Political General

"Pursue them?"

"No, they're marching into the trap on their own—just as His Majesty predicted. Carry on with the operation as ordered."

In a forest slightly removed from the village harboring a thousand elite sharpshooters disguised as peasants, Brigadier General Lafayette surveyed the battlefield from a watchtower concealed among the trees.

"They dragged it out in a most unmanly fashion. If they'd retreated sooner, it would've been better for everyone."

"Still, it wasn't entirely meaningless. We fortified the field fortress nicely, didn't we?"

Lafayette recalled the fortress they'd built near the Saar River.

"Just a temporary roadside fort with no real use. I planned to tear it down after this one battle, but it ended up taking way more effort than it should have."

"No helping it. Supplies kept pouring in, but time was short... Couldn't just let the troops sit idle, could we?"

The adjutant pulled out blueprints of the ironworks and struck up some small talk.

"Field fortifications are the engineers' job anyway. The other branches were just taking it easy as usual, weren't they?"

"Haha. Truth is, there was something I wanted to build during the field fortification exercise. I requested research on defensive positions from the Military Doctrine Institute, but they all got rejected."

"Hm, they'd usually approve position-building research."

Lafayette scanned the ironworks' weak points and damaged sections through his telescope, marking them on the blueprint.

"That... watchtower wall design..."

"Ah, that one. You came up with it? Common sense says it wouldn't work. Who puts watchtowers on walls? One cannonball and you'd lose a whole squad of defenders."

"Still, you have to test long and short, don't you?"

"There are more things in the world that obviously won't work. So, did it?"

"It collapsed. We tested with wooden dummies, so no casualties."

"Knew it. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠As long as no one died or got hurt, it's fine. Your foolishness set a precedent."

"Embarrassing, sir."

With that, Lafayette and his adjutant descended from the watchtower and assembled the reconnaissance teams—all mid-level officers of colonel rank or higher. They weren't scouting out of honor or duty; it was simply because the Loren Ironworks' security clearance started at colonel.

"Report your findings."

"Yes, sir. Northeast sector: Of the 24 key support pillars in the blast furnace building, 23 are destructible. They're all leaning, or rebar is protruding through the walls."

"Bringing them all down would make cleanup a nightmare. Focus on collapsing one side. Next?"

"The southwest rolling mill has four particularly vulnerable pillars on the west side. Hit those, and it'll come crashing down."

"Good. Guide it so the roof caves in and both walls fold inward."

They were planning the operation with the ironworks' destruction as a given. Some officers couldn't keep up and whispered anxiously to the colonels beside them.

"I don't know much about ironworks, but are we really tearing down the Loren Ironworks?"

"Ah, you're the majors who got emergency wartime promotions to colonel this morning. Makes sense you wouldn't know. The Loren Ironworks was designed for demolition from the start. Public works—ring a bell?"

"Yes, sir. I've heard of its reputation."

"The kind where they pay and feed you even if you slack off? Anyway, that reputation wasn't hype. We only learned this morning, but His Majesty turned it into a quick-demolition ironworks. Hold on—you're colonels now, so you should see this."

"This... must never leak to civilians. It's no different from making them work under a mine that could collapse anytime."

"Tsk, you're young and don't know better. It was the best we had back then. That's why urban compost fermentation plants only started in earnest after the Loren Steel Forge opened."

"But..."

"Don't make declarations without a clear alternative. Political judgments are His Majesty's domain. If you wanted to meddle, you should've been a bureaucrat. You're a soldier."

The Laudon forces sheltering inside the ironworks were in shambles. Ambushed while reorganizing at camp, then hit by a plains skirmish—they'd suffered heavy losses among senior officers. Worst of all, they'd been routed by a mere thousand peasants. In truth, by skill or battlefield judgment, those "peasants" were French sharpshooters in disguise. But only the top commanders knew that; to the rank-and-file, they were just farmers in farmers' clothes. A tactical retreat to evade snipers had morphed into fleeing from peasants over something as simple as attire.

"Casualty report, sir. Of the 400,000 Italian mercenaries, about 300,000 fled, and 20,000 were captured. We can salvage only 80,000. We've set up camp at the old ore stockpile yard. The fences are a bit taller than a man, so it's relatively secure. No desertions or raids expected."

"300,000 fled? All their captains dead?"

"Yes, sir. Telescope observation showed bodies in command uniforms being tossed into mass graves. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Confirmed as the provisional regimental commanders for the Italian mercenaries."

Provisional regimental commanders—a wartime colonel or peacetime major rank. But for Italian mercenaries, it was different. Most were Prussian or Austrian captains.

"Worst case."

It might look good that majors weren't killed, only captains. But too many had died. Real regimental commanders were colonel-grade; even a massacre would cap at a dozen. Provisional ones, however: 800 per mercenary regiment, 500 commanders total.

Yes, 500. Five hundred young Prussian and Austrian captains—future battalion commanders, regimental commanders, division commanders, elite and noble officers—all dead.

"Should've listened to William V."

"Pardon?"

"No, never mind. Artillery and cavalry?"

"Artillery and cavalry are intact. Most losses are officers. No regular troops or supply damage. The open camp kept the sharpshooters at bay. Sending mules and men to recover supplies now."

The anti-French coalition had come with 700,000: 100,000 Dutch peeled off, 320,000 Italian mercenaries vanished. No proper battle, and 420,000 gone. With levies and miscellany, nearly 450,000. Sixty percent of the force evaporated in a flash. The anti-French alliance was now effectively just Prussia-Austria.

"The staff judges we can't continue the war like this. Fewer mouths mean better food, but we're effectively wiped out. France's standing army alone is 210,000. With mercenaries, around 250,000. No numerical superiority left. No qualitative edge either. France has sent ongoing volunteers to the American Revolution—intelligence estimates at least 50,000 elite troops and 3,000 elite officers. Twenty percent of our units now have adjutants or juniors taking command after sniper kills on leaders."

"Some company commanders are talking last stands or mobile retreats. Especially young officers pushing night marches, modified from the last Metz withdrawal."

"That was an elite maneuver to draw attention. Whoever suggested it—I don't want to hear from them again."

"Understood."

With elites dying off, quality drop was visible. Some treated Laudon's gamble as standard tactics and wanted to repeat it.

"Common sense: Sneaking up sans fire, memorizing obstacles and terrain to tap the fortress gate and run—easy? Without the cavalry screen, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it'd be slaughter."

"Your Excellency, they're not even our army—mere lieutenants or ensigns from the electorates. Never fought, just watched from behind."

"Still, there's a limit. This is honor. Whip them. Thirty lashes as example. Do it in front of the juniors—break their noses completely."

"Y-Your Excellency. Even so, whippings now..."

"This is our army's prestige. Politics is my domain—stay out."

The adjutant tried to dissuade Laudon, but a mere lieutenant couldn't defy his resolve. Whippings decided, the lowborn noble officers from the electorates were dragged out one by one.

"Your Excellency! This is settling ranks in the alliance! No political judgments in war! Sovereignty violation! At least convene a court-martial with electorate officers for punishment!"

Laudon looked pityingly at the mid- and sub-lieutenants dangling shirtless from the whipping posts and heard the plea.

"A hundred lashes. Administer."

He'd heard him out, at least.