Chapter 16
Chapter 16
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: Tail Chase (4)
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A single person can cross mountains and even scale treacherous cliffs.
But can a group of over a hundred really conquer a rugged peak?
When the troops number in the thousands or tens of thousands, they can't even take roads near rivers or lakes, let alone mountains.
Dehydration would wipe them out.
'And that's just one of many factors that can sabotage a march.'
"Battalion Commander, sir, look over there."
Following the soldier's pointed finger, I spotted Republic troops in uniform marching along.
There were so many it was impossible to count.
They must have scrambled this massive force after hearing we'd invaded with a huge army.
Locking the barn after the horse is gone, sure—but from their perspective, it was the best they could do.
'If you don't lock it after losing one, you'll lose another.'
"What a colossal army. Right, Lieutenant Lina?"
"Yes, sir. Even at a conservative estimate, that's at least three regiments."
"In situations like this, the most reliable method is timing how long it takes the vanguard to the rearguard to pass a fixed point."
The division's lead platoon had passed a spot about an hour before the trailing platoon arrived.
For a single regiment, that meant roughly thirteen to fifteen minutes.
There were classic tricks too, like counting campfire smoke plumes from bread baking or tallying tents in camp.
'Getting an exact count is practically impossible.'
"The enemy has no idea we're ambushed here. I believe now is the perfect moment to strike."
The other officers nodded at Lieutenant Lina's words.
She had a point.
Not that I was some spineless yes-man agreeing with everyone like that old King Hwanui.
Ambush from a blind spot and hit them mid-march while they're exposed?
They'd be helpless.
"If we were up against just one division, we'd hit them right now."
"I'm not sure I follow, sir."
"Gentlemen, this is a war where tens of thousands stake their lives. We're standing right behind the enemy division. Slashing at those pasta bastards' soft backs sounds tempting, but..."
The challenge in a surprise attack is sneaking up undetected.
Once you're at the nape of their neck? Easy.
Crack them once over the head. If they don't drop, hit 'em two or three more times, then bolt without looking back.
We've already reached a spot they never dreamed of...
'Truth is, we could smack their skulls right now.'
"My thinking's a little different. The enemy won't even consider we're lurking in the heart of their turf, in a godforsaken backwater like this."
"Even with news of the Imperial Army's invasion spreading everywhere?"
"People—or armies—get fixated on one thing, and they tune out everything else."
You've lived it yourself.
Hearing your buddy's chat crystal-clear amid party noise. Or how other women fade from view on a date.
The brain's trick: focus on one task, block the periphery.
Stock traders doubling down on losers with borrowed cash? Same instinct.
Suddenly ambushed armies react the same way.
Even their big shots up top are just human.
"We're deeper in the fray than any other Imperial unit. Isolated from a bad angle, but from another view..."
Some call war a place where common sense dies.
Wrong.
War runs on ironclad principles—sometimes so rigidly you'd swear it's absurd.
It's those 0.01% wild cards that flip the board and spawn the myths.
Flip it: every commander, myself included, bases calls on common sense.
Act outside it—in their blind spots—and you're safe.
"They'll figure Republic soil this deep means no Imperials. No way."
"Our other units are at least a hundred kilometers off."
"Who'd expect enemies in our own territory—a full week's hard march for an infantry division?"
No one sane. Ever.
I'd think the same.
"So they'll march blind, no scouts, desperate to clash with the Imperial Army."
Scouting's essential in maneuvers.
But marching while scouting piles vigilance atop exhaustion.
In a rush—or on turf deemed strategically safe—no commander scouts on the move.
Saves troops' physical and mental reserves.
"Then why not hit them now?"
"Surprise attacks get one shot. Make it count."
"When's the optimal moment, sir?"
"Division gave us forty days solo. Wait it out, and their army's supply column will roll through here."
Armies guzzle resources.
Troops burn near double civilian rations—in war, it's 3.5-man portions.
Plus fodder, powder, shot... endless.
'No supplies, no survival.'
Not instant death, but combat power craters.
"Ambush their supply train soon. Sever Republic logistics. Starve the horde, starve their guns."
"Nightmarish for the victims."
"A boon for our Imperial Army."
Division said play it by my discretion.
Time to make 'em squirm.
"We've got ample rations and water secured. We hold here till their column arrives."
"Understood, sir."
Long stakeouts are pure drudgery.
Troops know even a smash success just speeds discharge a bit...
'Pure drudgery.'
"Once the enemy division passes, tell the men: raid succeeds, and I'll pay fat individual bonuses from battalion funds."
Military life's hell enough—help 'em cash out big on exit.
Brigadier General Antonio of the Dolce Republic's Supply Corps wanted to lose his mind.
"Goddamn it! That fucking Quartermaster General! Thinks he can grind us to the nub?"
He'd done the unthinkable for a career officer.
Trashed a superior in front of the troops.
Normally, they'd whisper he'd cracked—but not today.
Everyone nodded along.
"How the hell are we hauling this mountain of gear to Tornessi in three weeks? Possible, sure, but no rest days? Troops'll drop dead!"
Even light-loaded infantry divisions need breaks.
March fourteen days straight? Mass exhaustion deaths.
Infantry rests after a fortnight...
'Us, wagons bursting with supplies, three weeks nonstop?'
"Imperial scum who deserve their guts devoured!"
A staffer piped up cautiously amid the rage.
"Sir, shouldn't we scout anyway? No telling where enemies lurk."
Marching armies scout, obviously.
Doubly in enemy wars.
But armies bend FM if no one's watching.
Killer workload, troops at collapse risk—scout safe homeland too?
'Murder the men?'
"Bullshit! Pile alerts on dying troops mid-march? Miss deadline, we're all up on charges! Heads might roll, or worse—dishonorable discharge!"
Dishonorable discharge: elite life erased, scum status forever.
Judges hand it down only if mercy's gone.
The night before? "Suicide recommended."
"Mercy" for family honor.
"No alerts. Full speed!"
Thus they hurtled headlong into Major Michael's jaws.
Blind to the trap.