Chapter 184 - Face-to-Face with the Marshal (8)
In this battle, the 13th Regiment's mission was merely to draw the enemy's attention.
More precisely, their objective was to hammer away at the defensive line so that Konchanya wouldn't be able to dispatch reinforcements into the forest.
"Stop! Hold your positions! Don't go any farther!"
Following the sound judgment of their careful and able commanders, the 1st Battalion of the 13th Regiment didn't descend all the way down the hill; they halted about halfway.
It was just a few steps beyond the effective range of the enemy artillery, as they had identified in the previous battle.
Boom! Crack!
"Aaagh! Damn it!"
"Get down!"
"Barrier!"
"No! Don't create a barrier, stay on standby!"
Shells came hurtling in the blink of an eye, striking right in front of them.
The massive shockwave shook the ground, and the thunderous noise had terrified soldiers screaming.
Someone shouted to activate a barrier.
But Ernest sternly ordered Isaac and Bruno not to create one.
A shell really did land right in front of their noses.
If Ernest had given the order to halt just three seconds later, the soldiers leading the charge would have been reduced to unrecognizable chunks of flesh.
But that was all.
Though some men, terrified, had fallen over, not a single one was actually injured by the shellfire.
At this moment, the Imperial Army was running down the hill facing the Konchanya defensive line, right at the edge of the enemy artillery's effective range.
Shells arced through the sky, but because of the poor angle when they struck the hillside, they simply slammed into the ground with dull thuds instead of bouncing and rolling.
Even if a shell did bounce off, it had lost so much momentum that it no longer posed much of a threat.
An artilleryman must carefully consider both the shell's parabolic trajectory and the lay of the land when firing.
The Konchanya artillerymen knew this well.
And so, this was hardly a genuine, all-out attack—it was just a round of suppressive fire to keep them in check.
The Konchanya artillery would unleash their true storm of fire only after the Imperial troops had completely descended the hill.
That was when the big shells could bounce and shred soldiers to pieces—and, more importantly, when the deadly canister shots would have maximum effect within their effective range.
"Charge!"
"Chaaaarge!"
"Aaaah!"
After the barrage, the order to charge rang out again, and the troops began to race down the hill.
As Ernest sprinted down, he kept a wide perspective, taking in the entire battlefield.
"Control your speed! Watch your pace!"
"You're running too fast! Keep your speed steady! You'll get yourselves killed at this rate!"
"Aaaah!"
"Damn it! Slow down, I said slow down!"
Though these soldiers had fought in several battles before, this was their first time charging under the deafening roar and shock of artillery fire.
Completely unnerved, they barreled down the hill far faster than originally planned, utterly losing their wits.
It was so overwhelming that they didn't even hear the officers shouting at them to pace themselves.
Such was the terrifying impact of real artillery on the field.
If they kept this up, they would soon reach the bottom of the hill—right into the jaws of enemy artillery.
There, they'd be fully exposed to the canister shot the enemy gunners would unleash, and to the bullets from the enemy infantry.
Worse, they'd be targeted with regular shells as well, designed to break down Baltracher's Barrier.
The most effective tactics right now would be to destroy the Barrier with regular shells, then mow down the infantry with canister shot and bullets.
If artillerymen and infantry opened fire together in proper formation, they could wipe out an entire battalion in the blink of an eye.
Dudududu!
At that moment, cavalry swept past the infantry rushing down the hill.
Piiit! Pi! Pi! Flap!
Sharp, staccato blasts of the Whistle echoed across the field, and the Flag Bearer at the head of the cavalry vigorously waved the Flag with precise, deliberate motions.
"We're wheeling!"
"Wheel right! Wheel right!"
Even with their ears ringing from the thunder of cannon fire and the pounding of horses' hooves, the well-trained cavalry responded flawlessly to the command.
It might sound a bit absurd, but the lack of opportunities for cavalry action in this war had actually worked in their favor—they hadn't suffered the usual heavy losses and so had been able to preserve these elite, highly trained troops.
The cavalry wheeled to the right with breathtaking speed and precision, as if they were about to make a direct charge at Konchanya's defensive line.
Peep peep! Peep peep! Flap!
Just as the Konchanya forces prepared to open fire on the cavalry, the riders, guided by whistle blasts and flag signals, sharply changed direction once more and rode along the very edge of effective range, racing across the battlefield.
The path they carved out became a boundary the Imperial Army infantry, charging down the hill, knew not to cross.
Bababang! Babababang!
The cavalry fired suppressive fire toward the opposite hill.
When using pistols, it's better to keep the enemy on your right, but with long guns like these, both hands are needed to shoot accurately; so, much like mounted archers, it's preferable to keep the enemy on the left when firing on the move.
Of course, at this distance, no one expected to actually hit their targets.
Likewise, the Konchanya troops on the high ground knew the Imperial Army was outside effective range, and no one expected the cavalry to score hits from here.
The Imperial cavalry harassed the enemy just long enough to cover their own infantry as they moved into position and then withdrew.
Still, being just outside effective range didn't mean the bullets couldn't cause harm—stray rounds could do real damage.
Horses struck by bullets stumbled and tumbled down the slope, and riders thrown from their mounts were killed or badly injured.
"Hah! Huff!"
"Get a hold of yourself! This way! Hurry, over here!"
The infantry, already in formation, cheered on the dismounted cavalrymen.
Those cavalrymen who were still in decent shape hurriedly scrambled to join the lines of their own infantry, but those who were too stunned—deafened by shock and completely disoriented—stumbled about until they rolled down the hill.
Thud!
For these unfortunates, bullets rained down from the Konchanya infantry positioned on the opposite slope.
Wasting rounds from the Balt Battery just to kill a stray soldier or two might have seemed like a Foolish Act, but it could undermine Imperial Army morale—and there was always a chance it might provoke the agitated troops into a reckless charge—so there was nothing to lose by doing it.
Thanks to the cavalry's efforts, Ernest and his men managed to form up without trouble, but he never took his eyes off the muzzles of the enemy artillery aimed toward them from the hilltop.
"Balt Wind!"
The call of the Balt Wind rose—not just from the 2nd Company, but from the entire 1st Battalion.
Soon, the whole 13th Regiment joined in, and before long, the entire 5th Division, along with the 18th Regiment of the 6th Division, united to create a mighty current across the battlefield.
"Fire!"
"Fire!"
Babababang!
At the order to fire, the soldiers unleashed a hailstorm of bullets into the enemy camp.
Under the autumn sun, the surging Balt Wind whipped over the field, gleaming with muzzle flashes as bullets came pouring down like rain.
"Take cover!"
Puv-puv-puv-puv!
The Konchanya infantry dove for cover in their trenches.
The Balt Wind had increased their firing range, but the distance was still so great that accuracy was poor.
Out of the soldiers who hadn't managed to take cover in time, only a few were hit by bullets.
Most of the shots missed.
Behind Konchanya's trench line, more infantrymen were stationed, but they hadn't joined the fight yet—they were just watching.
If the Imperial Army actually went crazy and charged for real, that's when they would be sent into battle.
There just hadn't been enough time to dig trenches covering the entire front, so only a few key areas of the Konchanya defensive line had been hastily fortified.
"Hurry, hurry, hurry…"
Though Ernest appeared calm as he gave the order to fire, his eyes darted anxiously as he tried to read the battle situation.
If things went on like this, the enemy artillerymen would soon attack their Allied Forces with shells.
He'd arranged his lines with the enemy artillery placements in mind, trying not to give them a clear angle to fire on, but they were bound to come under attack anyway.
At this distance, canister shot wouldn't reach—but heavy regular shells would.
The manuals said the Balt Wind could block them, but staking your life on that seemed like a Foolish Act.
That's why they needed the cavalry to keep the enemy in check.
Piiik! Piiik! Piiik!
Once again, at the sound of the whistle, the cavalry that had withdrawn began to charge.
They charged boldly, as if they were about to attack the Konchanya artillerymen who were busy aiming and reloading their gun emplacements at the Allied infantry.
In that moment, only a handful truly understood the silent but fierce battle unfolding there.
Would the artillery fire right away?
Or would they turn their guns?
Would the cavalry press the charge?
Or would they wheel away?
If the Konchanya artillery fired at the infantry, the gunners would be vulnerable while reloading.
Sure, the infantry was guarding them, but the Imperial infantry was laying down suppressive fire, and if the Imperial cavalry trusted in Baltracher's barrier and closed the distance with a sudden charge, they could massacre the artillerymen.
But if the Konchanya artillery, wary of the cavalry, held their fire or turned their guns toward the cavalry instead, the Imperial riders would simply circle around and withdraw.
But what if the Konchanya artillery, assuming the Imperial cavalry would retreat, decided to fire boldly anyway?
And what if, in that situation, the Imperial cavalry waited, watching the artillery to the very end, then charged in the last instant?
In those brief seconds, an invisible and inaudible bolt of lightning seemed to pass between the Konchanya artillery and the Imperial cavalry.
A single decision in that moment could tilt the entire battle.
The Imperial cavalry looked determined, as if they might launch a charge at any second, and the Konchanya artillery seemed on the verge of opening fire.
But the moment the artillery finished reloading, they hurriedly began to turn their guns.
Immediately, the Imperial cavalry wheeled about and fell back.
They moved with the precision of actors following a script.
And of course, despite both sides acting as if they might tear each other apart at any moment, each was desperately trying to avoid suffering any losses.
From Konchanya's perspective, there was nothing to be gained from getting dragged into a war of attrition with the Empire.
Belliang had fallen into the hands of the Empire.
Now, only Konchanya remained on the Western Front of the Empire.
If the Empire decided to focus its full strength, the much smaller Konchanya would inevitably wither away.
They had to conserve their strength as much as possible.
The Imperial Army, too, had exhausted a great deal of strength in conquering Belliang and was now committing troops to maintain control over it, so there was nothing to be gained by suffering further losses.
They, too, needed to preserve their forces at all costs.
So, even as both sides stared each other down with bloodshot eyes, looking as if they might kill the other at any moment, the Konchanya artillerymen were desperately thinking, "Turn away, turn away, turn away…" and the Imperial cavalry were chanting in their heads, "Pull back, pull back, pull back…"
The truth was, the soldiers risking their lives on the battlefield did not want to fight.
All they wanted was to survive the battle in one piece.
The Konchanya artillerymen, keeping their guns trained on the Imperial cavalry, frantically prepared their artillery formation.
Only after the cavalry narrowly squeezed through the gap in their line of fire and had fully withdrawn from the battlefield did the gunners let loose a stream of curses and swing their gun emplacements back toward the Imperial infantry.
"Son of a…! Damn it all…!"
Trying to keep rotating those heavy cannons made swearing come out on its own.
But by the time they had finished struggling to reposition their gun emplacements, the Imperial infantry had already dashed up the hill and fled like calves with their tails on fire.
"Huff! Huff! My god, I'm going to die!"
"Ugh…"
The infantry were panting, their tongues lolling out, after having run down and then back up the hill.
Even so, they didn't abandon the cavalrymen who had been thrown from their horses and rejoined them at the bottom of the hill—instead, they helped them along as they climbed back up.
It was thanks to the cavalry, who had risked their lives to protect the infantry, that the retreat had been accomplished without casualties.
Leaving aside those cavalrymen who couldn't rejoin after being injured in their falls, any cavalryman who managed to link up became a shared responsibility—they had to be brought back safely, no matter what.
Just as they cherished their own lives, they couldn't abandon their comrades who had protected those lives.
Even if the others belonged to a different military branch or unit, it was a duty every soldier owed.
In this hellish battlefield, where the invention of firearms had sent the value of a human life plummeting day after day, such things had become the last remaining principles and honor a soldier could cling to.
"Form artillery formation!"
"Form artillery formation!"
While the infantry and cavalry of the Imperial Army toiled away, the artillerymen started carefully dragging their cannons down the hill to set up their formation.
It went without saying that hauling these heavy cannons down a slope was no easy task.
One moment of carelessness and a cannon could easily go tumbling straight down the embankment.
"Check for casualties!"
Ernest, commander of the 2nd Company who had led the retreat, ordered the platoon leaders to check on the status of their men.
'We've made it over the critical moment, at least.'
Ernest let himself breathe, finally loosening the tight knot in his chest after watching the artillery preparing for a counterattack.
The Imperial artillery's position was perched right at the outer edge of Konchanya's effective range—dangerously close, but at least the enemy artillery couldn't strike them from there, while they could still fire on the enemy trenches.
Now, the Imperial artillery would unleash a rain of shells on the trenches.
Naturally, they couldn't inflict any meaningful damage.
As soon as the Imperial artillery began forming up, the Konchanya infantry abandoned their trenches and began pulling back.
Of course, once the Imperial infantry launched their attack, the Konchanya would return to their trenches.
Since the Konchanya artillery wouldn't come down from the hill, the battle would drag on with the Imperial Army shelling the empty trenches to little effect.
Then, depending on how things developed, if the Imperial infantry and cavalry advanced again, the Konchanya troops would come charging out as if it were all part of a rehearsed play, and the artillery would resume firing.
If only people's lives weren't on the line, it would almost be amusing.
Now that he had experienced artillery fire on such an open battlefield, Ernest thought he actually preferred fighting in the forest.
Maybe it was simply because most of the battles he'd experienced had taken place there.
But there was another thing about this terrain that frustrated him: with the wide-open view, he constantly had to worry about being watched by his own side.
'I can't maneuver my troops however I want. If we were in the forest, I could cover things up.'
Forests, with their tangled terrain, made it hard to identify the enemy—and made it just as hard for anyone to keep track of friendly forces.
Ernest would often take advantage of this, sometimes bending orders to the point of outright disobedience for the sake of tactics.
But on an open field like this, there was no way to do that.
You had to do exactly as you were told.
'It's not as if wanting it would make it happen, but I wish I were a battalion commander… no, a regimental commander… or even a division commander.'
Ernest couldn't help but let out a wry smile at the little seed of ambition that had quietly started growing in the corner of his heart—a heart that had always vehemently refused promotion.
It wasn't wealth or honor that he wanted; what he desired was the authority to command the army as he wished.
'That's an Arrogant Thought.'
And Ernest was well aware that this feeling of his was rooted in the belief, "If I were in command, things would be better than this."
For a seventeen-year-old captain to think that way was truly arrogant.
Of course, even at this very moment, Ernest could easily come up with tactics on the spot that would unsettle the enemy more effectively and nibble away at them bit by bit.
This was something only Ernest could do—someone who could read the battlefield delicately, as if viewing it from a bird's-eye view.
But putting those tactics into practice was all but impossible.
The intermediate commanders, who were supposed to execute the tactics exactly as they existed in his mind, would never grasp his intentions.
After all, how could they possibly follow the subtle, second-by-second shifts in flow on this vast battlefield?
So Ernest's tactics were unrealistic, and in that sense, the thought, "If I were in command, things would be better," was definitely an arrogant one.
'I must be out of my mind.'
At the same time, Ernest also realized just how insane it was to find his current situation—where he could carry out the plan while minimizing casualties—so frustrating.
To accept a little damage in order to inflict greater losses on the enemy and ultimately pursue victory on a larger scale—this was exactly the kind of thinking he had always despised, the thinking of someone who, on the field, had to charge into death and watch his friends die.
'I can't forget. This war isn't mine, and this victory isn't mine. All I ever do is lose and lose again This really is a foolish act.
Ernest was probably among the handful of people on this battlefield with truly exceptional talent for war.
Yet, despite his gifts, among those who faced war seriously, he was the one who most ruthlessly denied any value in it.
It wasn't that he tried to avoid the reality by turning away—instead, he confronted it head-on, understood it deeply, and still rejected it.
Ernest was like a wolf that refused to eat meat.
Even though he was born for war more than anyone else, he rejected it.
If this were an old-fashioned army, he might have started as a senior commander, leading troops as if it were just a game—never experiencing the horrors of the battlefield firsthand, simply throwing his whole self into the pursuit of victory.
But in a modern military system, even with his abilities, Ernest had to start as a platoon leader, and he suffered greatly in the field.
This seventeen-year-old's keen mind had been damaged by war, but he was fully aware of how broken he'd become.
That's why he kept pushing himself—he refused to let himself collapse upon that brokenness.
Maybe, in some ways, it would be easier to just surrender to the war and let himself be consumed by it.
At least then he wouldn't be tormented by guilt and suffering like he was now.
Nothing would improve just because an ordinary company commander like Ernest was wracked with guilt.
He had no choice but to fight as ordered—what else could he do?
"They must be fighting hard over there too."
Ernest gazed worriedly toward the east, where the forest lay.
His friends who'd been assigned to the 6th Division, and Marie.
"I hope she'd listen well…"
He thought of Marie, who had shown such chilling killing intent toward Bertrand and Estelle, and felt uneasy.
He wished she would listen to him as she used to, but war had changed Marie far too much.
When it came to Bertrand and Estelle, Ernest was sure Marie wouldn't back down—she would fight to kill them.
If Bertrand managed to create a situation where victory was possible for him, and Estelle went on a rampage, an ordinary Baltracher like Marie could lose her life in an instant.
Ernest remembered the unsettling look in Marie's eyes and worried about her.
He just wished she would run away without looking back.