Chapter 32
Chapter 32
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 32
Chapter Title: Battle of the Esllon Plains (3)
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My name is Mark. I was a beggar living in poverty until I joined Baron Kroitel's army as a lowly foot soldier—no, a private who's served one year.
Until yesterday, we repeated rest and training in the barracks, and now the day of my first real battle in life had finally arrived.
At noon, under the blazing morning sun, our army marched to the plains across the river where we'd face the enemy.
Since the spot where our camp was setting up was on the opposite bank, we had to cross the river, soaking our pants up to the knees.
The wet pants felt a bit sticky, but standing at the very front with spear in hand, I couldn't voice any complaints.
I just had to endure this "harsh environment" as a soldier, trained for it.
Lost in such thoughts, trying to suppress my grumbles, Sergeant Jackson beside me muttered.
"Damn it... Why the hell do we have to cross the river? Can't we just taunt the enemy into crossing it themselves? Right, Private Mark?"
"You're telling me."
As soon as we crossed, our platoon moved to the far end of the formation as previously ordered.
We formed a six-rank spear wall with long spears, and crossbowmen carrying shields slightly larger than themselves crossed the river and passed us.
Then they positioned themselves a bit ahead of us and planted their slightly larger shields into the ground.
Once we'd confirmed all shields were set, our lieutenant—the bastard son of Sir Knight Frost—turned to us with a serious expression and began his speech.
"The enemy approaches soon! But as proud soldiers of Baron Kroitel, as his subordinates, we must annihilate them! Rally your strength, men! And finally, shout it loud enough for the enemy to hear! Long live Baron Kroitel!!!"
After that, a brief silence fell, then the men of our platoon began to roar.
"Long live!!"
"Smash the enemy!! Long live for His Excellency!!"
"I'll earn merits in this battle! Long live His Excellency!!"
**
Some more time passed, and enemies began appearing in the distance.
Too far to make out details—just dots—but as they drew closer, they grew larger.
They had two arms, two legs, heads, and torsos like us.
But unlike our troops, many—no, most—of their forces lacked proper gear, armed instead with farm tools like 'iron pitchforks,' 'long forks,' and 'hoes,' wearing thin tunics meant for plowing fields.
Looking closer, their spacing and march were all out of sync.
Could rabble like that really oppose us?
As such idle thoughts crossed my mind, our platoon leader drew the sword from his left hip and issued the command.
"Entire platoon, lower spears and form the phalanx! When the crossbowmen fall back to our left, advance slowly!"
At that order, my squad moved to the frontmost rank of the phalanx and lined up in a row.
Next, I spaced myself from the soldier beside me enough for one man to fit between, and our squad leader, Sergeant Jackson, angled his halberd downward.
Seeing that, our bodies reacted as trained— all of us thrust our spears forward following Jackson's halberd.
By the time we finished, the enemy was close enough to make out the shape of their helmets.
The footsteps of thousands of serfs thudded like they were shaking the earth, and then Baron Excellency's voice boomed from the center of the infantry phalanx.
"Crossbowmen, fire!"
At his command, the crossbow squad leaders echoed it, and soon bolts flew toward the enemy, embedding deep.
"Argh!!"
"M-Mommy!!"
"I wanna go home..."
"G-Guhh..."
A lucky few took arrows in arms or legs and survived, but those hit in the throat or chest died with final screams—or without even that.
The blood from the dying soldiers began staining the vibrant green grass red.
After a very brief moment, the platoon leader drew his sword again and bellowed.
"All platoon members, heads down!! Enemy arrows incoming!"
Once more, my ingrained soldier's instincts and training kicked in unconsciously, ducking my head.
And right after, enemy arrows rained from the sky.
Praying none hit me as I kept my head down, a death rattle came from someone in the platoon beside me.
"Ugh..."
I didn't know who, but getting hit by an arrow... I couldn't let that happen to me...
Then our crossbowmen fired back at the enemy, and seconds later, they loosed another volley at us.
All the while, I kept my head down to avoid arrows striking unprotected vitals my helmet and breastplate couldn't cover, waiting for the platoon leader's charge order.
At least once we clashed, no more arrow worries.
As if answering that hope, the platoon leader shouted triumphantly.
"Sergeant Clark! Cover the rear. I'll lead the platoon vanguard, Frost! Follow me!"
With those words, the platoon leader—clad in helmet, breastplate, and arm armor—gripped his halberd and took position in the center of our squad.
And finally...
'Bwooooooo!!!'
The trumpet blast signaling the charge rang out.
Without even ordering us, the platoon leader surged forward halberd in hand.
He was a noble young master at least ten years my junior, but watching him stride confidently at the front with halberd raised made me think, 'This is why he's the platoon leader.'
It had to be terrifying leading, but overcoming that and marching into battle was the noble image I'd imagined.
Naturally, we followed one step, two steps behind.
Marching in sync with his pace, soon our spear tips met theirs.
From then on, I became like a machine in a farmer's hands, swept along by the 'platoon' collective as trained.
Thrust when they thrust, deflect when their iron pitchforks, long forks, or hoes came at me.
After minutes of intense exchange, one untrained enemy serf dropped his iron pitchfork.
Seeing him bend to retrieve it, I naturally stabbed him like spearing a tree in training, then pulled back.
The stabbed foe let out a blood-choked scream.
"Argh... S-Spare me."
"Die, you serf scum."
The one I killed had taken it through the heart—blood gushed from the wound.
Next, to survive this battlefield, I realigned spears with my comrade beside me.
Soon, the enemy facing us was slow to advance and engage with his tool.
The moment that thought hit, the guy right behind my kill trembled as he thrust his farm tool forward.
A tiny gap opened—just a sliver—and I didn't miss it, stabbing the foe before me.
This time the throat; he'd die without a sound.
Killing the two at the enemy's front created a small hole in their phalanx opposite me.
Spotting it, desperate to live, I thrust my spear forward, advancing one step, two beyond my comrades, and shouted.
"Private Mark!! Breached a hole in the enemy phalanx!!"
Hearing that, our platoon leader looked at me with glee beneath his helmet and declared.
"Entire platoon, charge behind Mark! Annihilate their phalanx! Standard bearer, raise the platoon flag high so Sir Baldt, infantry commander, can see! Hold just a bit longer—we'll be the heroes of this battle! Charge!!"
Obeying, I cast aside fear of death, spear raised—not stepping, but leaping forward.
Panicked enemies before me got jabbed wildly, and soon some fled without caring their own platoon officers trailed behind.
One, two, three... After skewering quite a few, I'd run to a spot devoid of enemies.
Our platoon's other soldiers followed, chasing to this enemy-less ground.
Seeing it, laughter bubbled up unbidden.
Not fully safe yet, but joy and ecstasy at surviving my first hellish war mixed with guilt over killing 'innocent' foes despite them being enemies, pity for those brutally slain by me—a complex laugh.
"Hahaha!! Damn it, I survived!!"
Hearing my laugh, Sergeant Jackson appeared beside me, slapping my shoulder.
"Hell yeah! Breaching their phalanx means you're not dying today!! You're the hero!! When we get back, you'll get sergeant for sure, you bastard?"
"Really?"
"Yeah, sergeant means raise too, so marriage..."
But Jackson couldn't finish.
Because a 'ground-shaking roar' incomparable to the infantry clash boomed—not at us, but fierce all the same.
Looking toward the source, there...
The baron's knights charged the enemy knights.
Their sun-reflecting silver armor sparkled like stars, their charge momentum like...
The apocalypse priests sometimes preached.
Moving neither too fast nor slow... gleaming silver death.
**
Lance charges are tough enough, but as baron, leading the knight charge...
Is this for real?
But thanks to Jack Frost and the other knights' shining eyes and words, no escaping it.
"Your Excellency the Baron need only hold the banner at the front rank and charge. Don't worry—just charge! With gambeson under plate, you won't die unless trampled by a horse!"
Real European wars, knights rarely died easy... but a baron doing this?
Still, to protect my territory built by me, Siel von Kroitel, from those damned fools, no choice—charge ruthlessly.
With that resolve, I gripped the large banner emblazoned with our barony's crest in both hands, raising it high.
Pennant flapping, I commanded them.
"Knights of Kroitel! Show those foolish, wicked thieves who wage war over others' possessions what an honorable knight's fight looks like—make them repent! All knights, charge!!"