Trench Bolts and Magic

Chapter 238 Ranger

Gaul, Rouen.

This ancient city on the banks of the Seine has now become the largest forward base for the Brittany Expeditionary Force on the continent.

In the port, transport ships from the Brittany Navy occupied almost all the berths.

On the streets, one could see Breton soldiers everywhere, dressed in khaki uniforms and looking exhausted—they were the first expeditionary force to be withdrawn from the front lines.

The soldiers sat in twos and threes by the roadside, silently clutching their rifles or staring blankly at the sky.

Amiens' crushing defeat weighed heavily on everyone's hearts like a giant stone.

They were once the pride of the British Empire, an invincible army.

But now, they are like a pack of stray dogs, driven by the Saxons from the heart of the continent all the way to their starting point.

The numerous tents erected on an open space by the port served as the temporary headquarters of the expeditionary force.

Marshal John French was standing in his tent, looking out at the rain-soaked city outside the harbor.

His face was even more gloomy than the weather outside.

"marshal."

An adjutant gently lifted the curtain and entered.

"General Horatio Smith, commander of the second expeditionary force, has arrived."

"Let him in." French didn't turn around, his voice a little hoarse.

Soon, a tall, vigorous old general strode in.

He was General Horatio Smith, commander of the second Britannian expeditionary force.

"John, my old friend."

General Smith walked up to French, looked at his grim expression, and said:

"It seems you're having a tough time."

"Is it better?"

John French chuckled self-deprecatingly:
"I almost wiped out the Empire's most elite troops in Amiens. Do you think I'll get away with that?"

He turned around and poured himself and Smith each a glass of whiskey.

"Tell me, what's the reaction of those bureaucrats back home? Are they already preparing to send me to a military court?"

"That's not true."

Smith took the glass, sipped his drink, and continued:
"They're busy arguing with the navy right now. First Lord of the Admiralty Churchill is pushing for the immediate dispatch of the main fleet to blockade the Saxon ports and fight a decisive naval battle with them! But the War Office thinks we should continue to send reinforcements to the mainland, hold Rouen, and wait for an opportunity to counterattack."

"Counterattack?"

French sneered, his tone full of disdain for the discussions on the island.

"What counterattack are we going to launch? We've fallen so low that we can't even defeat the Saxon armored knights, let alone their damned airship! Sending any more men will just make them cannon fodder on the front lines!"

The battle in Amiens shattered French's last shred of hope.

He finally realized that this war was no longer the 'gentleman's war' they were familiar with, where soldiers lined up to be shot.

The Saxons, with their ever-evolving array of new weapons and tactics, have pushed the form of warfare into a completely new and far more brutal dimension.

"What are you going to do?"

Smith asked:
"I heard it on the ship: Joseph Joffre sent you eight telegrams a day, begging you to go and save Paris. Are you going?"

"Save Paris?"

French laughed as if he had heard the funniest joke, shaking his head between laughs.
"Let him go and save them himself! I don't want to throw my remaining soldiers into that bottomless pit of Paris."

A cold glint flashed in his eyes.

"My plan is simple. Hold Rouen, hold these ports, and let the Gauls and Saxons fight it out. Let them bleed to the last drop of blood under the walls of Paris. We'll just stay here and watch quietly."

"The time for us to make our move will be when they are both severely weakened."

Smith listened to French's plan with a furrowed brow.

“John, you’re playing with fire. If we stand by and watch Paris fall, the Gauls will likely surrender.”

"Then the Saxons will be able to focus their efforts on dealing with us. We're isolated overseas; can we withstand them?"

John French nodded after hearing his old friend's words and said:
“You’re right, so we can’t let them surrender. We need to give them a glimmer of hope when they’re about to give up, so they can keep fighting.” “In short, our goal is not to help the Gauls win the war, but to prolong it as much as possible. The longer it drags on, the better for us.”

Smith remained silent.

He had to admit that French's plan, though ruthless, was the most advantageous option for Brittany at the moment.

The weather in Rouen worsened the next day.

Under a gloomy sky, a cold wind whipped up a drizzle that pattered against the pier.

Marshal John French, wearing a heavy woolen overcoat, stood silently on the dock, letting the rain soak the brim of his hat.

Behind him stood several adjutants with equally solemn expressions.

Just yesterday afternoon, as General Horatio Smith arrived with a new batch of support troops, Master Albert of the Highland Mage Order also sailed back to his homeland.

Before leaving, the seventh-circle mage told French that he must report everything that had happened here to the Imperial high command and the Highland Mage Order as quickly as possible.

However, he also stated that he would put in a good word for John French in front of the higher-ups to prevent them from blaming him for the defeat in the war.

John French naturally expressed his gratitude for Master Albert's gesture.

However, he knew very well that the other party did this simply because they felt uneasy after leading the mage away ahead of time.
After pondering these matters, the commander of the Brittany expeditionary force turned his gaze to a ship that was slowly approaching in the river.

It was a large transport ship with a deep waterline, clearly carrying heavy cargo.

"Marshal, they're here," an adjutant whispered in his ear.

French nodded without saying anything.

The transport ship slowly approached the berth, and the heavy anchor was thrown into the water, stirring up a wave.

As the hatch on the side of the ship opened, a huge ramp was lowered down.

Amidst the unique buzzing of the magic engine, more than ten distinctive armored knights emerged from the ship's cabin one after another and lined up neatly on the dock.

French's adjutant couldn't help but let out a low gasp.

These armored knights were quite different from the majestic and magnificent 'St. George III' knights of the Garter Knights they were familiar with.

They are smaller in size, with simpler and smoother lines, and no unnecessary decorations.

Its entire body is painted a dull, unremarkable dark green, blending perfectly into the background of this rainy day.

They don't look like noble knights; they look more like hunters lurking in the jungle.

"Is this the unit sent to carry out the capture mission?"

The adjutant asked in a low voice:

"It doesn't feel as oppressive as the Knights of the Garter."

"Don't be fooled by their appearance."

French shook his head, his voice low.

"The Knights of the Garter are the face of the Empire, its ceremonial guard, but they are different."

He didn't finish his sentence, but the unease in his tone said it all.

The lead armored knight, with steady steps, walked up to Marshal French.

"Click——"

The front armor of the cockpit rose smoothly, revealing the pilot inside.

A middle-aged man with a muscular build and a stern face jumped out of the cockpit.

He was dressed in a dark knight's uniform—though not as ornately decorated as the Knights of the Garter.

His face bore several shallow scars, and his eyes were as sharp as an eagle's.

The man walked up to French, stood with his feet together, and gave a crisp military salute.

"Your Excellency Marshal, the 'Forest Patrol' squadron reports for duty."

His voice, like the other armored knights behind him, was devoid of any superfluous emotion.

"We will assist you in carrying out the mission of capturing the armored knights of the Saxon Empire."

(End of this chapter)