Chapter 448: The "Undying" Army
Derisson had miscalculated. The Imperial Guard force that intercepted him numbered only 14,000, and they had carefully avoided villages on their march, so no one noticed them. In fact, even if any Prussian soldiers had noticed something unusual and reported it, by the time the report reached Derisson, the Imperial Guard would have already been right on top of him.
When Joseph learned of the large-scale movement of Prussian troops, he immediately deduced that they were heading for Ratibor. With the speed of the Imperial Guard's forced march, it was almost certain they would intercept their target.
This is the advantage of the strategy known as "surround and destroy the reinforcements"—knowing that the enemy will take a specific route to reinforce their allies allows you to ambush them effectively.
Soon, the Prussian soldiers saw a straight line of white-uniformed French infantry advancing steadily towards them, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of drums.
Derisson saw that only about seventy percent of his soldiers had formed ranks, but he had no choice but to order them to prepare for battle.
Fortunately, the hussars who had scouted ahead reported that the French force was only about 10,000 strong. With his Fein Corps and the two grenadier regiments, Derisson had nearly 9,000 men ready to engage the enemy. Even though his formations weren't fully organized, he believed they could hold out for a couple of hours.
Once his main force finished forming ranks, they would have the advantage in numbers to launch a counterattack—after all, he had 17,000 soldiers at his disposal.
The French drumming grew louder as the Imperial Guard advanced. In front of the Prussian line, Lieutenant Oliv of the Prussian Royal Riflemen lay hidden behind a clump of dead grass, eyes fixed on the French flag bearing the symbol of the "Crossed Sword and Dolphin." If he recalled correctly, this was the standard of the French Royal Guard's Second Corps.
Estimating the distance between them, Oliv ordered his men to hold steady and slowly raised his Potsdam Model 1741 rifled musket.
This rifle, an improved version of the M1741 flintlock, featured a rifled barrel that spun the bullet, giving it a straighter trajectory. In an era where smoothbore muskets had an accuracy that relied heavily on luck beyond 30 meters, this was a high-precision weapon. However, because it was expensive and slow to load, it was only issued to a select group of elite marksmen, such as Oliv.
Oliv quickly picked his target—a young French drummer, likely 18 or 19 years old, and tall for his age. Killing this boy would surely crush the spirits of the French troops behind him.
Licking his lips, Oliv narrowed his eyes, aiming carefully at the young drummer.
At a distance of about 80 paces, Oliv felt the slight breeze at his side, determining it wouldn't affect the bullet's trajectory much. Confident, he pulled the trigger.
With a loud bang, the drum strap across the drummer's chest snapped, and the boy fell backward as if struck by a hammer.
Oliv whistled in satisfaction and stood up to clean his rifle's barrel, preparing for another shot. He poured a small amount of gunpowder into the flash pan, closed the frizzen, and then stood the rifle up to pour in the main charge. He rammed the powder down and followed it with the bullet.
Reaching behind him, Oliv pulled out a mallet and began pounding the ramrod to seat the bullet firmly—a necessary task due to the tight fit of the bullet in the rifled barrel.
But after just two strikes, Oliv saw something out of the corner of his eye that made his blood run cold. The drummer he had shot was struggling to his feet!
"Oh my God!" Oliv gasped, his eyes wide in disbelief. "What is happening?"
He was certain that he had hit the boy in the chest. The snapped drum strap was proof of it. Yet there the drummer was, with no blood visible on his pristine white uniform, calmly reattaching his drum and picking up his spare drumsticks before rejoining the line.
Shaken, Oliv glanced at his rifle in confusion, then gritted his teeth and rammed the bullet home. He took aim again, this time at a French lieutenant who had just moved into view.
The M1741's barrel flared again, and the lieutenant staggered and fell to the ground. But within seconds, he was back on his feet, aided by a few soldiers.
"This can't be real! It's impossible..." Oliv muttered, stepping back in disbelief. He abandoned his plan to take another shot and turned to flee.
Around him, the other Prussian riflemen were firing as well. But aside from one lucky shot that struck an enemy soldier in the neck, every Frenchman who was hit simply got back up—these were seasoned marksmen, trained to aim for the chest and abdomen where the target was largest.
The Prussian infantry watched in shock as their elite riflemen, who had been positioned ahead of the main line, retreated in a panic, as if they had seen a ghost.
But it wasn't long before they understood why.
As the French infantry closed to within 50 paces, the Prussian officers ordered their men to fire a volley.
With a roar, the black powder muskets discharged, and the battlefield was shrouded in smoke. Nearly a hundred French soldiers fell to the ground.
But as the smoke cleared, the Prussian soldiers could see that most of the fallen Frenchmen were rising again, using their rifles to push themselves up.
The Prussian line was filled with murmurs and uneasy glances. The enemy clearly wasn't wearing armor, yet their bullets couldn't bring them down.
The already shaky Prussian line began to unravel as some soldiers, forgetting to reload, started crossing themselves and praying instead.
Davout watched as his messenger staggered to his feet, grimacing in pain. Even he was stunned. The General Staff had assured him that the "bulletproof plates" would protect against musket fire, but he had been skeptical of such a thin layer of metal.
The messenger clutched his stomach and pulled out the plate from beneath his uniform. Davout saw a large, dark bruise spreading across his abdomen, but the bullet had been stopped. The plate itself was cracked like a spider web, with a noticeable bulge where the bullet had struck.
Suddenly, the beat of the drums quickened. Reflexively responding to the long hours of training, Davout turned and barked orders to his troops:
"Halt the advance! Prepare— Aim… Fire!"
Thousands of flintlock muskets erupted in unison, and the Prussian line was torn apart.
For a brief moment, many Prussian soldiers glanced at their fallen comrades, as if expecting them to get back up.
But there were no miracles—only blood and the cries of the wounded.
The Imperial Guard quickly unleashed a second volley.
At that point, except for the two Prussian grenadier regiments, the rest of the soldiers began to flee in terror.
The elite Prussian infantry collapsed after the second volley!
After all, when faced with an enemy that seemed impossible to kill while their own ranks were being decimated, it was impossible for them to continue the fight.
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