Trench Bolts and Magic

Chapter 9: The Courage of the Skirmisher Line?

Mackensen snatched the telegram and quickly tore open the seal, leaving only the rustling sound of paper rubbing together inside the tent.

A moment later, an incredulous and strange expression appeared on Mackensen's face, a mixture of anger and doubt, which finally turned into a cold laugh.

He walked up to a group of staff officers and slammed the telegram on the table.

"Look, this is the decision made by our General Staff."

The commander of the 16th Brigade carefully picked up the telegram, and after just one glance, his expression became as interesting as Mackensen's.

"You are authorized to immediately launch 'necessary military operations' within the Kingdom of Aragon, but are required to return home immediately to recuperate?"

This order stunned everyone present.

Why should a general who has just suffered a great humiliation and is determined to seek revenge be dismissed before the war begins?

What kind of nonsense is this? Changing generals on the eve of battle?

"General Pritwitz will take over your duties," the chief of staff read out with difficulty.

"Pritwitz," Mackensen repeated the name, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "That coward who only dares to fight a defensive battle with superior forces? Let him command the offensive?"

He looked around, his gaze finally settling on the attack plan. A hint of resentment flashed in his eyes, but after a moment he seemed to have figured something out and let out a cold snort.

"Now that the authorization to fight has been issued, launch the attack according to your plan and drive the Royal Army and the Britannians out of Seville!"

The old general's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable resolve.

“Until that idiot Pritwitz arrives, I will still be the commander of the expeditionary force! 'Necessary military action,' right? I'll show them what 'necessary' really means!”
-
While Mackensen and others waited anxiously in the brigade headquarters, the 1st Battalion of the 33rd Infantry Regiment, where Morin was stationed, had already set off.

Night provides the best cover for large-scale infantry marches.

Three infantry companies, along with various subordinate units of the battalion headquarters and supply convoys, moved quietly along the country dirt road on both sides like a silent, gray serpent.

The basic tactical unit of the Saxon Empire's army was the battalion, and the organization of marching formations was also centered around this, resulting in a well-ordered system.

Aside from the rustling of military boots over gravel and the occasional hoofbeats of messengers galloping past, the nearly thousand-strong column made almost no other sound. Discipline had seeped into the very marrow of this army.

Morin led his infantry platoon in the marching column of the 3rd Company.

The initial nervousness and awkwardness quickly subsided after we embarked on the march.

This body seemed to have its factory settings activated, knowing exactly how to adjust its breathing, how to allocate its energy, and how to observe the soldiers' condition with the corner of its eye.
These skills, belonging to a qualified junior officer, emerge naturally, almost instinctively.

In addition, there was the knowledge and experience he gained as a 'cadet soldier' ​​in the strongest army on Earth before his transmigration.
Morin didn't even need to think about it; he could subconsciously judge whether the marching speed of the column was uniform and whether the spacing between the soldiers was too loose or too tight.

It's a wonderful feeling, like a veteran RTS player who has played thousands of hours of RTS games. Even if they switch to a new account, those micro-management skills and awareness have already been etched into their DNA.

At least physically, he was already a real Saxon second lieutenant.

Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the branches and leaves of the roadside trees, casting dappled light on the soldiers' pointed helmets.

The air was slightly cool, carrying the scent of earth and grass, mixed with a faint smell of gunpowder, as if it were an ominous sign brought by the wind from the direction of Seville.

About two hours later, the team arrived at the designated assembly area.

This is a sparsely wooded area near the road, with slightly undulating terrain that provides good cover.

As Major Thomas's orders were relayed down the ranks by messengers, the 1st Battalion quickly switched from marching to combat readiness.

The entire team dispersed into company and platoon units, skillfully searching for cover and hiding places.

The hushed murmur of the officers talking replaced the silence of the march, and an atmosphere of tension and anticipation permeated the woods.

Just as Morin was directing his soldiers to settle in the woods, Sergeant Klaus walked up to him and said in a low voice.

"Platoon leader, the messenger just came and said that the company headquarters wants you to go over there."

"understood."

Morin nodded, handed his rifle to the orderly, straightened his uniform and belt, and walked toward the few flickering oil lamps deep in the woods. There was the temporary headquarters of the 3rd Company, where Captain Hauser, the company commander, and two other platoon leaders were gathered around a map spread out on the ground.

"Morin, you've arrived just in time."

Captain Hauser saw him, waved, and then pointed to the map.

"Bad news or good news, which do you want to hear first?"

This familiar opening line made Maureen's lips twitch.

"Sir, when someone asks this question, it usually means that neither piece of news is very good."

Captain Hauser chuckled at his words, but quickly suppressed his laughter and became serious.

"The bad news is that the battle order has been issued. Our 1st Battalion, as the first echelon of the entire regiment to launch an attack, is to attack the village called San Isidro from the front."

He picked up a pencil and drew a thick arrow on the map, pointing directly to a village marker.

Morin's heart sank. This was indeed bad news, and really bad news at that.

Frontal attack, first echelon
When these two words are combined, they are essentially synonymous with 'heavy casualties'.

"And what's the good news?" he asked, clinging to a sliver of hope.

“The good news is,” Captain Hauser’s tone lightened, “our 3rd Company is the battalion reserve. The 1st and 2nd Companies will go first, and we will join the battle as needed, or go to plug the gap.”

Morin nodded, secretly letting out a sigh of relief.

To be honest, although he was gradually taking on the appearance of a lieutenant in the Saxon Empire, he had absolutely no intention of sacrificing his life for this unfamiliar country.

If Morin hadn't known that desertion was not only shameful but also had serious consequences, he would have found a way to escape long ago.

Although being a reserve force for the first attack echelon is not absolutely safe, at least they don't have to rush in immediately and use their own flesh and blood to test the enemy's firepower configuration.

"Live as long as you can, live as long as you can."

Morin silently recited this in his mind while considering his next move.

However, when his gaze fell back on the unfolded battle map, more of the memories belonging to the military academy within this body were awakened.

More and more knowledge about the Saxon Empire's army, or rather, about the world's army warfare, came to mind.

And this made Maureen realize that something terrible was about to happen.

Looking at the map, the attack arrows representing the 1st and 2nd companies have a very narrow front.

1连3个步兵排展开为前后三条150米宽散兵线，士兵间距1-2米缓慢推进，并在进攻中以步枪齐射压制敌前沿。

About 100 meters behind the 1st Company was the 2nd Company, which was following in a dense column, waiting for the 1st Company's skirmish line to open a gap so they could launch a bayonet charge.
There was no flanking maneuvering, no infiltration, and certainly no tactical planning like that of later generations, which involved alternating cover and dispersed infiltration by squads.

Some unpleasant memories began to flash through his mind.

He recalled the tactical theories that the original owner of this body had learned at the military academy, which the instructors had enthusiastically explained in class and were very proud of.

"Saxon assault tactics," "the courage of skirmish lines," and "the devastating power of regimental-level attack clusters."
Teaching scenes flashed through my mind.

He recalled how the gray-haired tactical instructor had praised, in an almost fanatical tone, the 'magnificent sight' of soldiers marching in skirmish lines like a gray tide, stepping to the beat of drums and facing artillery fire, resolutely heading towards the enemy's position.

At that time, the original owner of this body, like all the other classmates, was thrilled and felt that this was the ultimate embodiment of the glory of Saxon soldiers.

But now, Maureen, who possesses the soul of a 21st-century military academy student, feels completely unwell.

Even with the existence of extraordinary powers like 'magical technology' and 'armored knights', the evolution of conventional infantry tactics in this world is still at the level of the European armies in the early stages of World War I, as remembered by Morin.

They still believed in the courage and discipline of soldiers, and in the impact of dense formations.

It’s over.

I've witnessed the swan song of a dense formation charge!
(End of this chapter)