Chapter 21
Chapter 21
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: Masterstroke (1)
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People in the 21st century often say line infantry warfare is insane.
Even I, right here on the battlefield, think it's crazy.
Advancing straight into the muzzles of enemy guns, in a perfect straight line formation, steps locked in perfect sync.
It's like begging them to shoot us.
But this tactic is the most efficient and effective one we have right now.
If this is the best we've got, what choice is there? We just do it.
"Don't pull the trigger until I give the firing order!"
The lifeblood of line infantry is drill.
Moving as one body.
The instant any movement even slightly falters, line infantry loses all value.
It's a tactic born from trying to wring any use out of matchlock muskets—abysmal accuracy, nearly a full minute to reload.
The doctrine: unleash a massive volley all at once, and someone's bound to hit.
'One impulsive act collapses the entire battalion.'
I glanced around at the soldiers near me.
Their hands gripped their muskets with crushing force, their bodies trembling faintly.
They were visibly tense from fear.
But our battalion's soldiers didn't look bad.
Soldiers likely to break formation or cause trouble often glance around furtively.
Unconsciously scouting escape routes when their minds wander.
'Our guys aren't doing that.'
"We've entered the effective range of the enemy artillery!"
"Pick up the pace! Double time, everyone!"
We're not suicidal maniacs strolling bare-handed into a hail of bullets.
We're doing this because no other tactics are viable.
To cut even one more death from cannon fire, we have to plunge into the enemy's arms as fast as possible.
The NCOs swung the spears in their hands wildly, repeating the orders.
"Double time! Hold the line to the bitter end! Break formation, and we're all dead!"
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
As we marched, suppressing the terror of possible death, a massive boom echoed from the enemy lines amid black smoke.
A shell fired.
Even I, the battalion commander marching straight ahead, didn't see it...
Incomprehensible groans rose from our soldiers.
A few lucky ones died instantly; the unlucky got shredded by iron balls.
"Battalion commander! Fire our cannons too?"
"What are you waiting for? Blast them now! Level your aim as best you can!"
This time, our cannons thundered, hurling shells.
Holes ripped through the red wall blocking our path.
Quickly filled by fresh bodies.
"Real war is insane."
Not really something for me—sending over 500 men into the meat grinder—to say.
But it's absurd: efficiently slaughtering strangers with no personal grudge.
Still, as an Imperial soldier, I fight solely for the Empire's interests.
'Soldiers neither think nor judge.'
"After reloading the cannons, hold fire until my order!"
"Wouldn't one more shot be better?"
"You pathetic bastard! Don't you know cannons hit hardest up close?"
Even the worst shot nails a target one meter away.
Imperial matchlocks and cannons have garbage accuracy...
But point-blank? Dead certain.
We won't get quite that close, but firing even a step nearer than the enemy shifts the exchange ratio.
When they kill two, we kill three.
'Must fire at close range, no exceptions.'
Even as my instincts screamed to fire now and drop one more.
"Tell the troops: anyone fingering the trigger gets court-martialed hard! Minimum 100 lashes! Don't want to be victory's breathing corpse? Obey my command without question!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Advance as is."
I'm crushing instinct with cold reason, but honestly? Terrifying.
We've only double-timed so far, yet breaths come ragged.
Panting like marathoners, cold sweat beading.
Nearby soldiers clenched teeth tighter, gripping muskets harder.
"Distance to enemy: 100 meters! Enemy halted!"
How gutless are they to halt and fire at 100 meters?
Normal is 50; truly bold holds to 30.
At that range, 100 shots might tag 2-3.
"Those spineless cowards are firing early from fright! Ignore it—we close closer before firing! Teeth gritted!"
"Yes, sir! Battalion, keep advancing!"
Soon enough, the enemy—locked in firing stance—unleashed on us.
Black smoke billowed; bullets whistled.
"Argh!"
Several soldiers crumpled in place.
We stepped over comrades' corpses, pushing forward.
God, I wanted to fire right then...
But yielding to fear's impulse loses winnable fights.
Line infantry mentality: chicken game.
First to flinch loses, period.
My soldiers and I marched toward them in utter silence.
Right up to where their Republican faces were crystal clear.
Prime range for a devastating line infantry volley.
"Battalion, prepare fire! Light cannons, train on the enemy!"
As we closed to knife-fight range, their formation shook violently.
Figured reloading leisurely meant massacre?
Officers and men alike—swords, spears drawn—charged us.
Best move in their spot, sure...
But they should've held like us to the end.
No scooping up spilled water.
"Fire!"
Our battalion's cannons and matchlocks erupted in unison.
Far more foes dropped than their 100-meter potshots.
The towering red wall before me cracked, crumbling in spots.
Their line shattered.
"Enemy line broken! Battalion, weapons out!"
"Weapons out"—everyone drew their melee tools.
Mace for mace, axe for axe, sword for sword.
"Charge! These bastards are dinner now!"
"Follow the battalion commander!"
The whole battalion charged with me at the enemy.
Had we not volleyed point-blank, they'd have held formation.
But they broke line for melee—and ate our salvo...
Formation long since obliterated.
The rock-solid enemy unit now slumped like waterlogged mud.
Under our assault, they dissolved in moments.
"Mercy!"
"Surrender! We surrender!"
Proper formation, and outcome differs...
Our soldiers smashed shoulders with axes, slashed throats with blades.
Lieutenant Lina—my aide—even beheaded an enemy officer.
"Brutal."
Not weird for a woman to get overpowered by a male officer.
She didn't—just met his power head-on with her own.
Melee usually drags tedious and long, but fatal strike on broken line...
"Run! Retreat!"
Their battalion commander fled.
Standard-bearer bolted; they scattered tail-tucked every which way.
Wanted to order pursuit...
But chasing lands us pincushioned by fresh units behind.
"Reform line! Bugler, standard-bearer—signal reform!"
No greed in a won fight.
"Battalion, reform!"
Troops rallied 'round the standard on my word.
Numbers thinned versus start, but losses light...
Few KIA or wounded, then.
Enemy corpses carpeted around us.
Least 80—no, 130.
"Hold position post-reform till rotation! Messenger!"
"Yes, sir."
"Report to division HQ: repelled one battalion. Ask if rotation for rest possible."
"Yes, sir!"
Soldiers aren't consumables.
Can't burn 'em endlessly—manage stamina.
Could fight more if pushed...
Half-month slog at worst; all day at best.
Rest when you can, prep for next.
"Repelled enemy battalion successfully, but battle's not done! Stay sharp!"
Battalion roared back vigorous.
"Yes, sir!"
"Win this and return? I'll beg division commander for all-you-can-eat meat! Tough it out!"
Not over yet—more glory chances coming.