The Secret of the Exchange Ratio
On the opposite side, the French army.
"Reload!"
With this volley, the French troops had cut down about a fifth of the enemy front line. An exchange ratio of 1:50. It was nothing short of a massacre.
The reason for such a lopsided exchange ratio was none other than proficiency.
A third of the French army consisted of veterans who had seen real combat in America, while another third had gained experience suppressing provincial noble private armies during the state of emergency. The volunteer expeditionary force to America had used American militias as shields to build their skills, and the emergency troops had suffered minimal losses because Louis XVI had preemptively bought off the nobles' high-paid veteran mercenaries. France overflowed with battle-hardened soldiers who would normally have required feeding green recruits into the grinder to produce.
They knew exactly what was dangerous on the battlefield and what could be ignored. Their movements were far swifter than those of mercenaries, and they rammed home the ramrod and loaded their rounds with lightning speed.
This proficiency gap directly affected their primary weapon: the bullets.
The standard French musket balls now matched the bore diameter of their barrels perfectly. Traditionally, musket balls were smaller than the barrel.
Because they relied on cost-effective guns, they staffed their armies with cost-effective mercenaries and conscripts, which tanked soldier proficiency. Unlike the past, infantry now dominated the modern battlefield. Anyone with the strength to pull a trigger could kill with a mere flex of their index finger—the musket-wielding infantryman was the star of the show.
Guns were favored in this era because even a knight in thick plate armor could drop dead from a single shot by a conscripted mercenary. Heavy cavalry charging on barded warhorses, clad in plate themselves—true "warriors" who had risked their lives for decades to master sword and bow. Yet the musket infantryman could fell them with one bullet. That made him king of the field.
The moment such devastating firepower appeared, every nation reached the same conclusion: "Why bother with costly knights when cheap guns do the job?"
After guns arrived, there was no need to field knights whose decades of training vanished in death or maiming. Nations preferred ordinary men who could be replaced by drafting more. Paradoxically, this tanked the cost-effectiveness of soldiers. An ordinary man's life was cheaper than a knight's, but he couldn't fight as well as officers and NCOs trained for decades. Cost-effectiveness averages out, it seems. Cheap lives and cheap weapons led to expensive deaths.
Half-trained soldiers who had only dry-fired a few times couldn't even reload properly. They overpacked or underpacked powder into the pan because they didn't know the right amount. Some fools thought, "More powder means more boom—let's stuff the barrel too," and blew themselves up. If a ball fit snugly, clumsy troops would hammer it down with the ramrod until the lead shattered.
Hence, smaller balls. They could be shoved in roughly and still fire.
France had been no different just a few years ago. The Charleville arsenal didn't rifle its muskets, and French bullets weren't special. Like everyone else, they used smoothbore muskets with undersized balls.
But the American expeditionary volunteers and clashes with noble private armies boosted proficiency, enabling faster reloads and higher rates of fire. Field commanders saw the potential.
Small bullets assumed low skill. They ricocheted inside the barrel—up, down, sideways—before exiting, their trajectory depending on the final bounce.
A perfectly fitted ball eliminated all that. It flew straight down the bore, boasting greater range and accuracy.
This was a feat only possible with the French army's proficiency. It let them fire from farther away than the enemy.
This secured a safe distance against cavalry or bayonet charges—but the biggest edge was degrading enemy musket accuracy. While the French aimed carefully, the anti-French troops had to fire from the hip on the spot. Textbook advancing volleys were for elites like regulars or Swiss mercenaries, not green, demoralized hires.
Even as attackers, the anti-French forces lost initiative to the defensive French, dragged helplessly into a passive fight.
"Aim!"
Unlike the old days, French infantrymen didn't just point toward the enemy. They had self-taught sharpshooter techniques, aligning sights on enemy silhouettes. No one on the field was immune to bullets.
"Fire!"
Bang!
The French fought with élan vital to survive—and to win. That was the secret behind the 1:50 ratio.
*
That evening, at the anti-French alliance command post.
"Battle summary report. With 62,000 infantry and 8,000 cavalry engaged, this was a crushing defeat. We failed to prevent the enemy from fortifying. Casualties are still being tallied, but at least 8,000 dead and over 20,000 combat-ineffective so far."
"Seventy thousand can't beat twenty thousand? You think that makes sense?"
Loudon demanded of the field commanders, fixating on the numbers. The front-line majors and captains were bloodied, bandages soaked through.
"From every angle, this was a battle we couldn't win."
"I didn't ask for excuses. Shouldn't you be ashamed for failing to beat twenty thousand with seventy?"
Loudon wasn't truly clueless about the defeat—he was the cause.
"Cavalry without artillery can't beat infantry, Your Excellency. Why order us to fight without guns?"
"Flank them. Ride into their batteries, and those lumbering six-pounders will crumple under hooves."
"Do you really believe that?"
"Of course."
Loudon had never intended to listen. The majors gave up trying to convince him.
"This war was lost due to frontline incompetence, wasn't it, Prince Heinrich?"
Ignoring their pleas, Loudon turned to Prince Heinrich.
The prince looked away in disgust.
"The criminal incompetence of low-skill mercenaries sabotaged us from within, squandering an overwhelmingly favorable war. For instance, when Sergeant Franz of Mercenary Regiment 2, Battalion 1, Company 3, Platoon 16 went down, his entire platoon panicked and fled. Desertion and disobedience to reform orders—they were executed by another platoon’s officer. The city-states sent low-skill mercs to profit from our expedition, and we got wrecked by them. Anything wrong with that?"
Loudon meant to shift blame onto them. Prince Heinrich let it slide. Before his young Prussian officers died, he might have intervened, but after the Sharpshooter Village incident, the defeat was no longer solely his burden. He needed a scapegoat too.
"Prince Heinrich, given these reasons, further fighting is pointless. What say you to negotiating with the French?"
Unhappy with Loudon's recklessness but cornered, the prince acquiesced. Loudon had essentially shouldered the honor of Austria-Prussia.
"No choice. I agree—no more pointless sacrifices."
"Wise decision. I'll send a herald ahead. We'll negotiate surrender at dawn tomorrow. Anyone here object?"
When Loudon polled the tent to seal it, someone started to raise a hand—but hesitated.
"Personally, if this lot—splitting a 700,000-strong army, failing to breach one wall, routed by 20,000 with 70,000—wins the war, Caesar should surrender his name. Just my personal opinion. Speak freely, ignore it. Strictly personal."
Loudon's pressure was far more coercive than they expected.