Trench Bolts and Magic

Chapter 172 Cuirassier Charge
Captain Leo's orders were carried out swiftly.

The dragoons nimbly dismounted, led their horses deep into the woods, and tied the reins to tree trunks.

These well-trained warhorses were quiet. Although they heard bursts of gunfire, they only snorted occasionally, as if they sensed the tense atmosphere before the battle.

The soldiers, armed with carbines, quickly spread out at the edge of the woods, using the thick tree trunks and naturally formed ditches to rapidly construct a simple but effective defensive line.

Everyone moved cleanly and efficiently, without making a sound; the only noise was the slight clanging of equipment.

Captain Leo raised his binoculars and looked again at the small village where the gunshots had rang out.

Just as he was about to say something more to his adjutant, the gunfire in the village suddenly intensified.

"Bang! Bang bang! Rat-a-tat-tat-tat."

In addition to the crisp sound of Betty's carbine firing, a burst of unprecedented, dense gunfire suddenly erupted from the village!
"Da da da da da da!"

The sounds were continuous, violent and rapid, completely drowning out the sporadic retaliatory fire from the carbine.

Leo's pupils contracted sharply, and he almost instinctively crouched down even lower.

"My God, they really have heavy machine guns? But why are they deployed right outside the city?" The adjutant beside him was pale and his voice trembled slightly.

Leo didn't answer; the words of the fleeing civilians and the old soldier kept flashing through his mind.

"It sounded like thunder when they opened fire," and "the sound of many, many heavy machine guns firing at the same time!"
It turns out what they said was true!

This is not an exaggeration at all; it's the truth!
In Captain Leo's worldview, the only weapons capable of continuous fire are heavy machine guns like the Saint-Étienne M1907.

Therefore, in his view, the only weapons that could enable the Saxons to fire continuously like that were those heavy machine guns that required several people to operate.

Could it be that there really is a division of Saxons in the city?
The thought sent chills down Captain Leo's spine.

If that's the case, then Colonel Molière's 'combat reconnaissance' plan was not just an adventure, but utter suicide!

Just as he was getting anxious, several cavalrymen rushed out from the direction of the village in a disheveled state.

They lay on their horses, whipping them desperately, as if a demon were chasing them.

Leo looked closely and realized it was the reconnaissance team he had sent out!
However, there were ten people when they set off, but only five have returned!

One of the horses was carrying two people; the one in the back was clearly injured and was slumped limply on his comrade's back.

The sergeant leading the group rushed to the edge of the woods, almost tumbling off his horse. He handed his horse to a dragoon who was going to help, then ran quickly to Leo, his face pale.

"Captain. Captain"

"Calm down! Take a deep breath!" Leo grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard. "What happened? How many enemies are there?"

"I don't know, I can't see it at all!"

The sergeant was panting heavily, his eyes filled with terror.

"As soon as we entered the village, we saw figures spreading out around the buildings, so we opened fire! But they quickly returned fire, and it was a barrage of heavy machine gun fire!"

"We walked right into their ambush! Bullets were raining down on us. We couldn't even lift our heads!"

He pointed in the direction of the village, his voice trembling: "Their counterattack came too fast. In an instant, Harvey and Pierre fell down, their bodies riddled with bloody holes. We didn't even see how many enemies there were, so we had to retreat!"

Listening to his subordinate's description, Leo felt his back was already soaked with cold sweat.

He suddenly rushed to his mount, then grabbed a tree beside him and stood directly on the saddle. Standing on the horse's back, his field of vision suddenly opened up considerably.

He saw in the distance, in the wheat field, that Colonel Molière's cuirassiers had stopped and seemed to be observing the situation.

Seeing that they showed no signs of charging immediately, Leo finally breathed a sigh of relief.

He had to wait for Colonel Molière's decision, because the dragoons' mission was to coordinate the attack, and if the cuirassiers launched an attack, they would have no choice but to charge forward as well.

So Captain Leo just hoped that the arrogant colonel would be slightly jolted awake by the terrifying gunshots.

The cavalry captain's mind raced; he felt that the current battle was more bizarre than any of the scenarios he had ever rehearsed.

In the past, his understanding of cavalry warfare was to utilize unparalleled mobility to seize key terrain.
Then, before the enemy infantry can clumsily deploy their formation, launch a thunderous flank charge, tearing through their lines like a hot knife through butter, and then use carbines to hunt down the scattered remnants.

But today, when they arrived at this battlefield, they hadn't even seen the enemy's faces clearly before inexplicably losing five elite dragoons.
"Captain, what do we do now?" The adjutant leaned over and asked him in a low voice.

Leo put down his binoculars, his expression serious.

He knew that any charge before figuring out the enemy's true troop strength and firepower was playing with the lives of his soldiers.

"Stand firm! No one is allowed to leave the woods without my order!" Leo commanded in a deep voice.

On the southern edge of Charleroi, on the roof of a three-story building, Jonas, the company commander of the 3rd Company of the Training Assault Battalion, was observing the movements outside the city through binoculars.

"Company commander, these Gallic cavalrymen are really quite mobile," the sergeant next to him clicked his tongue. "They've already circled around to our side so quickly."

"Hmph, they have horses, we have carriages. It's hard to say who'll be faster if we really race," Jonas snorted, but his expression was serious.

Just now, a messenger from the battalion headquarters rushed over in a truck, bringing Battalion Commander Morin's latest enemy situation report—six companies of Gallic cavalry were flanking from the southeast, heading straight for his defense zone.

Six squadrons, nearly a thousand men!

Jonas had just seen the dragoons who had circled around to the banks of the Sambre River, and he also saw the Gallic dragoons advancing on the village.

He calculated in his mind that if all the dragoons in the two squadrons outside the village dismounted to fight, their strength would be roughly equivalent to a reinforced infantry company.

Jonas raised his binoculars again and glanced at the half-platoon that had been set up in the small village outside the city.

According to conventional tactics, this half-platoon could serve as excellent bait to lure the enemy into his carefully laid crossfire network on the edge of the city.

But Jonas hesitated.

After yesterday's street fighting with Flanders soldiers, the officers of the training assault battalion were acutely aware of one problem—while their automatic firepower was incredibly fierce, their ammunition consumption was equally alarming.

A combat team, with a light machine gun and a few submachine guns, can deplete most of their ammunition in a slightly intense firefight.

This means that without stable logistical support, their ability to sustain combat operations is actually quite fragile.

The half-platoon outside the city consisted of only forty men, carrying two light machine guns and some submachine guns. Although they carried a considerable 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—isn't that a bit too little bait?
If the fish is too big and swallows the bait whole, breaking the fishing line along with it, then you'll lose a lot of money.

“No, we can’t gamble with the soldiers’ lives.” Jonas quickly made up his mind.

"Messenger!" he shouted, turning around. "Go immediately and inform the village's garrison to abandon their fighting and retreat towards the city, taking cover!"

"Yes, sir!" "Second Platoon Leader!" Jonas then turned to the other side, "Take your platoon and immediately leave the city to the wilderness to provide backup for them! Note that this is only for backup; do not engage the enemy!"

"understand!"

The order was issued swiftly, and the 2nd platoon leader quickly assembled his troops and headed out of the city.

Meanwhile, a messenger, crouching low, ran swiftly along the ditch between the fields towards the small village.

Not long after, in the village, which had become quiet again, the half-platoon of guards, led by the sergeant in charge, quietly retreated towards the city.

Meanwhile, several hundred meters to the south, in another grove of trees, a cuirassier was silently sliding down a large tree.

Unlike his companions' gleaming breastplates that shimmered in the sunlight, his breastplate was pure black and had a matte finish, making it almost invisible in the shadows of the forest.

He landed lightly on his beloved horse without making a sound, then spurred it on and charged like a black lightning bolt toward the wheat field where Colonel Molière was.

"Colonel!" The scout reined in his horse in front of Molière. "Report! The enemy is retreating from the village ahead!"

"Retreat?" Colonel Molière was complaining to his adjutant about the cowardice of the dragoons, who had sent a small force that was driven back and dared not advance any further.

Upon hearing the news, his signature upturned mustache twitched smugly.

"how many people?"

"Not many, I observed only a few dozen people. They were so frightened by our dragon cavalry reconnaissance team's charge that they ran back into the city!" the scout reported.

"What was that gunshot you just heard? Did you see a heavy machine gun team?"

"There were no colonels; they were all operating alone. We didn't see any heavy machine guns, but some of the soldiers were carrying weapons we'd never seen before."

"what!"

Colonel Molière interrupted the scout with a sneer, then turned to look at his adjutant.

"Did you hear that? Dozens of men! And not even a heavy machine gun!"

He felt that his judgment had been perfectly confirmed.

The Saxons were just bluffing, intimidating the unsophisticated Flemish. Now, when faced with the real Gallic elite, they immediately revealed their cowardly nature.

“Colonel, what are we doing now?” the adjutant asked tentatively.

"Attack, of course!" Colonel Molière's eyes gleamed with excitement; he felt this was a golden opportunity.

Eliminating this retreating enemy force will not only fire the first shot of the battle for the brothers of the Cuirassier Regiment, but also allow them to seize the positions on the edge of the city in one fell swoop, opening the way for the subsequent capture of the bridgehead.

How could he possibly let go of such an easy opportunity for credit?

"Pass on my order! First Company, follow me and launch the attack!" Colonel Molière decisively declared. "We'll charge in from the front and wipe them out in one fell swoop!"

"Second and third squadrons, follow up at a distance of 200 meters and be ready to provide support at any time!"

He completely ignored the dragoons waiting for orders in the woods on the other side, and led his most elite squadron, a total of 150 cuirassiers, out of the wheat field.

The horses' hooves pounded the soft ground with a dull thud.

The cavalrymen formed neat ranks and began to jog forward in the direction the enemy was retreating.

Soon, the dozens of Saxon soldiers who were retreating along the country road came into view.

In Colonel Molière's eyes, these men were like lambs to the slaughter, and he and his cuirassiers were hunters wielding butcher knives.

This battle was hardly one of honor, because the enemy was far too weak and easily defeated.

He drew his ornate command sword, the blade tracing a cold arc in the sunlight.

"For the glory of Gaul!"

His voice echoed across the wilderness.

"Draw the knife!"

"Shh!"

One hundred and fifty cavalry sabers were drawn simultaneously, their gleaming blades merging into a blinding, cold light.

Colonel Molière's lips curled into a cruel smile as he swung his sword forward, issuing his final command.

"Cutans, charge!"

"Rumble"

The earth began to tremble, and the dull thud of horses' hooves, like rolling thunder, grew louder and louder as it approached.

The sergeant in charge of directing the retreat of half a platoon of the training assault battalion suddenly turned his head, his pupils instantly shrinking to the size of pinpoints.

Suddenly, a dazzling torrent of metal burst forth from the distant wheat field and surged toward them!

In the sunlight, the armor on the chests of the Gallic cavalrymen reflected a dazzling light.

One hundred and fifty heavily armored cavalrymen, arranged in three neat rows, formed a moving wall of steel, raising clouds of dust and pressing down on them with unparalleled momentum.

"Take cover! Take cover! Prepare for battle!"

The sergeant roared at the top of his lungs.

He knew very well that he was still more than 200 meters from the edge of the city. This open area offered no cover, and two legs could not outrun four legs of a cavalryman, so there was absolutely no time to run.

If you force your way through, the cavalry will catch up from behind and cut you all down like chopping vegetables.

The only way to survive is to stop and fight back with the weapons in your hands!
The soldiers reacted extremely quickly; almost the instant he gave the order, they jumped off the country road and rolled into the adjacent field.

They used a low embankment formed by the roadbed as cover and quickly set up their weapons.

"Fire a signal flare! Notify friendly forces!" the sergeant shouted to a soldier next to him.

The soldier immediately pulled a signal pistol from his pocket and pulled the trigger towards the sky.

"call out--!"

A red signal flare flew straight into the sky.

This was the signal they had agreed upon with Company Commander Jonas—red meant they were facing a formidable enemy and needed urgent support!
(End of this chapter)