I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 361 The Brave Bagnians
Chris, perched on the rocky highlands, observed the battle situation to the south.

The Reteria were brave; the knights dared to charge forward despite the fire from cannons and muskets. The first line of defense held by the Hegland Legion was breached after only two hours.

This result was unexpected for Chris, but not by much.

The ferocity of the Retalians is well-known, and it's normal that the Hegland Legion couldn't hold them off. Marquis Dirac's decision to abandon his counterattack, voluntarily give up the first line of defense, and retreat to the second line to buy time was a wise choice.

Sure enough, when the Retelians, in a frenzy, only spent a dozen minutes resting before charging towards the second line of defense again, they were met with a barrage of attacks from the well-prepared field artillery and infantry tiger-squat guns, leaving them sprawling and defeated.

Field artillery firing solid iron shells can inflict real damage on those iron-clad knights of Leteria who are not quite normal; if hit, they die.

The tiger-squat cannon's shot was perfect for dealing with the knight's squires, as well as the mounted archers and musketeers.

Under the intense barrage of artillery fire, coupled with the free-firing of the musketeers from Hegland, the attacking Knight of Reteria was rendered incompetent after only managing to breach a few gaps in the barbed wire defenses.

Although the enemy seemed to have found a way to deal with the barbed wire, this method was not very effective, because they were essentially trading cavalry lives for the barbed wire, and the exchange ratio was not advantageous.

As for the east... Chris turned around and glanced at it, then felt completely reassured about the Minisians.

Whether to minimize casualties or to slack off on the battlefield, the Minieses launched their attack with over 5,000 infantrymen in skirmish formation as they assaulted the rocky highlands.

Indeed, Chris had to admit that skirmish formations could effectively reduce the lethality of artillery.

Especially with muzzle-loading artillery, even a heavy siege cannon like the 16-pound one, a single shot might kill a few people at best, and at worst, it wouldn't hit a single person, just a futile waste of gunpowder and shells.

However, if you've already arranged your troops in skirmish formation, how much impact can your soldiers have?

This is not modern warfare; soldiers' individual firepower is limited, and not everyone is qualified to engage in skirmishing.

At least the Miniese who came up to attack the Rocky Heights didn't have that ability.

If the Leterians to the south were a herd of reckless, mad bulls clad in steel, then the Minisians to the east, slowly climbing the hillside, were like a flock of sheep hastily driven into battle.

Moreover, it's a hodgepodge of varieties, completely disorganized.

These so-called "five thousand infantrymen" were scattered on the relatively flat but still rugged eastern slope, so sparse that they could not even be called the most basic skirmish line. They were more like withered leaves blown away by a strong wind, with absurdly large distances between them and no coordination whatsoever.

Chris didn't mention the equipment of this rabble, because it was too far away for him to see what they were holding.

As for the attack, I'm sorry, Chris didn't feel any pressure from them, and the signs of the collapse of these five thousand men were already playing out ahead of schedule.

Chris observed that the Miniese soldiers moved slowly and deliberately upwards, sometimes in small groups, sometimes alone.

Some people seemed to be terrified by the heavily armed garrison at Hygrand on the high ground, and hid behind a rock or bush from a distance, peeking out and not daring to move for a long time.

Others appeared too "brave" or rather foolish, breaking away from the main force and charging forward without cover. When they found no one following, they stopped and looked around in bewilderment, becoming easy targets for the defending musketeers.

officer?

Chris strained to make out the figures and could indeed see some people waving weapons and shouting at the top of their lungs, trying to rally the group, but with little effect.

Their orders were like pebbles thrown into a muddy pond, failing to even create a decent ripple. The soldiers either ignored the commands or looked around blankly, completely unaware of what to do next.

The core value of skirmishers lies in using terrain to approach covertly and weaken the enemy with precise individual firepower.

But what about this group of people?

Through his binoculars, Chris saw several Minisian musketeers trying to aim their guns, their hands trembling as if they had malaria, their loading movements clumsy and slow to the point of despair.

The arrows fired by the archers were weak and powerless, and most of them did not even touch the barricades in front of the defenders' positions before falling into the ground.

As for that pitiful impact force?
It's even more out of the question.

Their "charge" was barely faster than a tortoise's, and it lacked any real momentum.

There were no thunderous shouts, no orderly steps, only a chaotic, muddy sound of footsteps and the occasional screams and curses from those who had missed a step or slipped.

The musketeers of the defending army didn't even need to rush to fire a volley. They could simply leisurely aim at those unlucky ones who stood out too much or tried to organize small "charges," taking them down one by one, as easily as hunting.

Each gunshot adds another body to the hillside or triggers panic and chaos in a small area.

A Minisian soldier appeared to have tripped over the body of his comrade, tumbling and scrambling into a shallow pit. Terrified, he dropped his weapon and huddled there, trembling and clutching his head.

Another rather strong-looking fellow was wielding a large axe, seemingly trying to boost morale. He had only shouted twice when a sharp gunshot rang out from the defending position. He fell backward as if struck by a heavy hammer, his axe flying far away from his hand.

This scene completely shattered the courage of a small group of people nearby. They let out a strange cry, turned around and ran down the mountain, scattering several small teams that were trying to catch up.

Chris shook his head when he saw it.

As for the Miniese cannons, this was another thing Chris couldn't understand. Their cannons were positioned a kilometer away, yet they were firing loudly at the rocky highlands.

However, at such a distance, even the artillery on Bagnia's side could not accurately hit the enemy's gun positions.

The latter bombardment was even more outrageous. The shells were guaranteed to hit the ground, and so far, Chris had not received a single report of the artillerymen on Rock Heights being killed by enemy fire.

The Minisians seem to be slacking off, or rather, their commander is either incredibly stupid or deliberately using the lives of these poor soldiers to get by.

Chris stopped paying attention to the doomed farce in the east and turned his gaze back to the south, where the real storm had only temporarily subsided.

……

The Retalians were not willing to accept defeat. The surviving knights, along with their squires and auxiliary troops, retreated to the first line of defense they had occupied. It was only then that they discovered that this first line of defense was somewhat special.

All the defensive fortifications in this line are designed for the front, leaving the rear completely open and unobstructed.

The only thing that could provide cover for the Leterians was the trenches, but the bottom of the trenches was lined with barbed wire and spikes stuck in the ground...

This is awkward.

The Retalians' attempt to exchange fire with the Bagnians using their fortifications failed, leaving them with only two options: either retreat or stay put and wait for reinforcements.

The Retalians had no choice but to choose the latter. They retreated some of their men, while the remaining knights, who believed they still had fighting strength, and the reinforcements who came from the rear on horseback, launched another charge.

Arima is great.

Chris was incredibly envious; whether it was providing support or retreating, everything could be done so smoothly and quickly.

In addition to the southern front, at this time, the Reteria also sent a force of 5,000 men that circled half of the Bagnia camp, launching a new attack from the west.

From the current situation, everything seems to be in grave danger.

However, Chris was not afraid.

"bring it on."

……

The choking smoke, mixed with the stench of blood and the burnt smell of earth, hung heavily over the air of the second line of defense.

After leading his men in retreat, Captain Lennart, who had fought another fierce battle, spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva and wiped his eyes, which were covered with sweat and gunpowder ash, with the back of his rough hand.

He stood behind the breastwork where his company was located, his gaze sweeping across the death zone in front of him that had just swallowed the horde of Retalians.

The barbed wire in that area had several jagged gaps torn in, as glaring as scars.

"Hurry up, send a few men up and fill the gap!" Lennart's roar, hoarse as if grinding sand, pierced the brief silence after the battle.

"Drag up the spare chevaux-de-frise, and damn it, the barbed wire!"

Actually, Lennart didn't need to urge them any further.

Behind the second line of defense, the engineers, who had been waiting for a long time, were like a group of silent and efficient worker ants, dragging out heavy prefabricated chevaux-de-frise components and rolls of barbed wire that gleamed coldly from the trenches behind them.

They crouched low, weaving between the musketeers and halberdiers, and rushed swiftly toward the gaps created by the knights' lives.

Soon the dull thud of hammers striking wooden stakes replaced the lingering echoes of artillery fire, and the clanging of barbed wire carried a cold rhythm.

Damaged barriers were roughly dragged away or re-wedged into the ground, new barricades were firmly secured, and sharp barbed wire was taut again in the sunlight, reflecting a deathly sheen.

Lennart watched as the damaged "wound" was stitched up and reinforced at a visible speed, becoming even more grotesque than before.

Prince Chris's foresight is evident in these mountains of spare fortification materials.

"ammunition!"

Lennart turned and glanced at the rear of his company, where his adjutant was running up with several panting transport soldiers, carrying heavy wooden crates on their shoulders.

"Two boxes of lead bullets and a barrel of gunpowder, quickly send them to the musketeers!"

He didn't need to check; the logistics of the Hegland Legion would never fail at a time like this.

The soldiers silently accepted the ammunition, carefully pried open the lids, placed the gunpowder barrels aside, and had the logistics personnel take out the gunpowder wrapped in kraft paper and distribute it to each person.

The ammunition box was opened, revealing a dense array of deadly small bullets, gleaming with a leaden gray luster.

In other armies, quartermasters would typically only issue lead bars to musketeers and have them melt the lead bullets themselves, because the caliber of the muskets the soldiers carried was inconsistent, some larger and some smaller.

Therefore, the quartermaster could only issue lead strips and small pots to the soldiers, allowing them to make lead bullets that matched the caliber of their muskets so that the soldiers' muskets could fire.

Here in the Bagnian Defence Force, the musketeers don't need to worry about such things, because the lead bullets they receive are the same caliber as their flintlock muskets.

During this precious respite, the musketeers of Bagnia quickly cleaned the gunpowder residue from the barrels, wiping them with grease-soaked cleaning rods. Then, the logistics soldiers took the fixed ammunition wrapped in oil paper and neatly stacked it within their reach.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of sulfur from the new gunpowder and the metallic odor of grease.

Groans and suppressed cries of pain came from a makeshift medical post in a slightly lower-lying area behind the defensive line.

Lennart's heart sank, but he didn't show it. He strode over to check the situation.

The makeshift medical station was set up in a shallow depression away from enemy fire. A few pieces of canvas barely blocked the sunlight, but could not block the overwhelming stench of blood.

Groans, suppressed sobs, and the medic's short instructions mingled together.

The medical post was unlike any field medical post Lennart had ever seen in his more than two decades of military service.

The biggest difference lies in the strangely shaped instruments that gleam with a cold metallic gleam in the hands of the military doctors, and the unfamiliar smell that permeates the air, which is not only sulfur and blood but also a faint, slightly pungent medicinal smell.

Upon entering, Lennart's gaze was first drawn to a young soldier.

His thigh was pierced by the knight's armor-piercing spike, and blood was gushing out.

In the past, what awaited him would have been either a brutal wash with strong liquor, the excruciating pain of which would have been enough to make him faint, followed by the stuffing of grease-soaked burlap, and then the use of a red-hot iron to scorch the wound to stop the bleeding... Just hearing about this process makes one's legs ache.

But at this moment, a military doctor, dressed in blood-stained clothes but with focused eyes, was operating swiftly.

Lennart recognized the doctor as one of the "field medics" specially assigned by Prince Chris to the front-line medical team, who enjoyed a high reputation in the Highland Army.

The doctor quickly tied a strange, elastic band tightly above the wound, visibly slowing the bleeding.

Then, he picked up a clear glass bottle, poured out a dark brown liquid that soaked a large, soft, white cotton cloth, and carefully wiped away the blood and dirt around the wound... Just looking at the cloth made Lennart's loyalty to the prince grow a little stronger.

The old captain never imagined that a lowly soldier could use such a clean cloth to wipe his wounds. Lennart felt that he could buy a chicken back in his hometown with just this one piece of cloth.

Because of the cloth, although the soldier was grimacing in pain and his body was tense, he did not let out the heart-wrenching screams he usually made... He felt that if he did, it would be a disservice to the cloth.

Seeing the patient's cooperation, the doctor nodded and picked up a pair of tweezers with a gleaming silver sheen and a small hook at the end from a metal tray next to him. He carefully examined the inside of the wound and removed a few pieces of cloth and dirt.

Then, he picked up a curved needle threaded with a semi-transparent thread and began to suture the ruptured blood vessels and muscle tissue with smooth and precise movements. The needle and thread moved through the flesh so fast that Lennart was somewhat dazzled.

Finally, disinfect with iodine solution again, cover with thick sterile gauze, and carefully bandage and secure.

Throughout the process, the soldier was in pain but remained conscious and was even able to cooperate with the doctor's movements by lifting his leg.

Not far away, a soldier whose abdomen had been grazed by a shrapnel wound, though not deep, was being treated.

After carefully disinfecting with iodine solution, the doctor sprinkled some pale yellow powder on it.

Lennart had heard from the army doctor that this powder could effectively combat that invisible but deadly thing, greatly reducing the risk of wound suppuration, fever, or even gangrene.

This was one of the leading killers in the past.

Lennart stood around the medical point for a while before being chased away by an impatient nurse. However, he wasn't angry; he even bowed and scraped as he apologized to the frail lady.

Although the medical station was busy and bloody, Lennart felt at peace, a welcome respite from the slaughterhouse-like despair and resignation he had previously experienced there.

In the eyes of those wounded soldiers who had been treated, he could no longer see only numbness and waiting to die, but also a faint glimmer of hope.

They knew they had received the best treatment they had ever had.

This made Lennart very happy; who knows if he might live here someday?

After returning to his zone, Lennart did not rest, but instead patrolled his company along the breastwork.

The soldiers leaned against cloaks or earthen walls that kept them from getting into the mud, panting. Some were stuffing their field rations into their mouths, while others were gulping down mouthfuls of sweet water from their canteens.

Many more people were silently inspecting their weapons. Halberdiers were wiping the sharp blades of their halberds to make sure they weren't dull; musketeers were repeatedly pulling the flintlock triggers to confirm that they fired smoothly.

The veteran cursed under his breath at the knight who had charged too close, or soothed the trembling hands of the recruit beside him with a crude joke.

The officers lowered their voices, quickly counting the remaining men, checking the details of the fortification reinforcements, and reminding the soldiers of the directions they might need to be aware of during the next charge.

The entire defensive line, like a wounded but even more ferocious beast, was panting heavily, licking its wounds, and sharpening its claws again during a brief rest.

Lennart was satisfied with the condition of his subordinates. Although many had fallen, the remaining men maintained high morale and good physical fitness.

This was not only due to the resilience of the Bagnians, but also because of the excellent logistics provided by Prince Chris.

"Captain, the enemy is coming again!"

The brief silence was broken by the lookout's hoarse shouts.

Lennart suddenly looked up and rushed behind the breastwork.

At the edge of the field of vision, the dust raised by the Retalian cavalry was already clearly visible, like a giant, earthen-yellow python rapidly swirling toward the flank of the defensive line.

The enemy's charge began again.

(End of this chapter)