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Chapter 1349: Fight Like Sergeant Witzschek!

Witzschek's body was never found.

This was not uncommon in cavalry battles; after more than a dozen warhorses galloped past, only bloodstains and shredded flesh remained along their path.

Yannick gripped the hilt of his saber tightly, veins throbbing on his forehead. With stiff legs, he walked step by step towards General Wojciechowski, his voice hoarse as he said:

"General, give the order."

The general nodded gravely. "I need to plan our tactics with General Madaliński."

Yannick suddenly looked up, his bloodshot eyes wide as he roared, "Give the order now!"

Witzschek had been roughly the same age as Yannick when he first enlisted. Now, Yannick was still alive, but Witzschek had given his life in his very first battle.

This made Yannick feel like a deserter dragging out an ignoble existence.

General Wojciechowski clapped him on the shoulder. "I will assign you the main assault."

Yannick's roar cut through the entire thicket, even overpowering the distant rumble of cannons.

At three in the afternoon, Kutuzov learned that the elite Cossack Cavalry had been unexpectedly thwarted by a small Polish infantry unit, leading to the failure of their surprise attack. His expression immediately turned grim.

He had just summoned several senior officers to instruct them on the phased withdrawal from Minsk when a messenger, his face covered in blood, galloped up, slumped over his horse, and weakly called out, "General, please send immediate reinforcements..."

Kutuzov frowned. A staff officer beside him recognized the newcomer. "General, it's from Dokhturov's Corps..."

Kutuzov's heart tightened. He quickly leaned closer to the messenger. "Reinforcements? Why haven't you retreated?"

Dokhturov's Corps was the unit of over 5,000 men he had sent for a feint attack. According to the plan, they should have retreated immediately after the raiding cavalry unit successfully broke through.

The messenger strained to lift his head. "We were just about to retreat when a Polish cavalry unit suddenly appeared behind us."

Madaliński had initially only intended to slow the Russian army's withdrawal to eliminate more enemies during the pursuit. He hadn't expected that Colonel Radosław's two Winged Hussar Battalions, by desperately fighting, would enable the Polish forces to encircle Dokhturov's Corps.

Kutuzov's face paled slightly.

If it had been any other unit, he would have abandoned them without hesitation; after all, it was only 5,000 soldiers.

However, among the troops commanded by Dokhturov were over 3,000 men from the Semyonovsky Life-Guard Regiment.

That was the elite of the elite, personally established by Peter the Great, and the personal guard of successive Tsars.

Faced with a fierce Polish assault, only such an elite corps would have the capability to mount a countercharge.

And if the Semyonovsky Regiment were routed at Minsk, he would undoubtedly face the Tsar's wrath upon his return to Saint Petersburg.

Kutuzov let out a long sigh, then turned to the messenger and signaled, "Have Tuchkov immediately go to reinforce Dokhturov."

The staff officer quickly interjected, "General, this will leave our defenses understaffed."

"It's fine. Abandon the outer defenses," Kutuzov stated. "Concentrate our retreat to outside the city."

He was already prepared for a withdrawal; Minsk only needed to hold out until the positions along the Svislach River were fully established.

On the other side, large numbers of Polish soldiers began their fierce assault on the encircled Russian forces.

News that the 6th Skirmisher Battalion had sacrificed themselves completely to protect the cannons had spread throughout the Polish army. Everyone roared "Avenge the Sixth Battalion!" and charged like madmen towards the hastily constructed Russian defenses.

The Semyonovsky Regiment, true to its reputation as an elite Russian unit, quickly found a dry riverbed to use as cover, continuously firing at the Polish forces from three directions and remarkably holding their line without collapsing.

The following morning, Tuchkov's Corps arrived as reinforcements. If they could link up with Dokhturov's Corps, the Russian forces here would swell to over 13,000 men.

At the same time, the Polish Royal 12th Infantry Brigade also arrived on the battlefield.

From a distance, Yannick heard the dense gunfire ahead. Soon after, a cavalryman reported that a Russian relief force was engaging General Madaliński's central army.

Yannick reined in his horse, turned to his soldiers, and declared loudly, "Though we cannot bring back our comrades of the Sixth Battalion, we can face death just as bravely as they did!

"For the homeland, follow me!"

The remaining 3,700-plus soldiers of the 12th Brigade immediately brandished their Charleville Flintlock Muskets, shouting loudly as they jogged forward, charging.

The Russian reinforcements were also caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the Poles, hastily detaching some forces to organize an interception.

Yannick himself carried the regimental flag at the very front. Though the soldiers beside him were somewhat disorganized, each man's steps were exceptionally firm.

Soon, both sides of the skirmish fired volleys almost simultaneously.

The crackle of muskets, accompanied by the whistle of bullets, filled every inch of space between the two forces.

More than a dozen men on either side of Yannick instantly fell into pools of blood, but he still gritted his teeth and pressed forward, as if Witzschek were watching him from behind.

But the 12th Brigade was severely outnumbered. Just a few minutes later, numerous gaps had appeared in their charging formation.

Both drummers beside Yannick were hit in quick succession. His captain of the guard, disregarding orders, had to drag him and his men away from the battlefield.

The Russians did not pursue; their objective was to help the Semyonovsky Regiment break out.

On a desolate patch of land, Yannick frowned, watching the flickering flames in the distance. He turned to his staff officer and asked, "How many men do we have left?"

"It's not clear yet, Lieutenant Colonel, but the losses are heavy," the officer replied. "Casualties likely exceed a thousand."

'That means we still have two-thirds of our strength,' Yannick thought.

Yannick scanned the blood-soaked soldiers sitting among the sparse grass, then suddenly shouted, "Are there any Poles left here?!"

Everyone looked at him in surprise.

Yannick seized the regimental flag and waved it forcefully. "Are there any Poles here who dare to charge the enemy lines with me again? Like the 6th Skirmisher Battalion! Like Sergeant Witzschek!"

The already exhausted soldiers rose to their feet.

Soldiers who were bandaging their wounds stood up.

Even some of the wounded, missing a hand, struggled to get up.

Twenty minutes later, this Polish infantry brigade, having suffered over a third of its strength in casualties, miraculously reformed, regrouped, and, covered in wounds, launched an attack on the Russian forces once more.

Tuchkov was on the verge of breaking through the encirclement of the Polish central army when, from his right flank, the irregular beat of drums sounded again—most of the 12th Infantry Brigade's drummers had been killed or wounded, and ordinary soldiers were now filling in.

Having lost many of their mid-ranking officers, the Polish lines were very disordered, and their firepower pitifully weak. Yet, they moved like phantoms, continuously flickering before Tuchkov's soldiers, no matter how fiercely the Russians fired.