Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: First Battle (2)
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After a majestic trumpet blast echoed for about thirty seconds, soldiers clad in splendid armor stepped onto the battlefield from both our forces and the enemy lines.
Then, the division commanders of the Reich Empire forces and the Franco Republic exchanged barbs, hurling insults about each other's nations, family lineages, and even personal shortcomings.
As someone with a modern sensibility still intact, I found it hard to wrap my head around why they'd do that right before the battle started.
The Imperial Academy had taught us that such mutual denunciations greatly aided the war effort.
Soldiers without any patriotic fervor or personal stakes in the fight had no reason to risk their lives—they just wanted to survive and get home as quickly as possible.
But when the division commander insulted the enemy on their behalf, it created the illusion that we were stronger. And when the enemy hurled abuse, it stoked hatred toward them, boosting morale, reducing fear of death, and firing everyone up.
There was also mention that it might make the enemy commander lose his cool in rage, though a division commander losing his head over trash talk was unlikely.
In any case, even these low-brow insults—nothing compared to Korean firestorms—got the soldiers riled up more than I'd expected.
"Damn Franco Republic bastards! They say our Reich Empire sausages are only thumb-sized because that's the size of theirs?"
"Rip 'em apart! Kill the lot of 'em!"
"But their commanders said the enemy are just a ragtag bunch who brawl by the collar every day, right? We'll crush 'em easy."
I'd heard that there's a difference in depth between theoretical knowledge and hands-on experience.
If it was this effective, then as platoon leader, I should give my men some good old Korean-flavored words to rally them.
In this world, like medieval or early modern Europe, it was polite to act gentlemanly around women, but on the battlefield, spouting unfiltered macho trash talk was considered proper form.
Time to let one rip.
"Jaeger Platoon, eyes front! The Franco Republic commanders and soldiers say our dicks are small because that's the biggest they've ever seen in their pathetic lives. Don't we owe it to those impotent losers, on their way out, to show 'em how real men fight?"
Laughter erupted from the ranks, and soon the drums and flags signaling a charge across the whole army rose up.
"Alright, fight just like we trained, and we'll win. No cowards here scared of magic or arrows from those poor bastards who've barely got any men left, right?! Advance!"
With that, our company strode forward proudly at the front of the battalion, heading slowly toward the enemy.
The Franco Republic soldiers began closing in at the same pace.
With every step, the battlefield atmosphere and the sheer pressure from tens of thousands of men on both sides felt overwhelming.
Honestly, I wanted to clash with the Franco bastards ASAP—even charge at full speed so I could lose myself in the frenzy up front and calm my nerves.
But you can't always sprint full-tilt; if you blow your stamina early, you might run out of gas when it counts.
As I suppressed my mounting panic, steadied my breathing, and advanced slowly, arrows and spells started flying from both sides.
We had to pick up the pace soon, or we'd take more magic and arrows before even reaching the enemy.
Right on cue, the company commander must've thought the same—he bellowed the order via flags and drums.
"More guys die from arrows and spells than spears in the back! Speed up! Double time!"
Human instinct makes a dense phalanx of spearmen scarier than distant, hard-to-see arrows.
Proof: most people instinctively close their eyes to a close-up fist or bat swing, but dodge when facing a gun from afar.
From ancient wars to modern ones, ranged weapons always killed the most.
I'd read in Japanese military history that arrows and matchlocks killed two or three times more than spears or swords.
But sprinting hundreds of meters full-out would leave you gassed, easy prey for enemy spearmen. So this was the best approach?
"Jaeger Platoon, per company command—pick up speed! Don't wanna end up a roasted hedgehog from arrows and spells? Move faster! But no blind panic running!"
At that, our company—no, both the Reich Empire and Franco Republic forces—accelerated their march.
Countless arrows, fireballs, lightning bolts, and all sorts of spells crashed toward us like waves.
It would've been spectacular in a movie, but to those in the thick of it, it was cosmic horror.
Soon, screams rang out from soldiers hit by arrows and spells.
"Argh!"
"Mom! It hurts!! Help me!!"
We had to ignore them—pretend we didn't hear—as there was no time to check on comrades, maybe even from our own platoon.
Because the arrows and spells kept raining down like hail.
After an eternity covering those 150 meters at a sprint, we closed to about 50 meters.
Our mages and the enemy's surged forward through gaps in their formations, shielded by big-shield bearers already chanting on the move.
The shield guys positioned up front to cover them.
"Enemy mages targeting our platoon! Crossbowmen, when they raise staves and lean out to cast, shoot 'em down! Your brothers' lives depend on it!"
The rear crossbowmen acknowledged smartly, shifting to angles that avoided our mages while aiming at theirs.
As the enemy mages loosed spells at us.
"Die, you pretentious fucks!"
Our crossbow bolts nailed their mages, while our own punched holes in the enemy infantry lines.
Some foes charred to charcoal or got pulped by flying debris, but our company came through unscathed—the enemy infantry's morale visibly cracked.
"Jaeger Platoon, with me—engage the enemy! No fear, stick to training, and we'll win easy! First rank, spears ready to sweep! Charge!"
And just like in drills, my platoon moved perfectly to my commands.
First rank swept their long spears clear, opening gaps for second rank to thrust in unison.
That first volley skewered four enemies outright.
Was it because we'd sniped their mages in our first real action and shone in the spear clash?
The initial jitters and tension from stepping onto the field were gone—I felt like I could do anything.
Of course, overconfidence was suicide; I'd get embarrassingly skewered.
I had no intention of pushing my platoon beyond its limits.
But our unit cohesion exceeded expectations—the company's assault pivoted to center on us.
I signaled flags to check if we'd overextended; company commander replied, "Keep fighting as is."
Riding that momentum, we hammered the enemy, slaughtering a good number—until drums signaled rotation from the follow-up company commander.
Perfect timing; linger too long up front, and fatigue sets in.
Push greedily here, and we'd regret it.
"Crossbowmen, loose on their spearmen first. Then first rank sweeps like initial charge, second rank thrusts—then fall back!"
That bought us time to swap; the whole fourth company withdrew for rest.
The battalion split into assault, rear guard, and rest rotations—vanguards like us got 30-ish minutes off-duty.
Sergeant Schmidt and the platoon sprawled silently or sipped water; no boasting or mourning yet, just exhaustion.
No energy left, probably.
I wanted to flop down too, but spotting how easily the enemy broke sparked an idea for merits.
I sought out the company commander.
"Sir, I've got a good tactic—could you review it?"
Not ideal to pitch during his brief breather after fifteen minutes of hell, but...
Since we're fighting for our lives anyway, why not grind a bit more for merits and a shot at promotion?