Nun Shall Pass!

The battle begins to reach its final denouement; or, as it might be termed in Mittelheim, the end. As the defending Bachscuttlers look on, the Vulgarian sappers quickly raise a new artillery battery position right in front of them. If the Vulgarians get some guns into it, the fire from it is going to really, really hurt. From here, the attacking guns will be within breaching range of the walls and so able to begin the process of battering down the fabric of the fortress, just as they have already battered down the fabric of the Bachscuttel morale. The latter was never likely to be that challenging, given that if it were indeed a fabric, Bachscuttel morale would be a rather frayed pair of underpants, probably worn on alternate days by respective members of the platoons.

What to do? What to do? Governor Zwöllenglantz reviews his options. He can afford to do this quite a lot because it's not a very long list even if he writes it in very big letters. There are no doubt, a wide array of clever strategems that might be available in a siege to an enterprising defending force: tarring and lighting pigs; stuffing goats; smearing elephants in honey and chasing them with bees into the enemy positions; secrets forays to stuff comedically large pineapples into the barrels of the attacking artillery. Most in fact seem to involve variations on cruelty to animals and fruit; or cruelty to animals with fruit. But the governors options in both cases are limited given the lack of both: Bachscuttlers don't eat fruit; but they really do eat almost any animals, even if they seem oddly covered in bees and honey. So, the governor once again plays a collection of the Bachscuttel greatest siege hits.

Wearily Sister Molestus trudges the well-worn path to the Vulgarian lines. It is generally acknowledged in circles familiar with espionage that one of the important attributes of a spy is that they should be relatively unknown. It is somewhat worrying, then, for the sister that, as she approaches the enemy line, she is received with the words "Oh hello, it's you again, Sister".

Alas, there's only so many times a woman dressed as a nun can claim to be seeking a 'lovely bunch of strong men' to help her with her 'entirely naked fellow sisters who are in a nearby inn and have become trapped in the bath tub'. Alerted by the nun's suspiciously detailed knowledge of bathing, an activity that no one in Mittelheim is terribly well acquainted with, the Vulgarians apprehend her. Accusing her of being dirty Bachscuttel spy, which, to be fair, she actually is on both counts, the nun is beaten with musket butts until she passes out; although, in deference to the fact that she is nun, the troops apologise profusely while they are doing it and also skip their normal practice of rummaging around in her underclothes.

And then, of course, it's time for the Bachscuttel trench raid. This one is made slightly more interesting because the company of grenadiers are now leavened with a group of sappers.

If the grenadiers can storm the position, the sappers will then fill in the new battery. The sappers are notably well-rested given that they haven't done anything at all during the whole of the preceding fighting. This is it - the final act. It would hardly be a surprise to communicate, dear reader, that the Bachscuttel force has already run out of morale. This means that they cannot rally any troops and that they will automatically surrender if the walls are breached. Only if they can break the Vulgarian morale before the latter happens do they have any chance of preventing the fall of the town!

There Can be Only Pun!

Somewhat surprisingly, it does indeed seem that doing the same thing again as the Bachscuttelers have repeatedly done before has caught the Vulgarians napping. Who knew that the rapid approach of  enemy assault companies against one's trenches might indicate that the enemy was raiding one's trenches? Moreover, although Bachscuttel is a place where the phrase "getting back into the swing of things" usually just means hanging more people, the previous practice really does seem to have warmed up the attacking troops. The raid has some success, and with cries of "Chase me! Chase me!" the Vulgarian sappers scatter to the rear.

The Bachscuttlers decide to pile the pressure on the defending Vulgarians. It's not a great pile, to be sure: more the sort of small heap produced by a naughty puppy - but still, there is at least an attempt to multiply the confusion caused by the raid. It's time, once again, for the furtive shuffling of spies.

'It's time to commit the nun' has never really been a phrase that indicates a battle is going well. Nevertheless, Sister Molestus finds herself again ordered to betake herself to the Vulgarian lines in order to sew some mayhem (below).  

Alas, even the best of her needlework puns fails to move the Vulgarian troops. Taking stock of the situation, they've already moved onto some soup word play, and don't broth-er paying any attention to her.

'I've got to get out of this place', whispers Sister Molestus to herself. She kicks one of the Vulgarians in their bouillons and then sprints off.

In the first parallel, two companies of Vulgarian troops shift to some pudding-related fun and decide to desert (below). It is a sad fact that in this siege the most dangerous threats to the Vulgarian troops have been their lax hygiene and their own legs. More of them have either deserted and run off or shat themselves to death than have been laid low by Bachscuttel gunnery or muskets.

The remaining Bachscuttel infantry begin to gather in the covered way (below). With little artillery firepower left available it would seem that Governor Zwöllenglantz might be considering an all or nothing assault with his infantry to destroy the enemy's third parallel. In Bachscuttel, of course, the phrase "all or nothing" isn't really as balanced an option as one might suppose, since the "all" element is usually rather quite similar to the "nothing". Still, you have to admire the governor's sense of adventure.

Such an assault might be just in the nick of time. With a third parallel now undergoing construction, the Vulgarians begin to muster the makings of some new artillery positions. But in the trenches, one can also hear phrases such as 'Get thee whippet aht o' my beer' and 'It's grim up north, it is': firm evidence that miners have been ordered to the front!

Lip Balm Death!

(Below) The Vulgarian siege lines look unfeasibly like an actual military line of sieges. The usual characteristics of Vulgarian military activity - troublesome attitude, wheezing decreptitude, and perennial lassitude - seem strangely absent.

The architect of this sudden competence, Lady Timsbury of Steventon, surveys the developing engineering works in the company of General Hertz van Rentall.

'Dish ish mosht pleashing', says the general in his highly variable Dutch-accented German. 'I don't shink I could have imagined a better shet of sheige works after da lasht hash de troopsh made of tings'.

Lady Timsbury smiles serenely.

'That, sir, is the power of professional military education. The pen, you see, is mightier than the sword'.

'Datsh true, madam', nods Rentall. 'Eshpeshially when you threaten to shtab da chief engineer in da eye wid da pen if he doshn't do better'.

Lady Timsbury nods with satisfaction. She smears a small quantity of ointment on her lips drawn from an ornate tin in her bag. The smell of violets drifts out.

Lady Timsbury nods with delight. 'Can you smell that? Can you smell that, sir?'

'What, madam?' replies the general.

'Lip balm. Nothing else in the world smells like that. I love the smell of lip balm in the morning. It smells like ... victory!'

Despite the positive effects of their regular siege operations, the Vulgarians still can't stop themselves dabbling in the nonsense that is espionage. (Above) A winsome Vulgarian spy insinuates herself into the town square which is currently the main rallying point for discomfitted Bachscuttel troops. At this rallying point, the shaken defenders fortify themselves with stirring tales of the Palatinate's military past. This really doesn't take very long, leaving them a lot of time to contemplate their very limited life expectancy if they move back up to the bastions.

The spy intends to try and reduce the Bachscuttel morale. She fails of course, because it can't really get any lower. Indeed, so depressing is it to be in the company of the remnants of the Bachscuttlers that the spy becomes rather weepy and flees. 

There's only one option left for the Bachsuttel defenders. Proving beyond doubt that they are a one-trick pony; a single-stringed violin; a jack of one trade; a single sausage breakfast, the defenders launch another trench raid in an attempt to see off the enemy sappers. After all, doing exactly what they did last time, and the time before that, is exactly what the Vulgarians won't expect. Right?

Spare the Rod!

Having shortened the range, as well as a considerable number of the defending troops, the Vulgarians are able to make the most of their superiority in gunnery. Another of the defending batteries is silenced.

The defensive forces, like a small Lacedaemonian, are now a little spartan. In an effort to try and slow the seemingly inexorable forward movement of the enemy sappers, two companies of Bachscuttelers are committed to yet another night-time trench raid (below).

One thing that the Palatinate troops have really begun to get the hang of is trench raids. Of course, it is a form of warfare that any Mittelheim soldier would be ideally suited for by both temperament and life experience: creeping forwards in the darkness; springing upon unprepared targets; throttling the life out of still sleeping victims. Indeed, it has much in common with Mittleheim techniques of child rearing.

(Below) The assault is successful: one of the sapper units is driven back and the other is subjected to something that bears a great resemblance to Mittelheim 'tiger parenting', since the latter also consists of stuffing the recipient's mouth with rags, beating them with poles (or any other handy foreigner), and then burying them in mud. This is, according to many, character building; and also, of course, quite terminal.

(Below) In the town, the Bachscuttel grenadier battalion remains in reserve. Governor Zwöllenglantz has moved down from the defences in an effort to try and rally some of the remaining gunners.

'Fear not, my fine fellows!' cries Zwöllenglantz. 'A few minor flesh wounds cannot dampen our spirits!'

One of the artillerymen considers the ragged remains of his battery. 'We’re screwed, sir' he concludes.

The governor frowns. 'Could you elaborate, my man'.

The soldier considers this. 'We’re really screwed, sir' he replies morosely.

With the defending fire weakening, the Vulgarian sappers are able to return to their saps and continue digging. That the floor of some of the saps seem rather lumpier than they did earlier, and give out pained moaning sounds when trodden on is not something that seems to dispirit them. (Below) The sappers begin the start of a new trench line just at the bottom of the glacis. More Vulgarian troops begin to mass in the second parallel, ready to move forwards once the third line has been constructed. 

The Vulgarian troops begin to detect the unmistakable whiff of victory. It smells quite similar to arm pits, however, so it is certainly too early for the attackers to count their chickens - which is good, because their supply wagons contain quite a lot of chickens, and their maths is quite poor, given that their childhood was often spent being gagged, beaten, and buried. (Below) Deadly supporting fire wears down another defending battery.

With the accumulation of losses, the Bachscuttelers morale is now probably quite low. Only honour now sustains their resistance. Alas for Zwöllenglantz, the soldiers of the Palatinate generally only use the word 'honour' when prefixed with 'your' and in the context of tricky court proceedings often concerning theft, gropery, and home schooling. Perhaps, though, all is not lost .... 

Onward! Onward!

Disease strikes the besieging army and a company of musketeers are laid low (below). Governor Zwöllenglantz can only look on with satisfaction as noisome smells of the very worst kind emanate from the putrifying enemy lines. The Vulgarian camp rings with sound of plague bells, the creak of casualty carts, and urgent cries of  "I'm getting better" and "You're not fooling anyone, you know". 

Whether it's dropsy, flopsy, or a bad case of bloaty head, the Vulgarian physicians are unable to diagnose the cause for certain. The cure, however, is obvious: leeches. 

Festooned with damp  invertebrates, the Vulgarian gunners continue their artillery bombardment. The siege guns now start to target some of the defending infantry. The Bachscuttel musketeers in one of the bastions lose heavily (below).

With limited options, Zwöllenglantz deploys another spy. This time it's Don Penguino. Even stickier than usual, and smelling of something that is hopefully lemons, the Don has been released from prison because the geese have recanted their testimony. The Spaniard creeps through the Vulgarian encampment until he can find an enemy unit that looks like it might be ready to desert. His main problem is that there are so many potential candidates.

Penguino picks his targets (above). Sadly for him, the Vulgarian unit doesn't find a citrus-scented Spaniard with a faint whiff of farmyard anaimal to be a trustworthy purveyor of rumours. If anything, Don Penguino's mix of Spanish, prison-yard German, and animal impersonations makes the troops even more resolved to bayonet the defenders. With a final disappointed "scorchio", the Spanish rake drifts off back to his lines.

(Below) Demonstrating the new professionalism and diligence brought about by expensive postgraduate professional military education certiicates, the Vulgarians begin to build batteries in the second parallel, and also begin to strike forward again, looking to push saps towards the glacis. Once on the glacis, the Vulgarians can then start digging the third parallel.

(Below) Vulgarian troops haul some of the siege batteries forwards to the second parallel. Supprting troops deploy into the nearby trenches. 

(Above) Snorting leeches by the handful, the Vulgarian gunners begin firing again at reduced range!
 

We're Jamming!

Tired of fiddling around with a strategy of the indirect approach, the Vulgarians begin to concentrate on some of the more direct basics of siege warfare. (Below) The sappers re-organise themselves, and the siege artillery begins to rain destruction on the defences.

The fire of the guns is slowed a little because of some difficulties with the orders that have been sent to them.

'Why are these orders so sticky?' asks one Vulgarian gunner, slowly unpicking some paper.

Another sucks his finger. 'These missives seem to be covered with jam ...'

(Below) The concentrated Vulgarian fire begins to have an effect. One of the Bachscuttel heavy batteries suffers a number of hits from enemy fire and is silenced. That the crew can no longer be heard chattering inanely about coconut halves and swallows is undoubtedly a merciful relief: but the loss to the defence of the fire of this battery is a serious blow. 

In parallel, there are more opportunities for espionage. This time, the Vulgarians send Oscar the ginger cat (below). This is an unordothodox move given that Oscar (a) cannot speak; (b) is not great at sketching the defences - he has an eye for perspective, but he will never really achieve his potential until he manages to evolve some opposable thumbs; and (c) tends to prioritise fish over his mission objectives. On the plus side, Oscar isn't captured - because, let's face it, no one is likely to suspect a ginger cat of being a master spy - but he also fails in his mission, because he is a ginger cat and actually not a master spy.

(Above) Oscar's meowing does, however, interrupt Don Pajero, who is clutching a small bundle of orders. He has a knife in his hands and seems to be spreading something over the papers.

Governor Zwöllenglantz points at the Don. 'What is he doing?'

Sister Molestus shrugs. 'We captured some of the enemy orders'.

'Excellent! And have you been decoding their orders and passing the information on to my headquarters?'

'No sir - even better, we've been jamming the enemy communications'.

'You've been jamming them?'

'Yes sir: Don Pajero has been spreading marmalade on them, and then handing them back to the Vulgarians. It'll take them weeks to clean the mess off'.

The governor counts to ten. It's not enough.

'God's ill-fitting hessian underwear!' blasphemes the governor. 'Are you idiots?' 

Molestus suddenly covers her face with a hand. 'Of course, my lord - we've been such fools!'

'Yes, you have!'

'Indeed, my lord. It's so obvious: marmalade isn't a jam.'

(Below) If their diversion into feline skulduggery hasn't hit the mark, the Vulgarian artillery does. The Bachscuttel heavy battery is now completely shot to pieces and the guns dismounted. This doesn't much reduce the accuracy of the Bachscuttel fire, of course, but the garrison's morale continues to decline.

(Below) The Vulgarian sappers now begin to dig a second parallel. What can the defenders do? There's only one option left available. Don Pajero snorts in disgust and tosses the marmalade aside. It's time for the lemon curd!

This siege really is beginning to be handled with a measure of competence that is difficult to credit to any military force in Mittelheim. It can't last: or can it?

Well, That Sucks!

 The Vulgarian sappers continue to dig forwards. If there's one activity that Mittelheimers can be relied upon to do well, it is swanning around in mud, making crude jokes about their tools. The intent, clearly, is that the second parallel will be pushed closer to the town's defences. One consequence, however, is that the sapper companies are now quite isolated (Below).

Baron Friederich von Zwöllenglantz, the town's governor, decides to exploit this situation and orders a trench raid! Only two companies of troops are ready for this operation: one of musketeers, and one of grenadiers.

The governor splits his force into two, and orders them to assault a pair of the enemy's saps. Making use of darkness, the Bachscuttel troops sneak forwards to a position near the enemy. (Above) They then launch a fierce bayonet attack! The use of the word "fierce" is more a matter of artistic licence, of course. A more diffident advance towards the enemy would be hard to imagine unless they were actually moving away from them, waving, and promising to come back at some later time. Much later. And to be honest, even the term "bayonet charge" probably conjures an image of aggression that is unsuitable for an activity that in the hands of Bachscuttlers looks more like the embarrassed rattling of cutlery. Still, undeniably, there is a move by the raiders that can't entirely be classified as a retreat.

One of the perennial features of Mittelheim warfare is irony. And dirt, of course. And morally questionable acts involving livestock and underwear catalogues. But here, irony is in the ascendant: and it decides that the limp musketeers quickly overrun the defending Vulgarian sappers, driving them back to the first parallel; whereas the grenadiers, of course, being Bachscuttel elite, are driven off in confusion, making noises like glassmakers that have sucked instead of blown. Nevertheless, damage has been done, and the Vulgarians must spend some time regrouping.

General Hertz van Rentall decides on reprisals. Deciding not to commit his own grenadiers, the desertion of some of which has stained their honour almost as badly as their trousers, he instead orders one of the Vulgarian spies into action: Lady Katya Natsov. Lady Katya is one of the female coterie that surrounds the new Voivodina of Vulgaria, Lady Carmilla. These strange ladies, porcelain of skin and long of tooth, refer to themselves as "The Grand Coven", a term that surely implies nothing but harmless fun; although, to others of the Vulgarian aristocracy, who perhaps feel aggrieved at having their power usurped, the ladies are instead referred to as "The Tossferatu". 

There is a strange flapping sound, and out of the darkness on one of the bastions, Lady Katya suddenly appears as if from nowhere!

(Above) 'Donner und blitzen!' cry the Bachscuttel sappers in front of her. 

'Bah!' cries Lady Katya, hauling the front of her corsetry back up to cover herself. 'Dat climb too strrrrrrrenuous for silly clothes'. 

The sappers look agog, realising now that it might not have been the lady's wings that were flapping around.

'I come here help you', continues the Vulgarian, pouting. 

The sappers consider this. On the one hand, failing to turn in this stranger who has appeared so suddenly in the fortress will no doubt result in them being hung, drawn, and one sixteenthed.* On the other, there seems to be the promise of intimacy with what is probably a real woman, with no mention of any pecuniary transactions.

'We're game', reply the sappers together.

'I come here for to stirrrrrr leetle insurrrrrrrection!'

'I think that's worked already' replies one enthusiastically.

'No', replies the other. 'She said an insurrection'.

'You prrrrrromise spread rumours and lowerrrrrr morale of population, and I come back, give you keeeeeeess'.

'Give us geese?' says one. 'Thanks, but I'm trying to give up'.

'No, no - a kiss', says the other.

In a few moments, the deal is done. A success for Lady Katya! The morale of the civilian population will decline, as the sappers agree to spread rumours designed to strike terror into any self-respecting citizen of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel: tales of mandatory bathing, no doubt, and of the raising of the drinking age to five. 

'I fly avay now' says Lady Katya, flapping her hands, and hopping backwards. 

'Madame!' cry the sappers. 'The parap ...'

'I fly avaaaaaaaaaaaaaayaaaaaaaah!' the Lady's words turn into a cry.

'Right over the parapet', the sappers say sadly to one another.

'Should we help her?' asks one.

'It might attract attention', says the other dubiously.

'Do you think her corset has fallen off again?'

They look at one another and then both run for the battlements.

*Merely quartering someone is regarded in Bachscuttel as namby-pamby liberalism.