Chapter 252
Chapter 252
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 252
Chapter Title: Battle of Glopino Plains (1)
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Glopino Plains, Warsaw Grand Duchy encampment.
The Warsaw soldiers had been forced onto the battlefield with morale in the gutters, despite outnumbering their foes, all thanks to Peter Jaeger's vile schemes.
Normally, right before a battle, the veterans and NCOs would crack jokes and offer encouragement to boost the troops' courage and spirits.
But things were so bleak now that even they stayed silent.
They knew that if they opened their mouths with all those green rookies staring at them, it'd just scream, "I'm scared shitless too."
So only the fresh-faced newbies who had no idea what true battlefield terror felt like were chattering away before the fight.
"Fuck, you think we'll make it back alive?"
"Shut your damn mouth. I'm already freaking out enough without you spouting that grim shit."
"What, you think if we don't say unlucky stuff, Deus'll bless us and the arrows'll magically miss? Empty your head, shut up, and march. The big shots'll handle it somehow."
When that soldier mentioned the high command, the newbies around him barely stifled their laughs.
Being able to laugh in a situation like this was usually a good sign.
But snickering in hollow disbelief at their own commanders? That was far from ideal.
"Both of you, shut the hell up. Win or lose, the ones who die end up in the dirt, and the survivors pull through somehow. Only Deus knows how it'll go, so quit stirring up panic like idiots."
The NCOs in charge of the men couldn't muster any pep talks to lift spirits, but they knew from hard-earned experience how to maintain the bare minimum.
It was simple: execute the whiners right in front of everyone.
Kill one, and all eyes turned to the corpse. The rest would fight without distractions, terrified of getting rightfully shot by their own NCOs.
Of course, that was a last resort. Instead, the NCOs fiddled with their longswords—the symbol of their authority to control soldiers on the field—warning their men to pipe down.
Commander Tadeusz von Grzymidaw lamented that they were barely in standoff position, yet already dealing with defeatists.
"I have no face left to show His Highness the Grand Duke of Warsaw. No matter how bad things look, how can our troops' morale be in the shitter before the fight even starts? Talking like we're all dead men walking."
In truth, the fear of dying to the enemy always led to some idiot muttering bad omens, even in battles with high odds of victory.
Those types basically handed the enemy a gift before the first clash, so the rule was to execute them as a stern warning.
"Execute only the ones griping too loud or preaching doom like prophets. The rest, let the NCOs and officers coax and calm them. The enemy seems set on a prolonged standoff, waiting for us to slip up. The longer this drags, the worse it gets for us with our low morale. Full army charge."
Commander Tadeusz's order rippled through the entire Warsaw army, and the soldiers began advancing in step.
In stark contrast to the desperately cornered Warsaw Grand Duchy forces, the Reich Empire army's mood was healthy and solid.
Proper tension had replaced raw fear of battle. When rookies got too jittery, NCOs and veterans stepped in with jokes to lighten the mood.
"One, attention, privates! If we make it back alive, your Sergeant Hans here will buy every man in the platoon a liter of beer and a plate of meat! The top performer per squad gets whore money too!"
"Long live Sergeant! That's the spirit of a true Reich soldier."
"Beats the cheapskate next to us, Sergeant Lian. Speaking of, take a good look at my long-service application."
"If you make staff sergeant after this fight, I'll consider talking to the company commander."
"You better keep that promise. Otherwise, back when you were a corporal..."
Each joke eased the tension a bit, replacing it with a burning desire to survive and cash in.
The dread of a meaningless death on the field slowly faded, and unit cohesion strengthened.
Peter Jaeger watched from the rear, more convinced than ever of their solid chances in this battle.
But he knew war left no room for complacency—from the lowliest grunt to the top commander. A single slip could cost your life.
Victory might be in sight, but he steeled himself against the worst-case scenario, ramping up tension to the max.
It was all to ensure not even the tiniest weakness showed.
As Jaeger mentally cooked up two ways to crush the Warsaw army already, a messenger dashed up.
"The Warsaw Grand Duchy legions are on the move!"
"The time to judge those wicked Warsaw bastards draws near. Return to your unit at once."
"Yes, sir."
The instant the messenger left, Commander Jaeger ordered his standard bearer and bugler.
"Tell the crossbowmen, mages, and archers to unleash everything they've got."
It was textbook: thin their numbers with arrows and spells from afar, then hold firm with spearmen up close to prevent breakthroughs.
Victories were 95% textbook orders, 5% brilliant deviations from the norm.
'With morale that low, a hail of arrows and spells alone will break their lines. Adjust strategy based on how Tadeusz responds.'
And those flashes of genius always came after the fight started, adapting to the flow.
"The commander's orders: give those Warsaw morons a hefty serving of arrows and magic! Don't spare arrows or mana! Everyone, loose volleys!"
"Bastards from Stockholm Kingdom who backstabbed us with their declaration of war. No point sparing scum like that!"
"They're begging to die—send as many as we can straight to hell, fast!"
Following Commander Jaeger's textbook directive, officers ordered max effort from ranged units.
Archers, crossbowmen, and mages poured everything into killing one more Warsaw trash before melee.
"Arrows dry? Grab fresh quivers! Return empties!"
Archers, crossbowmen, and mages gave their all to kill one more Warsaw trash.
Meanwhile, the Warsaw forces fired back with arrows and spells of their own, racking up casualties on both sides.
"You Warsaw fuckers, how dare you hit m—"
"My arm, fuck! Argh!"
"Anyone hit by arrows who can still move, report to your squad leader or NCO and fall back! Standing in line wounded just gets in the way!"
But arrow-and-magic fights came down to sheer volume, so the Reich Empire—with 50,000 fewer men—took heavier losses at range.
Yet attitudes toward ranged combat differed vastly between the armies.
Both sides fought desperately to pierce one more enemy with an arrow or incinerate them with magic.
But their views on wounded men diverged sharply.
Reich troops, with high morale, pitied arrow-struck comrades but felt relief they were alive.
Warsaw soldiers, utterly devoid of fighting spirit, sneered enviously at those who took an arrow in the arm or leg or torso—lucky bastards limping off to safety like they'd hit the honey pot.
As both armies whittled each other down arrow by arrow, spell by spell, the gap closed: 200 meters, 100, 50.
"Spearmen, widen your intervals a bit! Make room for the archers to fall back through!"
"Angle those pikes and match heights! Mismatch means we all die!"
"Your screw-up kills the guys on both sides! No mistakes—do it like in training!"
As the gap vanished, mages and archers from both sides swiftly slipped into gaps a touch wider than shoulder-width in the infantry lines.
They dashed to position as fast as possible, and now Warsaw and Reich faced off spear-to-spear.
This was where the real fight would be decided.