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Chapter 1247: The Death Line, Part Three

Chapter 1247: The Death Line, Part Three

Sir Graham didn't show any displeasure; no one expected Tatars to have good manners. And the Duke of York had repeatedly reminded him that he absolutely had to cooperate seriously with the Russian army this time, so he didn't want to argue.

"Are your men all ready?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Of course." Korsakov nodded proudly. "Yefremov's legion will likely only sleep for four hours tonight. They'll be preparing for maneuvers before dawn."

"I hope we can capture Offenburg tomorrow," the Englishman said, pulling at his collar. "This wretched place is truly cold..."

Distant booming cannon fire interrupted his complaint.

"What are the French doing?" Sir Graham glanced at his pocket watch. It was nearing six o'clock; both sides should have returned to their camps by now.

The two sides' positions were about two kilometers apart, and with dusk setting in, it was almost impossible for cannons to hit this location.

Korsakov chuckled. "Novices always do this; once they get excited, they just want to keep firing. At this rate, they'll run out of shells in three or four days."

Graham turned to look, seeing injured British soldiers lying or sitting in the wagons. Beside them, walking wounded followed with bowed heads, everyone silent.

Graham frowned and generously instructed his staff officer: "Prepare some hot soup for these men, and give everyone a double ration of wine."

"Yes, General."

In the British camp, soldiers huddled around bonfires, silently dipping dry bread into wine and eating it with cured meat.

Almost everyone was feeling low. They had expected today to be a one-sided slaughter of French recruits, but they hadn't anticipated such fierce resistance. Several battalions had sustained casualties approaching 20%.

From the western darkness, the constant roar of cannons made the British soldiers frown.

The cannon fire had barely ceased since the battle began at noon. They had never before seen cannons continue to fire after dark.

An older soldier waved for the others to listen. "Everyone get some sleep; there's still a fight to be had tomorrow."

The British soldiers spread out straw and blankets on the ground, preparing to sleep amidst the cannon fire, when a terrifying scream suddenly echoed from the camp to the north. "Ah—"

More than ten men immediately stood up again, looking nervously in that direction.

Half an hour later, word arrived: a French shell had landed in the 22nd Battalion's camp, killing two men.

Frankly, at such a distance, and without knowing the precise location of the camp, the probability of hitting a target with indirect howitzer fire was practically negligible.

Yet, the French cannons continued to roar relentlessly in the darkness, seemingly betting on that minuscule chance.

Consequently, countless British soldiers, unnerved by the shell hitting the 22nd Battalion, lay sleepless amidst the continuous booming.

...

In front of the French positions to the west, Vincent carefully read his compass by torchlight, then drew a line with chalk in front of a 12-Pounder Cannon.

Soon after, a cavalryman emerged from the night, shouting to him, "South-easterly wind, wind speed 3.5 meters per second."

Vincent immediately pulled out a notebook and began calculating. Three minutes later, he called out a series of parameters to the surrounding artillerymen, including the correction angle, charge amount, and elevation.

As a top student in the mathematics department at the University of Paris and a disciple of Professor Monge, calculating trajectories was no difficult feat for him, even though he had only been working with cannons for a month and a half.

Over a hundred novice artillerymen immediately adjusted the cannons according to his instructions. Then, the igniters pulled their lanyards, and eight 12-Pounder Cannons successively spat flames into the night sky.

Eight shells arced in extremely high trajectories, finally landing near the British positions 1.6 kilometers away.

None of them hit their mark, but the closest one was only about a hundred meters from the British.

The French artillerymen weren't concerned with accuracy; they had an entire night to fire, and God would surely ensure a few shells landed on the British.

As for ammunition consumption, it was simply not an issue for the French army.

Every day, trains constantly delivered shells and gunpowder from the ironworks in Nancy and the gunpowder factories in Charleville.

If the French artillery ever ceased firing, the only reason would be overheating gun barrels.

Joseph knew that the recruits' training level was limited, so he could only do everything possible to create trouble for the enemy, even if 99% of the shells landed in open fields. He didn't care.

With trains as such a logistical marvel, he could truly afford the expenditure.

In the French camp not far from Vincent and others working hard 'overtime,' Gaizka followed Sergeant Peppard, receiving a large pot of hot onion and turnip beef stew from the field mess cart, which he then distributed to his comrades in the company.

In his hand, clutching the tin bowl, he also held a button that had fallen from Naseli's clothes.

But the heavy sorrow in his heart was dispelled by the singing from the center of the camp.

The singer was a beautiful young woman in a long green dress. Sergeant Peppard said her name was Berenice, and she was a soldier in the "Propaganda Battalion."

Parisian folk tunes, accompanied by the organ music of military musicians, made all the soldiers temporarily forget the brutal fighting of the day.

After Berenice finished singing, two more young people performed a splendid Branle dance on a makeshift wooden stage.

Nearing nine o'clock that evening, the Propaganda Battalion's performance concluded, and they left the camp under cavalry escort.

Then Gaizka's company commander stepped onto the wooden stage and announced loudly: "Just two days ago, Blücher's Prussian corps surrendered to Colonel Oudinot! Nearly 40,000 Prussian soldiers were captured in total. The Coalition Forces have now completely withdrawn from Switzerland! The enemy is getting closer and closer to defeat."

"Long live France!"

A wave of excited cheers immediately erupted throughout the camp, until the low notes of the taps sounded, and the soldiers gradually quieted, beginning to prepare their bedding.

Under the starry sky, Gaizka lay on his thick blanket, turning his head to whisper to Sergeant Peppard beside him, "Do you think Naseli will go to heaven?"

"Yes, he is a hero of France. The gates of heaven will forever be open for him."

Gaizka's eyes instantly welled up, and he quickly sniffed hard.

...

The next morning.

The British renewed their attack on Gaizka's position.

Gaizka glanced at Morvan, standing to his left, and gripped his rifle tightly. Though the British cannon fire still made his heart constrict, his trembling legs could now support him firmly in place.

Soon, the British infantry lines came within range. Gaizka heard the Second Lieutenant's command: "Prepare—"

He raised his rifle and shouted loudly, "For the homeland!"

In Oracle Village, three kilometers from their defense line, the French 31st Brigade, tasked with its defense, was astonished to find that the Russians, who had been madly charging like rabid dogs just yesterday, had not launched an attack.