Chapter 52
Chapter 52
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 52
Chapter Title: Hammer and Anvil (5)
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There are two broad situations in which a commander above battalion level takes the lead at the front.
The first is when our forces are in an utterly disadvantageous position, and the senior commander—the battalion commander—must risk his own life to somehow turn the tide of battle.
The second is when we've judged our forces to hold an overwhelming advantage over the enemy, with little risk involved, and we take this measure to rack up achievements and solidify that superiority.
The enemy will rejoice in the first case, thinking, "We've won!" But in the second, they'll realize they're in an extremely perilous situation and fall into despair.
Thus, the soldiers of the unit we're facing now fully grasped that my appearance as their battalion commander meant they'd been dragged into a quagmire they could never escape.
"Why the hell is the enemy's battalion commander up at the front making all this noise? Does that mean we've already lost? Are we all gonna die now?"
"Fuck, spare us! You crazy bastards!"
"What the hell is our battalion commander doing? The Reich pigs' commander is right up front!"
In the brutal eat-or-be-eaten world of war, the enemy's lament is our joy, and their misfortune is our delight.
Every member of the Jaeger Battalion, myself included, felt a surge of elation and relief at the sight of the enemy trembling in terror.
Under normal circumstances, feeling this way at the sight of someone quaking in fear would make you a deranged criminal. But in war, the weirdo is the one who doesn't rejoice at the enemy gripped by fear.
I stepped forward before my subordinate skirmishers and issued my command.
"Every one of you smashes at least two enemy heads. Anyone who takes out five or more, I'll make sure gets discharged even faster."
Was it because this promise—guaranteed to work 100% on everyone from the last-month sergeant exempt from all duties down to the greenest private—hit like a perfect shot?
"Long live Battalion Commander Jaeger!"
"For fat bonuses and quick discharges!"
"Charge in and smash some heads~!"
The Chebovian soldiers' morale didn't just hit rock bottom—it started digging deeper. Gripping my skirmisher's mace, I slipped through our spearmen's ranks and charged swiftly toward the enemy.
Spotting the first enemy soldier who'd come out without even a helmet, I brought down both infantry maces in my hands without mercy.
"Your men are melting away like snow, and you're just sitting back hiding like a coward of a commander? Come on out! Let's have a proper noble duel!"
Not even a platoon or company commander, but someone at battalion level or higher getting baited by trash talk like this? They'd end up like those Romance of the Three Kingdoms generals who lost their castles to enemy taunts.
Any commander with a proper sense of duty would ignore even the vilest insults mixing their parents' and their own flaws, pretending not to hear and continuing command.
But in this world, all provocations are thrown out hoping they stick—if not, no loss. So I kept swinging my mace, killing every soldier in sight, and shouted.
"Chebovian commanders are as weak as women! How scared do you have to be to hide away while your men die off? Fine! I'll send heaps of dresses—the kind women wear—to your camp. Starting tomorrow, change into them, doll yourselves up, and come out."
Spitting these childish, nonsensical insults, I smoothly struck the helmet of an enemy soldier fully armored in front of me, knocking him out cold.
Timing it with his collapse, I thrust the spear blade attached under the mace handle into a gap in his armor. Blood gushed out from there.
Whoever he was, the proper armor suggested he was some kind of officer or senior NCO.
"Follow the battalion commander! Grab your maces and let's smash heads!"
"Pierce those Chebovian pigs with those thick, long spears you're holding!"
"The Lord has guaranteed us victory!"
Turning at their shouts, I saw Jaeger Battalion soldiers following me, cutting down the enemy.
Up front, mace-wielding soldiers battered enemy heads and torsos just like me, while those behind with long spears stabbed vital spots like necks.
The foes who'd been holding up decently against our assault just minutes ago were crumbling in an instant, losing the will to fight—it was almost pitiful.
"Where's our battalion commander? He said we'd get home alive if we just followed orders!"
"Did our commander abandon us?"
"You idiot, he's just as scared of dying. In the end, it's us lowly ones who'll die here."
No matter how desperately the Chebovian soldiers called for their commander like lost children for their parents, he would never come here.
For us, it was regrettable that our chance to score merits was shrinking. For those dying up ahead, it was an indescribably miserable fate.
With his unit utterly shattered, beyond any hope of rebuilding, the battalion commander's appearance wouldn't reverse the tide—it'd just be a pointless dog death.
That said, we couldn't exactly curse him for it. In the heat of war, one high commander's head flying mattered more to army morale than thousands of common soldiers dying.
Sacrificing someone who could live to save those who couldn't was simply unacceptable on the battlefield.
To raise even a sliver of victory odds, you had to prioritize killing enemies with whoever survived. In such cases, a commander might have to discard basic human decency.
Of course, that's just the situation—hiding in the back while your men die isn't something a human commander should do.
"Listen up, you Chebovian pigs! Your battalion commander abandoned you! Drop your weapons, kneel, and prostrate yourselves now, and I'll spare you! Surrender!"
At my words, the Chebovians in front of me dropped their weapons in unison and knelt face-down as ordered.
"Leave the ones prostrated alone! The division commander will handle taking them prisoner anyway, so don't worry about it! Kill the ones still holding weapons in front of you first!"
At that, my soldiers ignored the surrenders and pressed forward.
Part of me thought, Man, if we rounded up all those prisoners and turned them in, think of the merits stacking up... Truly a shame.
But our goal now was solely to reach the enemy HQ as fast as possible and take the commander's head.
"Battalion commander, sir! Enemy reinforcements approaching from over there! Can't tell the exact numbers, but they look more numerous than us!"
Common sense dictated there'd be more than one unit blocking the path to the enemy commander, right?
So wasting time capturing prisoners or fighting demoralized foes...
Would just let those walking corpses merge with reinforcements, revived to block us.
Better to ditch the prisoners entirely and smash through the incoming enemy fast.
As we advanced, Marco—acting as deputy battalion commander—approached me.
"Major, should we reform the formation now? It seems like..."
In a normal situation, yes, reform and meet the enemy properly.
But the enemy reinforcements were rushing in disorganized, and our formation was broken from the melee too.
And our battalion had the melee brawl king: the skirmisher's mace.
"With our men and theirs tangled up, no reforming means both sides dive into melee. That neuters long spears for everyone. We're drilled thoroughly on maces and blunt weapons—they aren't. We'll dominate! Prepare for a dogfight!"
"Got it! Battalion, drop the long spears! Dive in as is!"
With those words, I heard infantry spears—their beloveds—clattering to the ground.
I couldn't look back for lack of time, but inwardly, I was deeply moved.
Because on a battlefield where death could come any second, discarding your lifeline—your most familiar weapon—on a single order takes immense courage.
Or rather, in this case, it's proof of faith in their commander, Major Peter Jaeger.
Evidence: even that armored company commander type charging ahead couldn't hide his shocked expression.
"Before the melee, do what we always do! Crossbowmen and mages with ammo left, loose on every enemy in sight! Send those useless long spears away with them!"