The Cornered Cat
At that moment, in the yard southwest of the Lauren Ironworks. The Italian mercenaries had clustered on the outskirts of the yard without suffering major casualties. It was because a deafening roar had erupted before the walls collapsed. Aside from the path from their camp into the ironworks facilities being blocked, there were no significant losses. Men who would normally hurl insults like "cowards" at those retreating now fell silent and withdrew without a word. After repeated defeats and a camp filled with agonized screams, there was no reason to put on such bravado.
But that was only considering the physical toll.
"Damn it, even God condemns us as wicked scum. Heaven has abandoned us. No—we turned our backs on heaven. Farming is heaven's will, yet we attacked a chosen nation where crops flourish. Small wonder God is wrathful. I never understood the Bible's tales of the punished until now; only now do I grasp the price of disobedience. It's all my fault. My fault. For defying heaven!"
Mentally, they were shattered.
"Yes, you're right. It's all our fault—my fault. We never should have come to a war like this! In a world where scraping by is hard enough, we blindly followed the ones offering coin. It was all Satan's temptation. I fell for the devil's lies! This is the price for turning from God. I can't even fathom what further retribution awaits—it's driving me mad with fear!"
They had gone beyond blaming others for their misfortune; now they were finding the root of it in themselves. If their misery had been moderate, they could have vented it on the French army, their superiors, or the officers. But this calamity was too crushing to bear. When one's plight becomes so wretched that no one else can be held accountable, whom does a person blame? Some might cling to faulting others, ignoring that nagging doubt in their hearts. But most turned inward, blaming themselves.
What could people do once their minds crumbled to the point of self-recrimination? Comrades' comfort rang hollow; even in company, a profound sense of isolation gripped them, as if they were spiritually adrift. How could anyone save them?
If these men were characters in chivalric tales, a dashing knight in gleaming armor would burst through the rubble to rally them atop the debris. Entranced, they would find new purpose in life gazing upon him. But that was chivalric fiction. What loomed before them was a yard encircled by fences taller than a man, its entrance choked by the collapsed facility.
"Soldiers! The engineers are clearing the rubble—wait just a moment!"
Words they would normally take as routine rescue efforts now sounded like the devil dragging them to hell. "Field Marshal Laudon and Corps Commander Heinrich have arrived! This collapse was a French raid—they used explosives to bring down the building!" Information that would usually pass as mere news now felt like the devil's incitement, pulling them to the depths.
"Take up arms! Let's show those French scum what honor and justice demand!"
*
French lines. Command post.
Though Lafayette had dismissed it as a false-flag ploy to counter Laudon and Heinrich's agitation, his mind was uneasy. What if some rogue commander had acted without orders?
"Ask around first. You truly didn't touch the ironworks?"
"No, sir. The engineers were fortifying the first line of defenses and digging the moat. All other majors and above were handling command handovers per wartime ranks. There was no reason for us to interfere. From the start, the demolition wasn't a burial trap but a staged 'accident' to feign destruction."
"Right. That was the plan."
"So, if I may venture a guess, I suspect the building's collapse was natural."
Lafayette thought it absurd, but in times like these, even the most outlandish claim deserved credence. No matter how arrogant the anti-French forces, would they risk dishonor by endangering their own troops?
"Natural or not, peaceful resolutions are long gone. Now we must plan our moves. Where do we hold, and how do we fight?"
"Sir, regrettably, there's no time for strategy. Look outside the command post—they're all coming."
Stepping from the tent, Lafayette peered through his spyglass at the ironworks. There, 270,000 troops advanced—a total assault, but the worst kind.
Their ranks included sturdy Austrian and Prussian regulars, but even the walking wounded from prior battles shuffled forward. It was a profoundly dishonorable formation: able-bodied in the rear, injured up front.
"Sir... what in God's name is this?" one regimental commander muttered through his glass.
"Beats me. But one thing's certain: even victory here won't feel like one. Too shameful, too humiliating. If they're banking on guilt-tripping us with that lineup, their ploy's a resounding success."
"Sir, can't we avoid this fight? It's a slaughter."
"I know full well it's dishonorable. But as soldiers, we win winnable battles. That's our duty. Leave romance for the bards—we seek victory, not glory. Win first, reclaim honor later. That's what soldiers do. Fulfill your duty."
Lafayette repeated the charge, half vow, half order.
"Their suffering stems not from our ruthlessness, but their commanders' incompetence. Don't bother understanding those who must obey. No mocking them. For your own honor, think rightly. If you feel contempt for those wounded, crush it and hurl it at their superiors. That's the only mercy we can show."
To his twelve regimental commanders, Lafayette issued orders to repel 260,000.
"Order engineers to halt fortification; auxiliaries retreat to the Saar River forts. Cede the built defenses. Fall back to the Saar forts via mobile attrition warfare. Give their commanders no time to think. Harass the retreat with fire to mask our intent. Lure them toward the Holy Roman Empire. Envelop their vanguard. Use cavalry to flank and shatter protruding units. If their front reforms, abandon annihilation and regroup. Our task is to seize that barbaric horde by the throat and drag them to the Saar."
*
The rubble was cleared in under thirty minutes. Even reinforced concrete—pseudo-rebar of cast iron—shattered like chalk under sledgehammers, spraying lime dust. Asbestos-laced powder had the engineers coughing, but rescuing trapped mercenary wounded took priority.
"Path's open! Ceiling's unstable—everyone out this way! Maintain order: Styermark Duchy 1st Regiment first!"
The rescued mercenaries wore grim faces. On-site commanders chalked it up to shock and moved on.
"Arm up and advance, mercenaries!"
"Pardon? Sir, most of my company is wounded. Even the able-bodied are pulled for nursing duty—we're effectively wiped out."
"Field Marshal's orders. The French hit our camp with explosives. If you don't want to be buried, grab weapons and lead the charge."
"Explosives? If they'd used those, the whole building would've pancaked—not just blocking the yard entrance, but toppling toward it!"
Disillusioned, the company commander stomped the debris to prove his point.
"Look at this rubble—it crumbles underfoot. Materials like these? No blast; it collapsed naturally. This was shoddy French construction failing coincidentally—not some elaborate raid!"
"Enough. Orders stand regardless. Yes or no—will you fight?"
"...Yes, sir."
"Then arm up. All who can move to the front, wounded or not. Abandon the gravely injured. Time's short."
Per orders, the company commander placed the wounded upfront. Clutching festering legs or arms, bellies oozing blood through bandages, they lurched forward—like zombies from American voodoo tales.
"Leave the dead! Advance! Only advance! Drown them in the Saar!"
They couldn't recover comrades who fell mid-charge. Compassionate rear officers occasionally did, but not all. Officers hoisted hometowners over one shoulder, rifle in the other, pressing toward French forts. Soldiers linked arms in line, ready to drag the fallen.
The Austrian-Prussian regulars trailing behind sensed something amiss—deeply wrong. But no time to ponder; they hurried to match the front.