Happy Christmas!

Christmas, they say, is "the most wonderful time of the year". But that probably depends upon exactly where one is celebrating it. In Prussia, for example, or other areas in the civilised parts of Europe, there is no doubt some truth to this adage. Christmas in such places probably has more of the sorts of things usually associated with having a good time: mulled wine, potato dumplings, stollen, and red cabbage for those interested in some family feasting; or heavy battle, bayonet charges, and cruelty to captured Russian prisoners for those interested in a more active festive period.

'Foreigners: Coming Over Here at Christmas, Stealing Our Chairs' 

In Mittelheim, on the other hand, Christmas could truthfully only be described as "relatively speaking, the least violent time of the year". Overall, most times in Mittelheim for ordinary folk vary from the deeply unpleasant and usually quite painful, to the mediocre and probably quite damp. Christmas is thus "most wonderful" only because even the most venal and arbitrary of aristocrats tend to take the day off. In a Mittelheim Christmas, 'tis the season to be less miserable than usual. Surprisingly, this sentiment hasn't been turned into a jolly festive song. And so, if Christmas in Mittelheim is a time for good cheer, it is a good cheer from the locals when doing terrible things to any foreigners that they can find.

As this year winds slowly to an end, have a happy Christmas; and we hope that the coming year brings you more in the way of joy and less in the way of enemy siege parallels.

Warning, Not to Scale!

The purposes of a siege are manifold - the seizing of a point of strategic importance, for example; the chance to tie down a portion of the enemy army; the opportunity to force the enemy to march to the relief of said position and so wrest the initiative. But in Mittelheim, one of the other advantages, theoretically, of a siege, would be the opportunity to procure some really big pieces of artillery and to make some really very loud explosions without being shouted at, or having one's stuff confiscated. Indeed, the luxuriant heft of the Nabstrian siege park has already been alluded to in previous editions of this publication: such a collection of heavy metal has surely not been seen since Princess Caroline of Bachscuttel's corsets were last laid out for cleaning.

On the other hand, there has been rather less said on the subject of the contribution made to this siege by the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel . For this omission there is a reason. Envious of the size of Burgrave Falco of Nabstria's ordnance (not a phrase that could ever be said in polite Fenwickian society), the prince had perused the catalogues of several manufacturers of heavy artillery and mortars. One, in particular, took his eye -  described as a 32lb siege mortar, this weapon seemed just the ticket. 32lb sounded quite big: easily as much, for example, as one of King Wilhelm's buttocks.

Alas, (above) the piece delivered was less impressive than hoped for. It was either quite small, or else permanently quite far away, and looked less like a siege mortar than it did a chocolate log with a vase stuck on the end. For Prince Rupprecht, this disappointment chafed. It was not the chafing of the intensity, say, of putting on a fur hat and discovering that it was in fact a small and angry honey badger; but it was not far from being comparable to going for a long gallop on one's horse before discovering that one had earlier inadvertently tipped iron filings into one's underbritches.

Nevertheless, since it was the only Bachscuttel contribution to the siege force of the Spasmodic Sanction, there was nothing for it but to crack on. And so, for day after day, the crew of the mortar have been firing it at the enemy, more from a sense of duty than any real belief that it will do any damage. Lobbing munitions into the fortress from this mortar seems rather like presenting facts or objective evidence to Prince Rupprecht - ultimately pointless, but one feels the need to go through the motions. The crewmen have taken to coughing loudly as each round is fired, in order to make the explosion seem more impressive.

Whilst the Bachscuttel bombardment might be, metaphorically, administering to their Fenwickian enemies merely some minor tweaks to their noses, the weight of the Nabstrian attack is much more serious, comprising, as it were, a persistent and heavy flicking of the Fenwickian genitals with a quite substantial ruler. These eye-watering consequences are likely to become even more serious as work continues apace on the third siege parallel ...

Mine! All Mine!

'I'm just saying', says Colonel Niall Pointe to the Gelderland pioneers that stand in front of him, 'that this operation would proceed wi' more urgency if ye did more digging and less weeding'.
One of the pioneers, a subaltern, nods. 'Indeed, sir. But the lord Horace de Saxe was most insistent that the foundation of success in such enterprises was preparation - in this case, weeding and mulching'.
The colonel sighs and shakes his head. 'So, how then is the tunnel progressing?' The soldiers in front of him pause. The pause gives Pointe additional intimations of concern. Reassuring answers to his question might include such responses as 'Very well, sir'; or 'Generally, excellent'; or 'Solid progress sir, but we've had a few problems with some troublesome moles'. The subaltern's actual answer to his question, if it doesn't actually set the alarm ringing in Pointe's mind, certainly conjures, metaphorically, the strong smell of smoke and a desire to determine the whereabouts of a really loud bell.
'What tunnelling?' the subaltern replies.

'So', says Colonel Pointe, 'Ye haven't been digging a tunnel at all?'
The pioneers look uncomfortable. 'There was all the mulching to do' says one. 'And the broad beans'.
'And also', says the subaltern, 'we were all a bit run down'.
'You were ill?' asks Pointe.
'No, sir: I mean that we got run down. By Lord Saxe's carriage. He sits in it, but there's actually no one driving the horses in front'.
(Below) One of the miners points at the head of the mine itself.
'And even the digging has been difficult, sir. There is this large structure in the way'.

Pointe crosses his arms truculently. 'That', says Pointe slowly, 'is a mine'.
The soldier looks impressed. 'It's yours?'
'No, it's a mine', replies Pointe slowly.
The soldier looks confused. 'But you own it?'
'No one owns it', says the colonel scowling.
The soldier furrows his brows. 'So we stole it, then?'
'No', says Pointe firmly. 'Look, laddie. Previous miners dug this mine; but they dug it in the wrong direction. They went', he turns, pointing back through the siege lines, 'that way, instead of', he turns and points to the fortress, 'that way'.
The soldier looks philosophical. 'Well, sir, it's an easy mistake to make'.
'No. No.' says the colonel, 'It really isnae, laddie. Of all the problems that might occur in siege mining, digging it under one's own siege lines and blowing up a local tavern isnae high on the list. A shortage of timber to shore up the roof - that would be a reasonable problem; or excessive rain; or, running into an enemy counter mine. But digging in the entirely opposite direction to that required - that is not a reasonable problem. Ye just take a compass and dig in the direction that heads towards the enemy walls. Then, once ye reach the walls, ye put barrels of gunpowder in it'.
'Whoa, whoa!' says the subaltern.  'Gunpowder? That sounds really dangerous! I mean, one spark and the whole lot could go off, sir!'
The colonel gestures incredulously. 'That's the point! The whole point is that the gunpowder goes off! Then the wall comes down; and we go through the gap! So, laddie, ye need to go into the mine-head and down the ladder. Then ye dig that way!'
'But what about the hole we've already been digging?' pipes up one of the pioneers.
The colonel looks less horrified. 'A hole? Where? Is it under the enemy wall?'
The subaltern points towards the fortress. 'Not exactly'.

The pioneer's use of the term 'not exactly' is, ironically, itself inexact. The actual geographical relationship between the Gelderland hole and the Fenwickian fortress wall is one that would place the phrase 'not exactly' more accurately in the category of 'not at all'. Pointe stares out into the no-man's land between the two armies. He can just see a green-coated Gelderland pioneer standing amidst a pile of earth. Though he can't be certain, it appears that the soldier might be unpotting a shrub.
'How', says Pointe, trying to control his temper, 'is that hole going to help bring down the enemy wall?'
'Well, sir, I suppose that it won't. But, return here in spring and I think that you might be delighted by the marvellous blend of colours and textures that we will have created'.
'Tell that man to get out of the hole and then fill it in', orders Pointe.
'Yes sir!' comes the sad reply from the pioneers.
The colonel pauses. 'Actually', he continues, 'cancel that.'
'Yes sir!' comes the enthusiastic reply.
'Instead', says the colonel, 'tell that man to stay in the hole, and then fill it in'.

Some People They Call Me Horrees!

From a position in the first parallel of the siege works, the commander of the attacking force, Brevet Brigadier General Ernst Leopold von Rheinfunkt, surveys the progress thus far. In general, (or rather, brevet general), he is not displeased with the situation. The Nabstro-Gelderland army is continuing to develop the third parallel of trenches; he has ordered a second attempt to mine the enemy walls; and there is, as yet, no immediate rumour of the arrival of a Fenwickian relief army. 

Rheinfunkt removes his hat and carefully mops his brow. This involves him wiping a point slightly to the right of his ear. The general, in an earlier battle of the Wars of the Gelderland Succession, was in receipt of a terrible head wound from enemy musket fire. This wound has given those features above his neck a rather more random relationship to one another than is usual. It also carried away a fair helping of those parts of his mind concerned with self-doubt, rational calculus, and the dislike of vegetables.

As the general watches another volley from a nearby artillery position, the cannonballs reassuringly sailing towards the enemy fortress, there comes from behind him a loud, though polite, cough. Rheinfunkt looks behind him; an action that requires rather less in the way of the turning of his head than is usual for most.

'Sir', says a staff officer, bowing. 'You have a visitor from Nabstrian headquarters. It is none other, sir, than the famed military commentator Horace de ...'

'What! What!' interrupts Rheinfunkt, looking alarmed. 'No! No! Tell him I'm indisposed! Tell him I'm dead! Tell him I'm indisposed because I'm dead! Tell him ...'

'Well, hello, my good sir!' says an approaching voice.

Rheinfunkt sighs. Attempting to make the best of things, he tries to hide his disappointment and, for political reasons, put on his face an expression somewhat happier than he feels. This produces an arrangement of his features that, to a stranger, would look like those of someone who, after finding that he has been hit by a cannonball, also discovers that his wife has attached to it a request for divorce.
'De Saxe!' says the general. 'Words can't describe how I feel to see you!' This isn't quite true: there are certain arrangements of the words "carriage" "shove your" and "up your arse" that might communicate well enough Rheinfunkt's feelings. But, in a coalition operation, one must put petty dislikes to one side and grease the wheels of inter-allied diplomacy.

In Horace de Saxe's case, some literal greasing of the wheels might be in order, given the poor state of his wicker carriage. Brother of the more famous Maurice, Horace has inherited some fraternal features - four limbs. for example, and a nose with the regular number of holes in it - but none of the ones that would be really useful for a soldier; like courage, intellect, or a willingness to buy a round. Horace's reputation as a military theorist is built upon his slim volume Mes Gueules de Bois ('My Hangovers'), a tome with the same relationship to insightful military philosophy as a ham sandwich might have to Leonardo da Vinci's homework.
'Well this is splendid!' says de Saxe, cheerfully. 'A proper siege - how exciting!'
'You haven't touched anything have you?' says Rheinfunkt suspiciously.
De Saxe looks hurt. 'I have my trousers on!' he replies huffily.
'No', replies the general. 'I mean here - at my siege. You haven't fiddled with anything; or moved anything around; or loosened something'.
'I have touched nothing' replies de Saxe. 'I have simply been dispensing some of my wisdom'.
'Wisdom?' says Rheinfunkt, looking worried. 'Dispensing?'
'Indeed, sir. I have been conversing with your miners'.

'You have been advising my engineers on mining operations?' asks the general suspiciously. 'Are you an expert on such activities?'
'I have some knowledge of the relevant skills' replies de Saxe.
'You mean that you have been trained as an engineer, and have perhaps observed siege mining work in other contexts?'
'I mean that I have done quite a bit of gardening in my time'.
'Well', says the general, trying to make the best of things, 'well, I suppose that both do require a certain quantity of digging'.
'Yes', replies Horace. 'And also there's the bulbs. And the ornamental ponds'.
The brigadier chokes. 'Hold on a second de Saxe: there's something at the back of my mind'.
'Another musket ball, perhaps?' inquires Horace solicitously.
'No, no. I've just remembered that I need to send my Chief Engineer, Colonel Niall Pointe, to inspect the progress of my miners...'
'Excellent!' says de Saxe. 'He can help with the carrots'.

The Fortress!

As we leave, dear reader, the violent and morally questionable activities of the Mittelheim forces in America, we return our gaze to the events at Fort Pippin. More specifically, we cast our eyes upon the ongoing siege taking place there. Much to the chagrin of the besieging forces of the Spasmodic Sanction, the Fenwickian defenders are exhibiting a rather unMittelheim-like determination to defend their positions; if not to the last man, then at least to the last of the really unpopular men.

A previous report in this publication has noted the history of Fort pippin. Suffice it to say that this fortress is the chief stronghold of the Empire of Grand Fenwick, and its fate is of considerable signifiance to the course of the war. (Below) The fortress features some of the very latest fashions in modern fortifications: an outer glacis; intermediate ravelins; and a main wall featuring artillery bastions. At least, that is what any respectable European officer might call them. Here, the technicalities of military engineering have been reduced to a series of such observations as 'Crikey, those outside things are really zig-zaggy'; and 'so, are these things hexagons, or polygons, or .. uh ... mostly-gons'.

That the fort itself is defended by Fenwickians, the Spartans of Mittelheim, should also be an advantage; although recent history suggests that, whilst they are splendid soldiers in open field battles, their performance in other circumstances has, like Scottish lasagne, tended to disappoint. 

(Below) The main approach to Fort Pippin is also heavily defended. Any attempt to take the position by direct assault would surely be doomed to failure. This isn't, intrinsically of course, a reason why a Mittelheim army wouldn't try it anyway, but in this case even such forces as those of the Spasmodic Sanction have taken cause to think twice. Neither of these thoughts took very long, it is fair to say, and both were mainly concerned with cake and wenches in cakes. But even in such circumstances it was evident to the besiegers that there might be more effective, and much less terminal, ways of taking the fort than a mad rush towards the main entrance. Once the obvious plans had been considered (firing a cannon into the fort and then knocking on the gate to ask for their ball back; or dressing in women's clothing and pretending to be late for a party), the only option seemed to be a regular military operation.

(Below) Early attempts scored highly on imagination, if rather lower on military practicality. Artillery positions, it turned out, really needed to face the enemy if they were to be fully effective - who knew? And wooden horses needed to somewhat larger than life size. Finally, the Spasmodic Sanction army recognised that siege operations might require a proper military professional. In consequence, they have hired another mercenary French-Scottish engineer - in this case one Colonel Niall Pointe. For this reason, across the field, the Gelderland-Nabstrian siege has finally been proceeding apace. With the Fenwickian victory at Wuppenhas, the chances of the arrival of a Fenwickian relief force has greatly increased, so the siege must be actively prosecuted if it is to stand any chance of success.

(Above, right) Under the watchful eye of Colonel Pointe, the first parallel and accompanying batteries have been established. From this positon, a sap has been pushed forward and the second parallel, too, has been contructed. These have been built quite speedily: if there is one thing that Mittelheim soldiers are keen on, it's creating conditions that reduce the likelihood of being shot. The beginnings of the third parallel can now be seen. From this position, the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction are within measurable distance of the enemy's defensive glacis. One more sap will allow the attackers to 'crown' the glacis and bring forward another battery to pound the main walls and prepare for the final assault.

(Above) Troops man the first and second parallels. The Fenwickian defensive fire has been curiously ineffective. In the the far distance can be seen the head of a mine that Pointe has ordered to be dug. The success of this mining operation is likely to hinge on a combination of hard work and a strong grasp of geometry: neither of which is the strong suit of Mittelheim troops. Actually, only those mining operations that hinge on obesity and guesswork could normally be considered their strong suit. And even then, it would less of a "suit", and more a pair of heavily patched under-britches.

An Audience With the Prince!

Barry-Eylund's meeting with the prince does not seem to begin especially well.
'Incompetent nincompoop!' expectorates Rupprecht. 'Foolish lackwit! Reckless half-witted donkey-brain!'
The general nods sagely. 'You do me too great an honour, my lord'.
'I do?' says Rupprecht, looking confused.
'Why yes, sire.'
'Bone-headed untalented amateur!' Rupprecht continues, looking unsure.
'I am embarrassed by your effusive praise, my prince' says Barry-Eylund, bowing low.
'But ... but I think I'm insulting you', replies Rupprecht. 'I think. I'm almost sure that I was going to remove you from command of my ... oooh, what's that that's just fallen out of your pocket?'

The general looks around with exaggerated care. 'Fallen out of my pocket? I don't think that ... but here!' he says, picking something up and brandishing it. 'Why, it seems to be a plump and tasty bratwurst sausage of the very best quality!'
'I command you to give it here!' orders Rupprecht, looking for a short moment like a proper prince, and exercising a measure of sausage-related gravitas and authority. As Rupprecht then begins to gobble down the bratwurst, he says around mouthfuls of protuberant pork produce 'What were we talking about?'
'I think', says the general, 'that you were about to promote me'.
'Was I?' says Rupprecht with a look of gluttonous, not to say glutinous, confusion. 'Was I? But our plans involving herr Agorn are in ruins; and I've lost half of my new navy; and you suffered an appalling defeat at the battle of Wuppenhas!'
Barry-Eylund nods sagely. 'All of which my lord, leads us to a conversation regarding the ways in which you will be able to buy more pigs because I have been able to economise substantially on our military spending'.
Fecklenburg rolls his eyes.

'Fecklenburg!' says Rupprecht, 'what say you. For you are my right hand'.
'Thank you, sir' replies the chamberlain.
'Of course, you’re quite a grubby right hand', continues the prince, 'with poorly manicured nails and suspicious calluses. But you're all I've got'.
'You are too kind, my lord', says Fecklenburg. 'My advice is that we should buy off our adversaries and end this war'.
Barry-Eylund shakes his head. 'No, sir!' he says decisively. 'You should allow me to fight them again, and kill them all!'
Rupprecht considers this. 'Let's compromise', he replies finally.
'Compromise is good', says the chamberlain.
Rupprecht nods. 'Yes, we'll give them the money and then kill them'.
'Or', says the general. 'let's save ourselves the money and just do the latter?'
'Yes, yes', says Rupprecht, 'that sounds wise'.
Before Fecklenburg can say anything, Barry-Eylund reverses from the chamber, bowing obseqiously. With a surreptitious sly wink to the chamberlain, the general exits before what passes for Rupprecht's intellect can reveiw the outcome of their conversation.

Later, with the audience over and General Barry-Eylund now hurrying with all haste again to join his army, Rupprecht is able to consider turning his attention to some other, more pleasurable, diversions. Steffi, his mistress, awaits him in one of the smaller, and more out of the way, bedrooms of the schloss.

'Well, my dear', says a clearly exhausted prince, 'thank goodness that that unpleasant business is over. What a shock to my system'.
'You mean sacking Barry-Eylund?' asks Steffi, clearly impressed at this sudden and quite surprising bout of manly decisiveness on the part of her princely paramour.
'No', replies Rupprecht, shaking his head. 'I mean having to work. Almost four minutes of hard thinking and decisioning. I most certainly need a lie down'.
'But I thought that you were going to sack Barry-Eylund. I'm quite sure that you said that that was what you intended to do'.
The prince nods. 'I suppose it was my original intention', he admits. 'But then, who would lead my army? I'm a lover not a fighter'.
'You're really more of a sleeper than a lover', says Steffi. 'And a snorer'.
Rupprecht shrugs. 'Anyway, I'm here now. No more work; and I managed to dodge that old woman that keeps trying to follow me'.
'Your wife, my lord', says Steffi. 'That is your wife'.

Schloss Tanvaund!

Schloss Tanvaund: hunting lodge of the Prince of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, Rupprecht. Built in the mists of time - so, about 12 years ago - the lodge was originally constructed by Rupprecht's predecessor as Prince Palatine, his brother Heinrich ('The Wise and Able'). Rupprecht, 'The One in the Attic', doesn't generally spend much time here, the hunting of animals being for him, like most things, rather too much effort. Rupprecht's philosophy, which to be fair is one shared by many members of the aristocracy, is that it doesn't make sense to go through all of the exertions of doing or getting something, especially animals, when there are plenty of people around him that can be ordered to do it on his behalf and that have to pretend to enjoy it.

Rupprecht's presence here is an enforced one, his palace having been damaged by fire. How it got damaged began with the arrival in Pfeildorf of a box of strange fruit sent by Rupprecht's notional ally, the Burgrave of Nabstria, and a conversation between Rupprecht and his Grand Chamberlain, Leopold Von Fecklenburg, that went something like this:

'Fecklenburg - what are these objects?'
'I think, sir, that the note said that they are exotic produce - mangoes to be precise'.
'What's a mango, Fecklenburg - should I be insulted?'
'I don't know what they are, my lord. They are from overseas, like tobacco. So, perhaps one should smoke them?'
'Yes, Fecklenburg: that sounds like fun. I mean, what could go wrong?'

This being Mittelheim, the answer to this question of course, is 'more than one might think'. Difficulties in lighting the mangoes led to some unwise experimentation with accelerents, experiments that resulted in getting the mangoes lit only because they were in a building that was also on fire. Rupprecht was surprisngly philosophical, always having been told that smoking was bad for him.

Rupprecht has been here for a week. Not much hunting or riding actually goes on. The only hunting is the prince's hunt for his slippers and for accomodating chamber maids. The only riding here happens when he's managed to find both of the aforementioned.

In the hallway to Rupprecht's chambers stands Fecklenburg himself, along with the commander of the Palatinate's army, General Graf Redmond von Barry-Eylund. The latter has been summoned here for an interview with the prince. It is likely to be an uncomfortable one, something that Fecklenburg clearly doesn't mind at all.

'The prince is very angry', says the chamberlain with some relish.
'That must make a nice change', replies Barry-Eylund.
'What?' says Fecklenburg, surprised.
'Well', continues the general, 'the only two expressions I've ever previously seen him have were the floppy, corpse like look when he's sleeping or trying to think; or the look of gluttonous lust on his face when he sees a sausage or a shapely pig. Or, especially, a pig shaped like a sausage. So anger must be a nice bit of variety'.
Fecklenburg seems annoyed at the general's lack of concern. 'The prince intends to take you to task for the immoderate evisceration of our army!'
'So, he used the words "evisceration" and "immoderate", did he?'
'Well, no - not exactly. I think his actual words were something like "buggered up"'
The general nods. 'I thought so. Anyway, Fecklenburg, I have devised a sure way to avoid any princely sanctions. Look at this ...'

'Look at what?' says the chamberlain, mystified.
'The sausage, here in my trousers - look at it'.
'General, I ... I'm not sure that I ...'
'No, look, Fecklenburg. I have an actual sausage in my breeches'.
'I don't doubt it, general, but I don't think I need to see any of that sort of thing ...'
'What, no - look. for Beelzebub's sake - feel the weight: it's a quality bratwurst'.
'I .. uh ... I have no reason to doubt the quality, sir but I'm still not ...'
'Look. Forget it. Just wait until we get to the prince, and then you can see what I'm going to do with it'.
Fecklenburg stands back, his eyes narrowing. 'This isn't some obscene Fenwickian thing is it?'