Chapter 219
Chapter 219
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 219
Chapter Title: Osby Plains Great Battle (4)
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Before entering melee combat, it was the basic combat doctrine across the entire Europa continent to send archers, crossbowmen, and mages—who could perform ranged attacks—to the forefront.
Because if you attacked from behind the infantry lines, the soldiers blocking your front when firing crossbows and bows would cost you at least a hundred meters of range.
Firing from the very front avoided that range loss, letting you loose one more shot at the enemy and thin their numbers.
However, ranged troops were extremely vulnerable in melee due to the nature of their weapons, so the ironclad rule was to withdraw to the rear just before close-quarters fighting broke out...
The soldiers and officers of the Stockholm Kingdom were thrown into confusion by the enemy's bizarre tactics.
"Has that bastard Peter Jaeger finally lost it to dementia? A guy not even thirty yet, pulling some shit like crapping right up against the wall."
"I'm just an ignorant serf and all, but fuck. I can only call that insane."
"For us, at least we won't have to fight while arrows rain down on us in melee. Way better, whatever."
The soldiers sneered that Peter Jaeger was an idiot defying combat orthodoxy by not hiding his archers and other ranged troops behind his spearmen, even now as the armies closed in.
But the officers—facing not just any general, but Major General Peter Jaeger pulling this odd stunt—suspected some ulterior motive...
Normally, they'd seize on what looked like an enemy blunder, spewing trash talk to boost morale, but they stayed silent.
Caution might sap morale, while a reckless charge could land them straight in Jaeger's trap.
"Advance as ordered! No fear—advance!"
"Long live the great Stockholm Kingdom! Long live His Majesty the King! Forward march!"
As soldiers and officers prepared for melee with wildly different thoughts, Major General Jaeger issued his command.
"Archers, crossbowmen, mages—execute the pre-planned operation. Crossbowmen and mages, merge units and form ranks one through six! Proceed as briefed!"
The order to shift into the designated formation was relayed across the entire army not by messengers, but by flags and trumpet blasts.
Archers fell back behind the crossbowmen and mages, who formed up front in six ranks.
Then, battalion commanders, company commanders, and platoon leaders rushed about, shouting.
"First rank—fire! Second rank, prepare! Third, fourth, fifth, sixth—check your loads!"
"First rank fires, then second immediately! Next third, fourth! Cycle through as fast as you can—one extra shot wins it!"
"Fired troops, sprint to the rear and reload fast! Slackers answer to me personally!"
The tactic Major General Jaeger had drilled into his crossbowmen and mages was the "counter march" in English—or "continuous fire" in the local tongue.
It had originally been devised to offset the matchlock musket's abysmal rate of fire—one shot per minute.
Crossbows and spells weren't much faster, topping out at one attack every forty seconds or so, making it perfectly applicable.
The troops had trained extensively on this tactic before arriving, so they fell into position smoothly, without a hitch.
"One shot, then haul ass. Slowpokes—you're dead meat."
"If the battalion commander hauls you aside, don't think that's the end. Next it'll be the operations officer—a captain or major—dragging you in."
"Two choices: drill it perfect and earn praise, or fuck up and catch hell from the battalion commander on down, plus punishment! Your call!"
Every word from the NCOs swept away the troops' combat terror and tension.
In its place rose the dread of horrific consequences for screwing up.
"Fire from the first rank!"
At the command, first-rank troops unleashed crossbows and spells, then bolted rearward for dear life.
Second rank fired in sync, while ranks three through six checked loads and fell back about ten meters.
Retreating step by step while pouring arrows and magic nonstop left the Stockholm infantry helpless.
"Fuck, why are they pulling away? Why? Those bastards were right there—now they're way off!"
"How the hell should I know, sergeant? Ack..."
"Dense formation, damn it! They're retreating faster than we advance—what the fuck are the officers doing?"
Stockholm infantry advanced roughly sixty meters per minute. Reich ranged troops retreated about fifty.
The gap closed, inch by inch—but the enemy stayed under constant arrow and spell fire.
Unlike knights in full plate, infantry in partial armor saw—to exaggerate slightly—hundreds drop dead per meter gained.
Every ten meters cost nearly a thousand lives.
In such a crisis, officers should've broken formation, dispersed, and ordered a sprint—but they couldn't.
Dispersing would let the Reich infantry lurking behind their archers emerge and butcher the scattered troops.
Stuck, they dithered—unable to advance or scatter—forcing a turtle-slow push in tight ranks toward the foe.
"Fuckin' officer bastards..."
"Aleks! Sergeant Aleks! You cowardly Reich sons of bitches!"
"Worse than dogs, fighting from the rear like that!"
Stockholm Kingdom soldiers had no choice but to slog forward under the arrow and magic barrage.
Meanwhile, as his ranged troops retreated and fired, Major General Jaeger positioned himself near his ambushing knights and light cavalry.
He also ordered fresh infantry divisions to peel off from the line and head to their staging points.
"The enemy’s minds are elsewhere, fixated on the arrows raining down. Divisions 16, 19, 20, and 34—ambush deep in the left forest. Hit their flank after one hour."
Messengers raced off with the order. By the time the Stockholm infantry and Reich ranged troops closed to about forty meters—
A colossal trumpet blast and drumroll echoed from the Reich lines, signaling the ranged and infantry ranks to swap.
"Archers, mages, crossbowmen—volley fire and fall back! Thin their numbers as much as possible!"
Reich ranged troops unleashed a mass salvo and withdrew. Spearmen held the line in stoic silence.
Or rather, the Reich infantry jeered at the Stockholm ranks—now ragged and crumbling like wet rags—as they readied for battle.
"Stockholm pricks outnumber us damn near two-to-one, but poke 'em and they'll shatter."
"They tried holding formation, I guess. Look at that skew, though."
"If I were in their army, I'd desert on the spot. Frontline gets shredded—five or six out of ten die. Better bolt and save your skin."
After nearly ten minutes of one-sided arrow slaughter, the Stockholm survivors gnashed their teeth, gripped spears, and pressed on.
Their front ranks were a battered mess from relentless arrow fire—not pristine by any means—but the survivors burned with vengeful fury at the chance to finally hit back.
Their steps carried less fear of the foe than rage toward them.
"Fuck, I'll catch those Reich bastards and rip their limbs off!"
"That nomad kid tailing Chieftain Ishtaven said it: tie prisoners to wagon wheels—if they're taller than the wheel when stretched, kill 'em all."
"Sounds good, fuck yeah. Who knew barbarians had such cute quirks?"
Reich troops facing them neither mocked nor feared, simply finishing their preparations.