Captain Léo's order was quickly executed.
The Dragoons neatly dismounted, led their beloved horses deep into the woods, and tied them to tree trunks with their reins.
These well-trained warhorses were quiet. Although they heard bursts of gunfire, they only occasionally snorted, seemingly sensing the tense atmosphere before a battle.
The soldiers quickly spread out along the edge of the woods with their carbines. They used thick tree trunks and naturally formed ditches to rapidly construct a simple but effective line of defense.
Everyone's movements were clean and efficient. No one made any unnecessary sounds, save for the faint clatter of equipment colliding.
Captain Léo raised his binoculars, looking once again at the small village where the gunfire had erupted.
Just as he was about to say something more to his Aide-de-Camp, the gunfire in the village suddenly intensified.
"Bang! Bang-bang! Da-da-da-da-da…"
Besides the crisp shots of the Berthier Carbine, a torrent of dense gunfire, unlike anything he had ever heard, violently erupted from the village!
"Da-da-da-da-da-da!"
The sound was continuous, furious, and fierce, completely drowning out the scattered return fire from the carbines.
Léo's pupils suddenly constricted, and he instinctively flattened himself further.
"My God, there really are Heavy Machine Guns? But why are they deployed directly outside the city?" His Aide-de-Camp's face turned pale, his voice trembling slightly.
Léo did not answer. The words of the fleeing civilians and the old veteran flashed constantly in his mind.
"The firing sounds like thunder," "the sound of many, many Heavy Machine Guns firing at the same time!"
It turned out they were telling the truth!
This was not an exaggeration at all; it was a fact!
In Captain Léo's worldview, the only weapons capable of continuous fire were Heavy Machine Guns like the Saint-Étienne M1907.
Therefore, in his opinion, the only weapons the Saxons could use to fire continuously like this were the clumsy machine guns that required several men to operate.
Could it be… could it be that there truly was a Saxon division in the city?
This thought made Captain Léo's hands and feet turn cold.
If that was the case, Colonel Molière's 'Combat Reconnaissance' plan was not an adventure, but outright suicide!
Just as his heart was pounding with anxiety, several cavalrymen rushed out of the village in disarray.
They were hunched over their horses, frantically whipping their mounts, as if demons were chasing them.
Léo focused his gaze and saw that it was precisely the reconnaissance squad he had sent out!
However, they had set out with ten men, and only five were returning!
One of the horses carried two people, the one in the back clearly wounded, slumped limply over his comrade's back.
The Sergeant leading the team reached the edge of the woods and practically tumbled from his horse. He handed his horse to a Dragoon who came to assist, then quickly ran to Léo, his face deathly pale.
"Captain… Captain…"
"Calm down! Take a deep breath!" Léo grabbed his shoulder and shook him forcefully. "What happened? How many enemies are there?"
"I don't know! Couldn't see clearly at all!"
The Sergeant gasped for breath, his eyes filled with terror.
"As soon as we entered the village entrance, we saw figures scattering around the buildings, so we opened fire! But they immediately began to return fire, and it was continuous heavy machine gun fire!"
"We charged straight into their ambush! The bullets came down like rain… We… we couldn't even raise our heads!"
He pointed toward the village, his voice distorted: "Their counterattack came too fast… Hervé and Pierre went down in an instant, covered in bullet holes… We couldn't even see how many enemies there were. We just had to retreat immediately!"
Listening to his subordinate's description, Léo felt his back was already soaked in cold sweat.
He lunged toward his mount, then used a nearby tree for support and stood directly in the saddle. Standing on the horse's back, his field of vision suddenly broadened significantly.
He saw that Colonel Molière's Cuirassiers in the distant wheat field had stopped, seemingly observing the situation here as well.
Seeing no immediate signs of a charge from them, Léo finally felt a moment of relief.
He had to wait for Colonel Molière's decision, as the Dragoons' mission was to attack in coordination. If the Cuirassiers launched an assault, they would also have to grit their teeth and charge.
So, Captain Léo only hoped that the arrogant Colonel might have been slightly sobered by the terrifying gunfire just now.
The Cavalry Captain's mind raced. He felt that the battle unfolding was more bizarre than any situation he had ever drilled for.
In the past, his understanding of cavalry warfare was to utilize unparalleled mobility to seize critical terrain
then, before the enemy infantry could clumsily deploy, use a thunderous flank charge to tear through their lines like a hot knife through butter, and then use carbines to hunt down the scattered remnants.
But today, after arriving on this battlefield, they had mysteriously lost five elite Dragoons without even seeing the enemy's face…
"Captain, what do we do now?" the Aide-de-Camp leaned in, looking up and asking him quietly.
Léo lowered his binoculars, his expression grave.
He knew that any charge launched before determining the enemy's true troop strength and firepower configuration was gambling with his soldiers' lives.
"Remain on alert! No one is to leave the woods without my order!" Léo commanded in a low, firm voice.
On the rooftop of a three-story building on the edge of Charleroi's South City, 3rd Company Commander Jonas of the Instruction Assault Battalion was observing the movements outside the city through his binoculars.
"Company Commander, these Gallic Cavalry are certainly fast." The Company Sergeant Major beside him clicked his tongue. "They circled around to our flank so quickly."
"Hmph. They have horses; we have trucks. It's not certain who's faster in a real race." Jonas snorted, but his expression was serious.
Just moments ago, the Battalion's Dispatch Rider had rushed over in a truck, bringing Battalion Commander Morin's latest enemy intelligence report—a full six squadrons of Gallic Cavalry were maneuvering from the southeast, their objective set on his defensive sector.
Six squadrons, nearly a thousand men!
Jonas had just seen the Dragoons maneuvering toward the Sambre River bank and also observed the Gallic Dragoons' movement to attack the village.
He calculated internally: if the two Dragoon Squadrons outside the village all dismounted to fight, their troop strength would be roughly equivalent to a reinforced infantry company.
Raising his binoculars again, Jonas looked at the half-platoon deployed in the small village outside the city.
According to conventional tactics, this half-platoon could serve as an excellent bait to lure the enemy into the crossfire network he had meticulously set up on the edge of the city.
But Jonas hesitated.
After yesterday's Street Fighting with the Flanders soldiers, the officers of the Instruction Assault Battalion had become deeply aware of one issue—while their automatic firepower was monstrously fierce, their ammunition consumption was equally terrifying.
An Assault Squad, with one Light Machine Gun and several submachine guns, could expend most of their carried ammunition in a slightly intense firefight.
This meant that without stable logistical resupply, their sustained combat capability was actually quite fragile.
The half-platoon outside the city only had forty men in total, carrying two Light Machine Guns and some submachine guns. Although they carried a fair amount of ammunition, it might not be enough if the enemy's attack was too fierce.
Using them to fish for six squadrons of cavalry—was the bait too small?
If the fish was too big, swallowing the bait whole and snapping the fishing line with it, the loss would be catastrophic.
"No, I cannot gamble with my soldiers' lives." Jonas quickly reached a decision in his heart.
"Dispatch Rider!" he called out over his shoulder. "Go immediately and inform the alert unit in the village not to engage unnecessarily. Have them immediately contract toward the city area, and maintain concealment!"
"Yes!"
"2nd Platoon Leader!" Jonas turned to the other side. "Take your platoon and leave the city immediately. Position yourselves in the open fields outside to be ready to receive them! Note: only receive them, do not get entangled with the enemy!"
"Understood!"
The order was quickly issued. The 2nd Platoon Leader swiftly assembled his unit and rushed out of the city.
A Dispatch Rider, crouching low, ran quickly along the ditches between the field embankments toward the small village.
Meanwhile, several hundred meters to the south in another copse of trees, a Cuirassier was silently sliding down from a large tree.
Unlike the brightly polished, sun-glinting Cuirasses of his comrades, his Cuirass was pure black and had been given a matte finish, making him virtually invisible in the shadows of the woods.
He landed lightly on his beloved horse without a sound, then squeezed its flank. Like a black bolt of lightning, he sped toward the wheat field where Colonel Molière was located.
"Colonel!" The scout reined in his horse before Molière. "Report! The enemy in the village ahead is retreating!"
"Retreat?" Colonel Molière had been complaining to his Aide-de-Camp about the Dragoons' cowardice—sending a few men forward only to be repulsed and then afraid to continue.
Hearing the news, his two distinctive upturned mustaches twitched with satisfaction.
"How many men?"
"Not many. I observed only a few dozen men. They were startled by our Dragoon reconnaissance team and fled toward the city!" the scout reported.
"What was that gunfire just now? Did you see any Heavy Machine Gun Squads?"
"No, Colonel. They were operating individually, and I didn't see any clumsy Heavy Machine Guns. However, some soldiers were carrying weapons I hadn't seen before…"
"Hah!"
Colonel Molière scoffed, interrupting the scout, then turned to his Aide-de-Camp.
"Did you hear that? Just a few dozen men! And no Heavy Machine Guns!"
He felt his assessment had been perfectly validated.
The Saxons were merely bluffing, frightening the inexperienced Flanders men. Now, upon encountering true Gallic elite forces, they immediately revealed their cowardly nature.
"Colonel, should we now…" the Aide-de-Camp asked tentatively.
"Attack, of course!" Colonel Molière's eyes glittered with excitement. He felt this was a golden opportunity.
Destroying this retreating enemy force would not only fire the first shots of the battle for the Cuirassier Regiment's men but also instantly seize the position at the edge of the city, opening the way for the subsequent capture of the bridgehead.
How could he pass up this easy glory?
"Pass on my order! The First Squadron will launch the assault with me!" Colonel Molière commanded decisively. "We will charge straight through the front and annihilate them in one go!"
"The Second and Third Squadrons will follow two hundred meters behind, ready to provide support at any time!"
He completely ignored the Dragoons waiting for orders in the woods on the other side. He led his most elite squadron, a total of one hundred and fifty Cuirassiers, surging out of the wheat field.
Hooves pounded on the soft earth, making a dull sound.
The cavalrymen formed neat ranks and began to trot toward the direction the enemy was retreating.
Soon, the few dozen Saxon soldiers who were retreating along the country road appeared in their field of vision.
In Colonel Molière's eyes, these men were like lambs waiting to be slaughtered, and he and his Cuirassiers were the hunters wielding the butcher's knife.
This battle could hardly be considered honorable, as the enemy was simply too weak, too vulnerable.
He drew his magnificent saber. The blade traced a cold arc in the sunlight.
"For the glory of Gaul!"
His voice echoed across the open field.
"Draw sabers!"
"Swish!"
One hundred and fifty cavalry sabers were simultaneously drawn, the bright steel converging into a blinding cold gleam.
Colonel Molière's lips curled into a cruel smile. He fiercely swung his saber forward, issuing the final command.
"Cuirassiers, charge!"
"Rumble…"
The ground began to shake. The dull sound of hooves was like rolling thunder, growing louder, closer, and closer.
The Sergeant in command of the retreating half-platoon of the Instruction Assault Battalion suddenly turned, his pupils instantly shrinking to pinpoints.
In the distant wheat field, a dazzling torrent of metal suddenly surged out, rushing toward them!
In the sunlight, the armor on the chests of the Gallic Cavalry reflected a blinding glare.
One hundred and fifty heavily armored cavalrymen were arranged in three neat ranks, like a moving wall of steel, kicking up clouds of dust and crushing toward them with an irresistible momentum.
"Get down! Get down! Prepare to fight!"
The Sergeant yelled at the top of his lungs.
He knew perfectly well that they were still over two hundred meters from the city edge. This open ground offered no cover, and two legs could never outrun a cavalryman's four legs. It was absolutely too late to run.
Charging forward would only result in the cavalry catching them from behind and cutting them down like grass.
The only way to survive was to stop and fight back with the weapons they had!
The soldiers reacted instantly. The moment he gave the order, they jumped off the country road and rolled into the field beside them.
They used the low embankment formed by the roadbed as cover and quickly set up their weapons.
"Fire the flare! Notify friendly forces!" the Sergeant yelled at a soldier beside him.
The soldier immediately pulled a flare gun from his pouch and squeezed the trigger toward the sky.
"Whoosh—!"
A red flare shot straight up into the sky.
This was the agreed-upon signal with Company Commander Jonas—red meant encountering a powerful enemy and requesting emergency support!
(End of this Chapter)
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