Chapter 44
Chapter 44
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 44
Chapter Title: Branov Plain Great Battle (1)
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The Jaeger Battalion under my command was positioned at the forefront of the Reich Empire's forces.
That put us in the spot where we had the clearest view of the Duchy of Chekobia's army right in front of us, but even my eyes couldn't take in the full majesty of that massive enemy legion.
Why? A single division of eight thousand men marching in four horizontal columns stretched out about four kilometers long, and when densely packed, at least five hundred meters wide.
Trying to fit a legion over six times that size into the view from where I stood on the plain was physically impossible.
Is that why military doctrine often said things like this?
"When you become a commander leading a battalion or larger, you'll wage war in your head like a chess game, relying not on what your eyes see but on fragmented reports from messengers!"
Sure enough, even now before the battle began—when visibility was at its widest—that army didn't fit into a single glance.
What happens when combat narrows the field of view even further? Visual command would be tough even at the regimental level.
Still, about two hundred meters away, the faces of the Chekobian soldiers staring us down clearly showed the exhaustion from lack of sleep.
Looking closer, among those who seemed like raw recruits, some couldn't even handle the weight of their spears.
Since the trumpet signaling the start of battle hadn't sounded yet, I gave additional orders to the company commanders at my side.
"When we hit the battalion facing us across the way, have the mages and crossbowmen prioritize taking out the veterans first—not those scrawny rookies who look like anchovies. Once we close to melee, then kill the ones who can't even hold their spears right. Don't forget the truths of close combat we learned in first year at the Academy, whether you're an Academy grad or a staff officer."
In truth, I called it the "truths of close combat" to sound grand, but what I meant boiled down to the obvious: in infantry fights, the side that breaks first loses, period.
And to make that happen, you poke a small hole in the first rank of the enemy's massive infantry formation, then hammer it relentlessly before they can plug it, smashing it wide open.
"Yes, sir!"
After confirming the other company commanders' responses, I turned to where the mounted knights were and said,
"The knight company will follow me at the rear of the formation until I give the order. Unless absolutely necessary, avoid engaging before then."
Why? Knights, by their nature, rely on lances to deliver devastating charges that inflict heavy casualties.
But moving with infantry and limited to just twelve riders, a lance charge alone couldn't annihilate a battalion—or more—of enemy infantry.
So I'd use them to delay enemy infantry reinforcements while I hammered the battalion ahead.
Just as I finished issuing orders to each unit, low, heavy trumpet blasts began echoing from both armies' lines.
And as a commander of the Reich Empire, I gave the order.
"Battalion, charge! Fight as well as you did in training, and we'll win for sure!"
With that, I dismounted, handed my horse to my orderly, and started advancing with the troops.
The Reich Empire's soldiers began spewing foul curses to shake off their fear.
"You Duchy of Chekobia bastards! I'll put an air hole in your necks and make sure you're dead!"
"I'll send you back to your dearly departed parents!"
"You look tired—I'll put you to sleep nice and easy six feet under."
At the same time, the Chekobian soldiers across the way dragged their weary, heavy feet toward us, one step at a time, while shouting their own taunts.
"I'll pickle you in salt like cabbage!"
"What you're eating today is your last supper!"
"Chant it with me: 'We're dead!' You sons of bitches!"
As the distance between us shrank, thousands of arrows and spells came arcing down on each other. The troops under fire reacted in one of two ways.
Fools gripped by terror at the thought of death flailed their arms wildly to block arrows, or veterans who trusted their helmets and armor to carry them steadily forward.
Among the flailers, some managed to swat away one or two arrows with their arms, but in their panic, they took hits to the throat or chest and died.
Most arrows aimed at the experienced veterans in armor bounced off harmlessly; few skilled soldiers died to arrows.
Spells that burned or froze their targets, however, killed rookies and veterans alike without mercy.
Watching it all, I couldn't help thinking how badly we needed guns.
Matchlocks were slow to reload compared to bows, but far easier to use, requiring less training and cost.
With power rivaling serious magic, they could—if the commander's skill was up to it—even halt a knightly charge, the era's strongest offensive force.
Not just halt it: matchlocks would spark a revolution where common soldiers mow down knights.
I was the only one lamenting the lack of guns, but since our battalion had split mages and archers for ranged firepower, we were advancing while pounding the enemy unilaterally.
The Chekobians, taking hits almost defenselessly, laughed at our troops pressing forward and jeered,
"Their crossbows and mages might as well be decorations! Did Deus bless us with this gift after a cold, hungry night on watch?"
"Even idiots like that—cut off one head, and it's a promotion! Woo! Half a year off my service for each rank."
"Let's bag five and discharge clean. What do you say?"
No matter how poorly trained they were, that was nonsense from troops about to get wrecked.
Who in their right mind brings broken crossbows and mana-less mages to the front lines?
If you're in the first rank, facing the enemy first, and spot something off, common sense screams:
"Are those damn things waiting to wipe us all out in one go?"
But if they couldn't even think that much, maybe their intelligence really was in question.
What can you do? Give them a fiery death with arrows and spells—a proper lesson—then send them to peaceful rest.
Finally, the distance to the enemy battalion shrank to under fifty meters, and both sides' ranged cover fire ceased.
We accelerated toward each other without breaking formation.
Just like on the Rhineland Front before, infantry closing with nothing but their spears to shatter the enemy's line.
Previously, I'd used just a handful of crossbowmen, but not this time.
"Front two mage squads, crossbow platoon! Attack the enemy battalion's front! Those fools babbling about broken arrows or no mana—kill them all and send them off with a real lesson!"
Dozens of crossbowmen and over six mages would unleash a perfect crossfire of death at the optimal moment.
Hearing my order, the mages and crossbowmen prepared to strike from beyond spear range.
The enemy spearmen, moments from impact, seemed to grasp what our "lesson" meant—they trembled as they advanced.
Their faces screamed they wanted to run even now, but desertion was impossible here.
Why? Follow-up and reserve units were right behind; stopping meant getting trampled.
"...Fuck!! Spare me!"
"You bastards! Better to take arrows and spells pushing forward!"
"Jenith!"
They begged for mercy or screamed lovers' names, but that was none of my concern.
Right now, I just needed to end the painful lives of these fools who'd stupidly thrust their spears at me.
"Jaeger Battalion, halt! Mages, crossbowmen—unleash hell! If you can't drop four per man against these idiots walking into it, you'll pull all-night guard duty!"
At my command, mages and crossbowmen leveled staves and crossbows at the enemy.
Flames, ice, and arrows flew mercilessly toward the terrified, wailing Chekobian troops.