A Little Less Conversation!

'Launch a sortie against them that overwhelms their third parallel; destroys it; and puts back their operations such that our relief army could indeed arrive before the fort falls?'
'Aye, sir, that's what I'm suggesting'.
Captain-Governor Schroedinger-Skatt nods, contemplating this suggestion carefully. From their position on the fortress walls, the captain-general and his two engineering officers, Colonel Dougal Entendre and Major Gordon Sanitaire, grimly survey the enemy's works. The three men have the haggard, haunted look familiar to any who have endured the depredations of an extended siege. Hollow-eyed and emaciated, they ruminate on Entendre's plan.

'Perhaps', says Major Sanitaire weakly 'perhaps we could just wait a little longer?'
'Nay, nay, laddie' Colonel Entendre says sadly. 'We're out of everything. Mustard, napkins, balsamic vinegar; and now, even sausages'.
'We could eat other things', replies the major, 'even ... even ... rats'.
'No' replies the captain-general sternly, 'We cannot'.
The major nods. 'Yes - I suppose eating rats should indeed be beneath us as gentlemen: some things are worse than death. We have already done unspeakable things in the name of survival: Jam instead of mustard; paper instead of napkins; and ... and ... there were the hotdogs - slices of bread instead of a split finger roll.'
'No', says Schroedinger. 'I mean, we can't eat the rats because we've run out of them. Actually, we started eating them before we finished the sausages. Delicious'.
'Aye', agrees the colonel. 'The cook had a special herb rub for them: outstanding'.

The three turn their attention back to the target for the suggested attack: the enemy third parallel.
'It is risky', says the Captain-General.

'Aye sir', the colonel replies. 'But "attack is the best form of defence" they say'.
Schroedinger nods. 'Yes, well "they" presumably are the people who don't actually have to do the attacking, but get to stay behind, drinking coffee'.
'We would need to gather a body o' brave men for the job, certainly sir', says Entendre.
Sanitaire snorts. 'That would be a very small body, sir'.
'Really?'
'Yes, less of a "body" and more of a small frail limb only tenuously attached to a body'.
'Still' says the captain-general, 'A quiet and disciplined advance by our troops - that will surprise the enemy, surely?'
'A quiet and disciplined advance by our troops would also surprise me sir', says the major, sadly.

Schroedinger comes to a decison and turns to Colonel Entendre. 'We must try it', he says decisively. 'We must gain more time. Moreover, the men have heard some digging sounds. It might be that the enemy are again attempting to mine our positions'.
'Are you sure, sir' asks the colonel.
'Well, what about that hole that appeared in front of the wall? That could it have been a mine'.
Entendre looks sceptical. 'I think, sir, that a mine would have been nearer to our walls, surely. And also, have less pot plants. Anyway, they filled it in two days ago'.

Suddenly, there is an enormous explosion! Worse even than if King Wilhelm of Gelderland had broken wind down an unexpectedly large tuba. Dust and debris rains down; in the town, a pall of smoke hangs over a nearby street. Picking himself up off the floor the captain-general peers towards the area; he blasphemes and then says in a shocked tone - 'They .. they’ve blown up the nunnery!'

Parallel Whines!

It is a truth universally acknowleged, that a besieging army in possession of a third parallel must be in want of an assault upon the enemy glacis. Brevet Brigadier General Ernst Leopold von Rheinfunkt, commander of the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction currently besieging Fort Pippin, is considering intently just this topic. (Below) Work continues on the third parallel, with the communication trench well advanced. Gabions have been placed and will soon be covered with earth to complete the connecting trench to the second parallel. Examining through his telescope the progress made on the last of the parallels, Rheinfunkt ruminates on the most efficacious next steps for his army.

'What?' says Horace de Saxe, from his wicker carriage.
'I said "efficacious"', replies the general. 'As in, we must consider the most effective next step'.
'Why do we need plants?' replies Horace. 'Will we be using them as cover for the advance of our troops. Like the king in that play by Shakespeare. You know - M .. M ... ah ... Much Ado About ..um .. a Midsummer... Henry'.
Rheinfunkt sighs. 'That's "herbaceous" - so no'.
It has been a long Christmas, with not much festive cheer for the Nabstrian and Gelderland troops. The rank and file have spent a cold and gloomy time in the trenches. For the officers, some attempt at least was made to lift their spirits with a banquet. Rheinfunkt's cook had promised a "yummy Yule-tide extravaganza". Serving up a lavish dish consisting of a partridge stuffed inside a chicken that was itself stuffed inside a swan, Rheinfunkt was of the opinion that it would have been more enthusiastically received if the chef had first killed the animals. The swan, in particular, had given everyone a very accusatory look.

(Above) Work is also underway to expand the length of the parallel. This will allow artillery to be brought forward and the largest possible assault force deployed in the position. Rheinfunkt is still worried, however. Operations here must be completed as soon as possible; his troops, though, seem to be wasting too much time. The general isn't surprised: he has a low opinion of his men, considering them to be soft and floppy: the snowflakes of generation M. Some, indeed, had deserted when they found that there would be no presents on Christmas morning. For Rheinfunkt, Christmas wasn't about such material things as sweets and spinning tops - it was about character-building traditions: communal singing; church; rickets; religious genocide.
Noting now that some of the troops seem to be knocking off for a rest. Rheinfunkt scowls.
'What time is it, Saxe?' he asks.
Horace fiddles with his watch. 'What time would you like it to be, Rheinfunkt?'
'What?' says the general. 'Well, I think that it might be around three, but ...'
'Three it is,' replies Horace, pushing the hands of his pocket watch to three o'clock and then holding it up for the general's inspection.
'What sort of watch is that?' says Reheinfunkt. 'Doesn't it have a clockwork mechanism?'
'No, no', replies de Saxe. 'It's digital'.

'Digital?'
'Yes, I just use my fingers. That way, in war everything happens for me on time'.

'I don't think ...', says the general, rubbing his temples, 'that it works like that, Saxe. Time just doesn't work like that. There's immutable laws - physics; science; reason; sanity'.

'For success in war', says Saxe sanctimoniously, 'one must think outside of the box'.

'Yes, Saxe. But one must at least recognise that there is a box. What you're in danger of doing is less "thinking outside the box" than it is pretending the box is a sheep from a small village near Dresden and then marrying it. We must continue to approach this operation with professionalism, and with due regard to such constant and critical factors as time, the enemy, and the customs of war. Then, victory will be ours. Our siege progresses; the enemy are trapped; there is no sign yet of the Fenwickian relief force. The enemy are like a tiny shrimp that has been eaten by a nasty fish'.
'Really?'
'Yes - they are in  a very bad plaice'.
'Indeed, general. Just so long as they don't launch a sortie against us that overwhelms our third parallel; destroys it; and puts back our operations such that the enemy relief army could indeed arrive before the fort falls'.
Rheinfunkt sighs. 'You just can't can't help yourself, Saxe, can you ...'

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.