stuff than the Gelderland grenadiers and their morale holds - as her compatriots are shot, hacked, or captured, Heidi is finally driven out of the inn (above, middle) and then taken prisoner. In the interim, the first Gelderland light platoon counter attacks, giving the rangers a good biffing; only to be thrashed, in turn by the second ranger platoon, which rushes into the inn.



Still, all might not be quite lost. The second Gelderland light infantry platoon has arrived! (below) Dropping the commode, with a hippety hop they storm through the window of the inn.



But it all comes apart faster than the stitching on Wilhelm's britches! After a brief fight, Zeigler himself stabs one of the light troops in the back, and the Gelderlander's morale collapses. With cries of 'Run!', 'Help!', and 'Chase me, chase me!' they rout robustly from the field of battle. Still, the fight has not been an easy one. In the end, their are only three Nabstrian regulars and two rangers left: just enough, with the aid of a crow bar and a wheel barrow, to extract Wilhelm from the inn, and propel him towards the frontier! As Nora views the snoring King wedged into the wheelbarrow, looking for all the world like a hippo perched on a flower pot, she reflects on a few suitable words to sum up the sight: something with pathos; or bathos, perhaps; something that encapsulates the ephemeral nature of earthly power, the perils of hubris, and  the strange machinations of fickle fate. Sadly, time is pressing, so she confines herself to kicking him in his conkers, and with that, the little troupe heads off rapidly to the frontier. King Wilhelm is taken!








* This strange phenomenon was studied by the famous mathematician, Dr Lukas Wurmer from the University of Wittenburg. He refered to it as the SIDRAT effect, since every room with Wilhelm in it felt markedly smaller on the inside than it appeared to be from the outside.

There's dirty work afoot!

     And so, dear reader, we find ourselves mid-morning on a lovely summer's day, somewhere in the Kingdom of Gelderland. It is a bucolic scene: lush greenery; the gentle swaying of trees; the twitter of birds; all interrupted only by the irate chattering of a squirrel whose other half has been caught hiding his nuts where he shouldn't. But hang on, what's this? Our reverie is interrupted by the jingling of harness and the creaking of wheels.

(Right) It's a coach! But not any old coach. It's clear from the asthmatic wheezing of the horses that the carriage is heavily burdened, either by an emergency army-sized delivery of lard, or by that globulous wobble-bottom King Wilhelm of Gelderland. Sadly for the locals, the livery on the coach indicates that it is the latter. The King has been hastening eastwards, his passing churning the roads, and quite a few stomachs as well. Few things there are at the moment that can induce Wilhelm to leave the safety of Grosschnitzelring: pies, obviously; rumpy-pumpy; rumpy-pumpy with pies. True to form, Wilhelm is on a promise. Tired of the attentions of his current mistress, the tedious Irish actress Anne O'Dyne, the King has been contacted by the luscious, lewdsome Nora Hindquarters, until lately the paramour of Hieronymous von Rumpfler, commander of the Nabstrian army. Having labelled von Rumpfler dismissively as 'the mole' because of his rather random attempts at blind nocturnal tunnelling, Nora has invited the King to a secret assignation in an inn close to the frontier. After laying mammoth siege to his commode, the King has rushed as fast as he can westwards, bringing with him a small guard of Gelderland troops and a large quantity of 'Mister Stay-Puffed' under-britch plumpers.

(Left) But hang on: what's this! Amidst the greenery, the gentle countryside sounds are interrupted by the soft rattle of military equipment, alongside some suppressed giggles, and a whispered 'Let's do him now!' I spy some Nabstrian scouts!

Stung by defeats at Zorninhaf and Grosse Varnische, and with a military crisis emerging as obviously as King Wilhelm's belly button in a pair of under-britches, Burgrave Falco of Nabstria has hatched a plot to win the war by less direct means: for Miss Hindquarters is a double-agent; the meeting is a trap; and the whole enterprise is a nefarious plot that has as its objective the kidnapping of King Wilhelm! Stoked by enthusiastic hope and the reading of too many romantic novels, the early plans envisage replacing the King with a pliant body-double who can then be instructed to announce an end to the war. This plan is quickly dropped when it becomes obvious that it will take too long to find a talking walrus. Now, the objective is simply to abduct the King, and force him, on pain of death, to order an end to hostilities. What could possibly go wrong?