That's a Lovely Breach: I Shall Inform My Dear Friends!

At the breach, the Gelderland attackers make a breakthrough! Implausibly fumbling the combat, the defending Fenwickians are broken faster than King Wilhelm of Gelderland's will power in a shop full of bosom-shaped custards. Blubbering and flubbering, they stream down the nearby access ramp. The other group of routing Fenwickians can now add self-righteous certainty to their emotional mix of stupifying terror and cowardice - seeing a unit of comrades also doing a runner, they no-doubt feel validated in their decision to shift into some spineless sprinting.

Spineless sprinting, of course, should be physiologically quite difficult, but one can always trust troops from the region of Mittelheim to make sure that such impediments as the laws of biology and physics bend to the necessity of a good rout. (Above, bottom) The rout thrusts into the zone of danger yet another Fenwickian company of musketeers. Recognising that now is the best chance to utilise the disorder of the victorious enemy grenadiers, this company also lowers bayonets and charges forwards (below). Behind them, a column of Fenwickian grenadiers moves smartly up. Or rather, not just a company, but the company of Fenwickian grenadiers. Importantly, these are last unbroken Fenwickian troops available to defend this part of the fortress.

(Below) Huzzah! Compensating for the cowardice of their craven cronies, the Fenwickian musketeers drive the enemy grenadiers before them. Bleating and wailing, the Gelderlanders throw aside their muskets and pour back down the breach and into the covered way. Behind them, the first lot of Gelderland routers have continued their gutless gallop, and head in the direction of the second parallel. Lady Luck, who has already swung drunkenly from the arms of the Fenwickians and into those of the Gelderlanders, now waltzes back again.

Death, watching from nearby, takes a few steps back. Lady Luck, booze, and excessive dancing is a mix that hard experience tells him will have a range of predictable outcomes. There will be excessive swings of fate, implausible incidents, far-fetched feats, copious tears, probably finishing in an excessive quantity of non-corporeal chunder. On the subject of events unlikely and implausible, somehow all four of the ladder companies have reached the walls. Such a circumstance can be explained only by the miraculously poor shooting of the defending troops, and the continued advance of an attacking force almost too stupid to feel fear.

(Above) The ladders are placed against the walls and the troops prepare to climb. This process takes longer than might be expected. Unfortunately, the troops being merely almost too stupid to feel fear means that some glimmers of alarm and uncertainty do begin to force their way to the front of the bovine minds of the Gelderland musketeers. There is an awkward pause. Luckily, a poor sense of direction means that most of these concerns eventually get lost on the way. There is a minor outbreak of sudden politeness in some quarters, with a bit of "After you"; "Oh no - I insist, after you"; but soon, the troops begin to climb.

(Above) To the left of the Gelderland line, one of the companies even manages to find a bit of wall that is undefended. Of course, the ladder itself is quite a considerable adversary, what with the troops needing to remember that, once on them, one should face upwards; that the options available for travel should probably be limited to up, and not sideways; and that one might need to use one foot at a time when climbing them, and not, say, both. Still, the officer is quickly standing unopposed on the battlements, motivated by glory or perhaps an earlier chance to change sides. Lady Luck, it seems, may well be flopping back into the arms of the forces of Gelderland. Or is she ... ?

Thrice Unto the Breach - And Stop Bloody Complaining About It, Dear Friends!

The situation in the bastion now certainly favours the defenders. (Below) The attacking Gelderland assault troops are backed up behind the lead companies. But these companies are trapped at the top of the breach, their exit blocked by the arrival of more companies of defending Fenwickian infantry. The spineless Fenwickians, realising that the status quo suits them, maintain their position and, rather than charging their adversaries, content themselves with some musketry and some light mockery. Musket balls, jibes, ribaldry, and some inflammatory thigh slapping are thrown at the enemy. For the Gelderland grenadiers, the physical wounds inflicted by the shooting are as nothing compared to the injuries to their pride caused by the Fenwickian ridicule; not suprising given that none of the nusketry actually hits.

(Below) Realising that risks must be taken if the attack is to succeed, the forward Gelderland companies charge. These risks, of course, are rather unequally distributed. The officers, at the rear, are firmly of the opinion that such risks need to be taken in the service of victory. The frontline troops, on the other hand, view risk as something to be mitigated by such necessary expedients as ducking, fainting, and changing sides. The Gelderlanders hope is to batter their way through the Fenwickian troops and so allow the following infantry into Fort Pippin. The attackers rely upon their steely Grenadier experience and morale to give them sufficient advantage; that, and their propensity for cheating.

(Below) Though they have the advantage in quality and numbers, it takes no time at all for the attacking troops to throw it all away. Less cut and thrust and more slap and tickle, the grenadiers make a mockery of their elite status. In the ensuing melee, the Fenwickians show decidedly more vim, vigour, vavoom and v-word commitment, and the attacking troops are soon broken.

(Above) The grenadiers stream away from fight, routing back down into the covered way. There are plenty more where they came from, however. Girding their loins, or doing other loin-related activities that are mercifully obscured by the bad light, more attacking troops rush up the debris and rubble of the breach. Musktery is exchanged, because why not, though it has the predictable results: a few men are rendered temporarily deaf; one or two are shot with ramrods; but the main effect is simply to improve everyone's morale by hiding the enemy from sight.

Clearly firm believers in the longstanding military principles of mass and maintenance of the aim (though also adherents to less well-known principles as "hit the small ones first" and "hide if things look dangerous"), the grenadiers press forward with the bayonet and attempt once again to break through the defending troops (below). There can be no doubt that this is a critical moment. Probably as critical as the last critical moment; and certainly a lot sweatier.

(Below) Meanwhile, at the other bastion, the assaulting ladder parties have already achieved miracles - it being miraculous, that is, that they seem actually to have reached the walls. Casualties on the advancing troops have been much lighter than expected, thanks to the bad light and risible boggle-eyed shooting of the defending artillery. How hard can it be to hit enemy troops advancing in line, especially when they are advancing across an open field, and waving ladders that, in addition to slowing them down, also provide the same sort of camouflage as carrying large flags emblazoned with the motto "Here I Am - Shoot Me"?

Nevertheless, supporting Fenwickian infantry are also moving up to this bastion as well. Things don't look good for the Gelderlanders - only extraordinary luck, or a sudden catastrophic double entendre,  seem likely to unravel the defences now!

Once More Unto the Breach, Dear Friends!

The Gelderland attackers press the defending company hard! Motivated by their determination, or possibly just the bayonets of the troops behind them, the assault troops advance. Behind the first three companies of grenadiers, more Gelderland troops are massing, pouring over the crowning works, and moving along the enemy firing step. A single Fenwickian company is all that blocks their path. However, to make use of their numbers, the Gelderlanders must burst through this chokepoint created by the damaged bastion.

(Above) At the top of the bastion there is a vicious fight. This physical altercation has the sorts of vocal  expletives, eye-watering disarticulations and painful poking rarely seen outside of King Wilhelm of Gelderland's birthday parties. Despite their best efforts, however, the attacking grenadiers can make no headway and the Fenwickians continue to hold their position. (Below) Indeed, the first company of attackers suffer heavy casualties. Elements of the second company filter forwards to take their place.

(Below) On the other flank, the Gelderland musketeers make reasonable progress. Enemy artillery begin to open fire, but the bad light limits the casualties suffered by the attackers. The speed of the attack is aided by the support that they receive from their supporting Gelderland mortar. It's not that the mortar actually hits any of the enemy, so much that its random aim encourages the ladder troops to get as far away from it as possible.

(Above) The defencing gunners receive support from imperial musketeers that begin to arrive at their bastion. On the other bastion, however, things begin to go awry for the defenders. (Below) Before one can say 'is there any chance that you could hold these melons', the defending Fenwickian company cracks suddenly like a chocolate codpiece and flees!

They have succeeded, however, in blunting the Gelderland advance, and now (above, right) two more companies of Fenwickian troops have arrived to continue the defence! The Gelderland attackers are now in danger of experiencing the same general development in conditions as many of King Wilhelm's mistresses -  early enthusiasm and momentum; the rapid onset of fatigue;  inadvertent culmination; followed by a messy withdrawal and and a sharp argument about who is to blame.

Once Unto the Breach, Dear Friends!

The smoke from the explosion, orange-tinged in the dawn light, soon clears. The detonation of the two pigs has been completely successful in its objectives. (Below) To the right, the defensive ravelin has been reduced to a pile of entirely unrealistic looking rocks. To the left, the bastion has been heavily damaged, leaving a route up for the assaulting troops.

On the other flank, the ladder companies climb awkwardly from their trenches and begin to advance as swiftly as they can towards the fortress walls (below). They can attack confident in the knowledge that they will receive supporting fire from the very best Bachscuttel mortar crew - the very best, of course, because it is the only Bachscuttel mortar crew. With the stirring cry of 'Hmmm ... which bit do I light?', there is an explosion, and the first munition sails out of the barrel and heads somewhere westwards. This is disappointing, given that the fortress is northwards.

(Below) In front of the bastion, Gelderland troops are crowded behind the crown of the glacis. With silent determination, or perhaps just sullen resentment (it is still too dark to tell), the leftward column begins to move forwards. It consists of three companies of grenadiers. This force is tasked with breaking through the defences: the troops following will then exploit the success of this leading force; or, possibly, just retrieve the remains of their bodies. If only they had a wheel barrow.

(Above) The defensive artillery in the bastion have been completely destroyed in the blast. Covering the hole in the bastion is a single available company of Fenwickian musketeers without supporting cannon. They peer out into the gradually lifting gloom and fix bayonets, ready to receive the enemy attack columns, or anything else that happens to appear. The officers keep the troops silent - partly to avoid alerting the enemy forces to their presence, and partly to reduce the chances of the dangerous utterance of  phrases involving such words as 'column' and 'hole'.

(Above) The Gelederland troops move forwards, heading through the covered way and up the bastion. The lead company of the column forms the forlorn hope. Or, as it might be better termed here, just a 'forlorn', since 'hope' is in very short supply. In other armies, the forlorn hope would be volunteers, motivated to undertake this most dangerous of missions because of the promise of significant rewards - promotions, pay, and booze. Because these troops are in an army from Mittelheim, they are volunteers in the same sort of sense as Boris and Dominic the pigs. That is, they aren't quite sure what's going on, but they are willing to play along in the hope that they will get a larger breakfast.

As the lead company of grenadiers reaches the top of the breach, they are disconcerted to hear a loud 'Huzzah!'. The company of Fenwickians goes through the motions and fires off a volley from their muskets. Naturally, however, they do no damage, their fire being as inaccurate as an English government report on the numbers of plague deaths. (Above) Moving quickly to the main event, the Fenwickians then charge forwards, intent upon sealing the breach here; or at least gaining the time for more reinforcements to move up in support!.

You're Only Supposed to Blow the Bloody Boars Off!

Chief Engineer Plugg slowly chews an apple, whilst lighting the fuses on the two powder kegs strapped to his pigs. He then points purposefully towards the Fenwickian bastion and ravelin. The pigs trot happily off in the direction of Fort Pippin. As an afterthought, Plugg also throws his apple in that direction. The pigs cheerfully increase their speed. (Below) One, Boris, takes the lead. His compatriot, Dominic, follows up.

Rheinfunkt watches the pair of curly tails disappear into the gloom.

'Remember, Plugg', he says sternly. 'You are required only to blow up the pigs and the enemy fortifications. Nothing else'. The general pauses. This being Mittelheim, he feels compelled to be more specific. 'Not me', he says firmly. 'And not our troops, Plugg', he adds. 'Or, just to be clear, our artillery. Or our supplies, or baggage. Or our horses. Although', he continues, 'if you can find some more Nabstrian wounded, then they would also be a fine target. And also', he suddenly adds, 'I would certainly consider the inadvertent detonating of Horace de Saxe as a regrettable but necessary measure of collateral damage'. He looks as Plugg. 'I'm just saying'.

The porky partners reach their respective destinations. (Below) Boris trots to the top of the ravelin. The Fenwickian garrison is at a wary state of high alert. It goes without saying, then, that there are no sentries here.

Back in the Gelderland lines, Rheinfunkt can't help feeling a small measure of sympathy for the two porcine pioneers. On the whole though, it has to be said that although this operation is unlikely to end well for the pigs, this is probably a better situation for them than living more years in Mittelheim. Whatever afterlife awaits pigs, and related animals of the porcine species, it will certainly have less meanness, casual cruelty, and gluttony for sausages than is displayed in Mittelheim.

(Below) Dominic stands by his target - the bastion wall. He oinks contentedly. He has a good feeling about his situation. If only he could make this separation from Boris permament - his future, he feels, will surely feature a stratospheric rise in his position. As it turns out, this is a warning if any should be needed, of the dangers of getting what one wishes for.

(Below) On the ravelin, Boris the pig considers the fuse on his powder keg, which now burns down to the barrel itself. He considers this situation sadly and utters a reflective oink.

There is a moment of silence. The first faint streaks of pink and orange signal the arrival of dawn. It is a new day. Birds, forgetting for a moment that they live in Mittelheim, begin to sing joyfully. The earth rushes in its rotation to bring by God's grace another morning, ripe with the prospect of glorious sunshine, optimism, good deeds, love and understanding. In other places, of course. Here, because this is Mittelheim, the morning will commence with the detonation of pigs and a gigantic bayonet charge.

The earth heaves as three enormous explosins rend the air ...

'I bin wondering where that other powder keg had gone', says Plugg, nodding.
Rheinfunkt stares at him. 'Only ... pigs ...' he chokes. ' I said ... only ...'
'There, there, Rheinfunkt' says Horace de Saxe, reassuringly. 'You said how much our plague tent was annoying you. And, technically, neither our wounded, or our tents were included in your restrictions. Anyway, see - our troops are moving forward into the attack!'

The Pig Bang Theory!

Having made up for the theft of his army's wheelbarrow by draconian levies upon the local population, taking any item into which earth can usefully be deposited and moved - including carts, chests, sedan chairs, hats, and female cleavages - Rheinfunkt has successfully extended the third parallel. From this, his forces have crowned the enemy glacis and are now in a position to commence an assault upon the enemy's main fortifications.

(Above) The troops quietly move themselves into position, a movement that only fails to disturb the Fenwickian sentries because it sounds so similar to the random perambulations of wandering livestock. The main part of the assault will be against the nearest enemy bastion. Three companies of regulars - so termed, no doubt, because they regularly disappoint their officers with their lax drill and poor grasp of the finer points of the difference between left and right - form part of the attacking force here. However, the key vanguard of the assault, the spear tip, as it were, of the manly thrust of this attack, comprises of five companies of elite grenadiers. Superior to ordinary Gelderland troops in every respect, these fellows are as fine a product as the archaic, corrupt, financially suspect, and poorly organised military systems of Mittelheim can produce.

(Above) On the Gelderland right wing, four more companies of troops move into position. Here, Rheinfunkt's men will attempt a frontal assault on the other Fenwickian bastion. They are to be issued with ladders to aid them in overcoming the enemy walls. This operation is so dangerous that it has been left to troops that have volunteered - volunteered, that is, not to be shot as long as they agree to pick up some ladders and undertake an assault on the other enemy bastion. Their commander whispers with the Gelderland mortar crew. The assault troops, with their ladders, will be supported by the Bachscuttel mortar. However, the commander's confidence in some tight coordination  between his attacking troops and the mortar in his assault upon the enemy fortress are not increased by such questions from the mortar crew as 'What enemy fortress?'; 'What attacking troops?'; and, 'What mortar?'

(Above) General Rheinfunkt goes over the plan one last time with his newly appointed Chief Pig Engineer.
'You're sure this will work', asks the general.
Herr Plugg nods vigorously. 'The theory be inder sputable'.
'"Indisputable"', corrects Rheinfunkt.
'Than an all, sir', says Plugg. 'Boris goes fer the ravelling'.
'"Ravelin"', corrects the general.
'An Dominic goes fer the potatoe'.
'You mean "bastion"'. The general frowns. 'Also, you name your pigs?'
'Aye sir. They all exhibit traits that suggest their names. So Dominic: now, his face says that he's almost a diabolical genius'.
'Almost?'
'Well, he ain't a genius. An' Boris, well, he just looks confused'.
Rheinfunkt looks worried. 'Is it wise to involve a pig that looks confused, given that this is such a desperate and important enterprise?'
'No - he's clear about his directions, sir - he just ain't sure about what to do when he gets there. But the fuse will take care of that'.

Rheinfunkt nods. 'Fair enough'. He pauses and then looks at the sky. 'So, it is time'. He looks about himself. Then, he stands erect upon his horse* and says loudly to all about him 'Unleash hell!'

There is a moment of embarassed silence. One of his staff officers then says 'Um, okay, sir. But what about the pigs?'

The general frowns. 'No, I meant, release the pigs - but I was trying to create a sense of occasion with a dramatic flourish'.

'Oh. What about a drum roll? I could get some drummers for one of those'.

'No, the moment has gone'.

'Or', says the officer, 'some really vigorous triangle banging?'

'No, I've lost my inspiration. Just release the pigs'.
Herr Plugg nods. It is, in the history of warfare, hardly the most memorable of opening lines, but the final attack upon Fort Pippin commeces with Herr Plugg saying louldy, 'Dominic, Boris - run!'

* Self-evidently, not something that could be done in Fenwick.

Careless Pork Costs Lives!

'You're pigs are lit!' shouts Rheinfunkt. In any other place in the world, this might sound out of the ordinary. But in Mittelheim, of course, such a phrase is probably uttered scores of times each day.

'Put out your pigs, Herr Plugg!' adds Horace.

The "engineer" stares at the fuses. 'It be fine, sir', he says slowly, adjusting his "back pocket". 'Ain't no reason to panic'.

'Of course there is!' the general retorts. 'This is exactly the sort of situation in which panic is not just well merited, but more or less a requirement! This is a situation in which we have pigs, an ill-educated bumpkin, two lit fuses, and a pair of worryingly large powder kegs. That says "panic" to me in just the same way as if both of those pigs were able  to sing the Spanish national anthem, but replaced the actual words with "'Tis the time to greatly panic!"'

Rheinfunkt points at the pigs. 'Staff officers - extinguish those pigs!'* Sadly, however, the general's staff seem to have absented themselves (below). Though in general the future is difficult to predict, its short-term ramifications become much easier to guess when the situation comprises of the close proximity of two burning powder kegs. On the basis of judgements informed by this evidence, Rheinfunkt's headquarters appears to have repositioned itself some distance to the east.

'For God's sake, man!' Rheinfunkt roars to Herr Plugg. 'Do something sensible and save us all!'
Herr Plugg nods placidly and says 'It be fine, sir. I bin and have me pigs well trained. See, the fuses be all lit ...'
'Yes, yes!' says the general. 'This is a condition well understood and which not coincidentally lies at the foundation of my current anxiety'.
'.. and I says to them "go"!' says Plugg, pointing generally. With some happy oinks, the two pink and porky pals patter happily off (below).

'Gah!' cries the general. 'But that's the direction of our camp! You're sending them towards our camp!'
Plugg nods slowly. 'You be needing a demonstration, sir'.
The general hops up and down in his saddle. 'A demonstration of what? If I needed a demonstration, I could just have one of exquisite military moronism by giving Saxe here a log of wood and asking him to find the middle page! Call your pigs back!'
'I haven't trained 'em to return, sir. They have exploding casks on them. Calling 'em back be a bit dangerous'.

The oinks disappear towards the camp. There is then a sudden explosion, and a wave of warm and deliciously savoury air wafts over everyone.
'Fools!' shouts the general, his features contorted into an even more incomprehensible configuration than normal. 'Incompetents! Lackwits! Dunderheads! Buffoons! Clowns! Stupid ...' he wracks his brain '... thingies!'
'Fear not, general' says Horace de Saxe, looking through his telescope towards the camp. 'For our porcine powder kegs haven't hurt any of our troops, but have instead exploded the hospital tent filled with abandoned Nabstrian wounded and plague victims!'
'Well, well, well', says the general immediately recovering his good humour. There is nothing that makes him happer than seeing dead allies; except perhaps, seeing dead allies whilst he is on holiday. 'How big is the hole?'
'It's really quite impressive'.
'Larger than King Wilhelm's belly button?'
'Indeed, larger even - although it might not contain quite as much mud'.
'Let me look'. Rheinfunkt peers through the telescope. 'You know Plugg, my newly appointed Chief Pork Engineer. I think that you might indeed have hit on a workable solution to our problems. Prepare more pigs! Ready the troops! We attack at dawn!'




* Another one of the many phrases that is heard rather more commonly in Mittelheim than it is anywhere else in the world. Except Norfolk.