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Chapter 1249: The Death Line V

The French soldiers' shouts instantly overwhelmed the opposing "Ura!" cries.

Each man gripped his rifle tightly, pointing the gleaming bayonet at the gray "wave" ahead, charging forward with unyielding momentum.

The entire formation had dissolved into a chaotic swarm, like an anthill. No soldier knew their place in the ranks, they could barely find their company officers, and even their comrades on either side were unfamiliar faces.

But none of that mattered. They knew only that they, and every person here, were courageous citizens of France.

They would crush all enemies!

"Charge!"

"Victory belongs to France!"

The white torrent surged, rapidly transforming into an astounding avalanche of sound and fury.

Finally, the white and gray "waves" crashed fiercely together on the vast plain. An unheard, colossal roar seemed to shake the very heavens and earth.

The Russians were immediately stunned.

The men in white uniforms seemed to be oblivious that bayonets could kill them, rushing fearlessly towards the sharp blades, solely intent on plunging their own bayonets into their enemies' chests.

The outcome was decided in less than a minute.

Shouting "For the Homeland," the French soldiers ignored their fallen comrades, continuously using simple thrusts and slashes to dispatch the enemies before them, their eyes blazing as they sought their next target.

There were also many fierce Russians who, facing the wildly swinging bayonets, lunged with the four-edged spikes on their rifle muzzles at the French. But their rifle barrels were immediately gripped tightly by opposing soldiers, and then a blade would take their lives.

The Russian army, famed as Europe's finest in bayonet combat, quickly discovered they were facing monsters who knew nothing of fear or retreat.

As the first Russian soldier dropped his gun and turned to flee, panic quickly spread through the Russian ranks.

The "Ura!" shouts soon weakened, then vanished entirely.

The entire Russian battle line collapsed, soldiers wailing as they desperately fled.

In the distance, Yefremov's telescope clattered to the ground.

His grand army had been shattered in an instant by a group of French new recruits whose companies weren't even properly organized. It felt like a nightmare.

He had never anticipated that he had chosen the most disastrous tactic.

If he had ordered his troops to exchange fire with the French, the Russians, relying on their more practiced formations and firing techniques, would most likely have defeated their opponents.

But a bayonet charge was the combat method least reliant on military technique—mass bayonet fighting only required thrusting forward with force—the only true test was morale.

And these French soldiers, mobilized under the call of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, had morale in spades.

The conviction to fight for their homeland allowed them to proceed without hesitation, exchanging their lives for the enemy's.

Russian soldiers, in contrast, had to consider whether their landlord would seize a large portion of their pension if they died in battle.

"General!"

Yefremov was jolted awake by his staff officer's shout, looking up to realize that the routed troops were already less than half a kilometer away.

He turned to glance at the British infantry lines in the middle of the battlefield, still in neat formation and steadily advancing, then roared to his orderly, "Tell the soldiers to retreat behind the British!"

"Yes, General!"

Gaizka heard a muffled groan and turned to see his comrade on the left with blood streaming from his palm, clearly having been shot.

He gritted his teeth and turned back, aiming at the British infantry line, now less than 40 meters away.

Behind them, an officer was loudly ordering them to prepare to abandon their positions, with reserves providing cover.

Just then, the British soldiers collectively turned their heads to the right, their eyes filled with panic-stricken fear.

Gaizka, somewhat surprised, squinted northwards. Smoke drifted in the distance, and a winding, thin white line rapidly grew larger.

Then he heard the shouts of "For the Homeland!" and "Long Live France!" like a roaring tsunami, furiously crashing against the British flank.

The British officers had not expected the Russians to be routed, and so swiftly at that. They hastily ordered a full retreat.

However, as the British turned to flee, they found countless Russian soldiers fleeing in disarray not far behind them.

'If we run through there, both sides will surely be crushed together, and then all of us will be captured by the French.'

The British officers cursed the vilest curses he knew, then had no choice but to order their soldiers to re-form their ranks and prepare to defend.

But the blood-crazed soldiers of the French 31st Brigade couldn't be stopped. Enduring the British volleys, they launched a bayonet charge.

The already terrified British flank defense was instantly shattered, beginning to flee towards the center.

Gaizka stared wide-eyed as his comrades in the distance wantonly cut down the enemy with their bayonets. Suddenly, he heard someone in his company shout, "Let's use our bayonets too! Charge!"

The officer reacted a beat too late; several soldiers had already run out.

Their actions spurred on more men, and in less than half a minute, most of the company was charging at the British before them, bayonets at the ready.

Marigny clapped Gaizka on the shoulder: "We're going in too!"

Gaizka felt a surge of warmth from his feet, tingling with excitement and numbness in his limbs. He strode forward, following suit.

The British soldiers had not expected that the French, whom they had nearly broken, would suddenly launch a proactive charge.

Immediately, some prepared for a bayonet fight, others still tried to shoot, and some began looking for openings to flee.

Gaizka didn't even know how he reached the British lines. Following his comrades' movements, he thrust forward, and the blade pierced a Briton's thigh.

Pulling back his rifle, warm blood sprayed onto his face.

"Long Live France!" he roared, delivered another blow to the fallen man, then lunged at another red-clad figure.

He lost track of how long he'd been fighting, but Gaizka suddenly found he couldn't lift his left hand.

He looked down and realized his wrist had been pierced at some point; half his arm was stained red.

A sharp pain struck, his vision blurred, and he collapsed to the ground.

When Gaizka woke again, he found himself lying in a wagon, surrounded by several unfamiliar comrades.

He jolted awake, struggling to sit up, and urgently asked, "Did the enemy retreat?"

A soldier with a bandaged head next to him held him down, smiling: "You mean the battle at Schnait Town? We won a decisive victory. They say three to four thousand enemy soldiers were killed."

"And over 5,000 were captured," another soldier with an arm in a sling added. "The enemy fled 20 kilometers away."

Gaizka sighed in relief, then felt his wrist throb again. He looked down and saw his left hand was thickly bandaged.