Chapter 50
Chapter 50
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 50
Chapter Title: Hammer and Anvil (3)
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Including the Reich Empire's army, all armies of this era could typically cover an average of 12 to 14 kilometers per day. Scaling down to division size allowed them to push that to about 1.4 times farther—16 to 20 kilometers.
Those who've done forced marches in Korea might wonder, "Why can't they walk more than that?"
In modern Korea, marches usually involve trucks and vehicles that outpace the troops.
But armies of this era relied on wagons pulled by horses and oxen, so they had to match that pace.
The daily distance was inevitably limited as a result.
However, if they traveled light with minimal supplies and rations, people of this time—who'd walked or run everywhere since childhood and endured grueling farm labor—had the stamina to cover 40 kilometers on foot in a day.
I bellowed loudly enough for the soldiers marching at a near-run with their armor and weapons to hear.
"If His Highness the Crown Prince and Countess Venner are handling things right, the enemy will have stripped their forces to the bare minimum on this flank, pouring everything into annihilating His Highness's 32,000 troops. If we hit their side in that gap, we can take the heads of their commander and all the bigwigs in one glorious haul!"
Before the rapid march began, we'd kept even the tiniest hint of the plan under wraps.
But with over 8,000 soldiers already on the move, there was no point hiding it anymore.
Now it was time to give the troops a simple rundown of the plan, instill a sense of purpose, and get them to grit their teeth and push through hell or high water.
The human spirit can often propel the body beyond its limits.
"Better to fight like mad dogs today and end it in one blaze of glory than slog through months of misery on the battlefield!"
"They won't know what hit 'em when we pop out of nowhere and smash their side... That's when we slice their throats clean!"
"I guarantee it as your battalion commander: anyone—soldier or officer—who racks up a big kill gets my personal recommendation to His Highness. Whatever you wish for, I'll make it happen! So hang in there!"
The other commanders, fired up by my words, started rallying their men the same way.
No matter how I spun it, unless they'd gotten their post straight from the Crown Prince's faction like me, a battalion commander's word wouldn't sway His Highness—or even most generals—on major wishes. They were going all-in with reckless abandon.
What if some soldier actually pulled off a huge feat? How would they cover that?
Still, that kind of no-holds-barred pep talk seemed to motivate the troops. They were digging deep, squeezing out every last ounce of strength to keep pace.
By my rough gauge, we were making about 8 kilometers per hour. Right around arrival time, a massive rectangular blob of Checobian soldiers came into view.
Too far to make out their shouts or orders.
But the blaring trumpets and drums, plus the enemy's rapid push on the front line, told the story.
His Highness and his forces were executing my bait plan to perfection. The enemy commander was riding the momentum, eager to seal the victory.
Right on cue, a knight bearing the Reich Empire Crown Prince's banner galloped up and roared.
"The Checobian piglets have their heads stuck in the trough! Stuck in the trough!"
The soldiers exchanged baffled glances at the words.
But to commanders above battalion level like me, the code's meaning was crystal clear.
"His Highness and Countess Venner are about to drop the feigned defeat and counterattack."
Was everything going this smoothly?
Among our division's senior officers—majors and above—the mood lit up like villagers prepping for a feast.
"Perfect! Keep it up!!"
"For my house's honor! For the day I pin on my star!"
"This time, your battalion commander's leading the charge. Just follow my back!"
Seeing their commanders buzzing with excitement, the troops sensed the plan was unfolding brilliantly.
"Let's win and go home!"
"Long live the Reich Empire! Long live His Highness the Crown Prince!"
Exhausted as they were, they roared their responses to the officers' orders.
Intelligence officers from division then rode through, shouting.
"One hour rest, then we fight!"
"Drain your canteens and down a handful of salt! Skip the food if you're hungry—no rations, or you'll cramp up and die!"
"Battalions, form up! Battalions, form up!"
Ordering rest by battalion meant one thing.
The division commander planned sequential assaults by battalion, hitting them diagonally.
That way, no wasted time forming ranks for a wheel maneuver—tens of minutes to an hour saved, maximizing the surprise.
Meanwhile, our battalion's men hit the dirt in clusters the moment rest was called.
"Damn it, makes sense to hike back a week's march in just six hours?"
"Yeah, why'd we even build those positions?"
"To fool the enemy, obviously. Who'd expect us to turn around this fast after digging in like that?"
Fool your own side first to deceive the enemy—that's the adage. The plan worked, but I still felt a twinge of guilt.
They'd slaved away for nothing because of me, after all.
"Jaeger Battalion, attention! From now on, take water with salt and sugar together. It'll help."
Water alone meant no salt, but after six hours of blistering pace, they'd sweated out rivers of it.
Massive electrolyte and fluid loss had drained their strength completely.
No need for full rations—just replenishing water, salt, and sugar would restore some stamina.
After about an hour's rest, the drums and trumpets sounded.
Upbeat rhythms before a life-or-death slaughter felt oddly mismatched.
"Our division strikes the enemy's soft underbelly now! Victory hangs on your valor—fight without mercy! His Highness will reward your feats handsomely."
Normally, that'd be the standard half-truth from a commander.
But this was His Highness's first command. The troops knew massive rewards awaited real heroes.
Generals love lavishly praising subordinates—it burnishes their own image.
If a soldier braved death to kill an enemy battalion or regimental commander, they'd hit the jackpot: life-changing prize money and landed estates.
The division commander's words rang 120% true this time.
"Tactics are dead simple! Kill the enemy in front of you! Kill and keep killing! When your unit commander gives the word, then maneuver."
In a normal raid, we'd layer on complex orders. But this was a wild exception.
Colonels and below, me included, probably had no more intel than that.
Failure here meant only retreat was left.
"13th Division, form up and charge!"
With the order, the division's soldiers stepped off in unison toward the foe.
About 600 meters out, but the enemy division commander and officers were blinded by the kill on His Highness.
Only a smattering from their left wing moved to intercept us.
Sure, "smattering" still looked like thousands—but compared to facing 50,000-plus, it was nothing.
Scratch that. With numbers on our side, it was beyond favorable.
"Jaeger Battalion, we hit two paces ahead of the main body. Prepare accordingly."