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Chapter 677: Burning Eastern Europe Four

"Ah—"

Yannick's eyes widened, and he cried out in terror, then instinctively pulled the trigger.

"Bang!" The bullet flew diagonally into the sky.

Krzysztof had already started reloading, but heard Yannick still muttering incoherently:

"Holy Mother Mary! Please protect your..."

He slapped him hard on the back:

"Stop babbling! Reload!"

"Reload? Oh, right, reload!"

Yannick's hands trembled even more violently. It took him ages to unclip his powder pouch, but his shaking hands prevented him from pouring the powder into the muzzle.

He had indeed yearned to be on the battlefield, to personally cut down invaders, but now, he couldn't control his body at all. The more he told himself not to tremble, the more violently his limbs shook. It wasn't just his limbs; he even felt his stomach violently spasm, as if an invisible hand was churning his insides, making it almost impossible to breathe.

And in his mind, he couldn't stop picturing himself being struck down by the Russians, 'just like Bartrovich had been moments ago...'

"Aim!"

"Fire!"

The captain's voice rang out. Yannick took a deep breath, making the sign of the cross over his chest, then managed to pour the powder into the rifle, spilling more than half of it.

Drasowitz reminded everyone to aim before firing.

The Russians in front of them were getting closer. The incoming bullets became more frequent.

Cries of agony occasionally erupted from the infantry line where Yannick stood, and someone would fall immediately. Then, soldiers from the rear would step forward, drag the bodies away, and fill the vacant spots.

Yannick drew his ramrod. It took several attempts before he could accurately insert it into the muzzle. Around him, another volley rang out.

"Bang! Bang-bang!"

The gunfire from the other side jolted him awake. He looked up. The Russians had already charged to within 40 paces (about 30 meters) of the breastwork; he could even see the bushy beard on the face of one of the men opposite him.

He finally finished loading the ammunition. He raised his rifle, aimed at the man, and pulled the trigger hard, but the gun didn't fire.

He quickly looked down to check, only to realize the flintlock hammer hadn't been cocked.

"Damn it! I'm such an idiot!"

Yannick muttered to himself. With difficulty, he cocked the hammer. He raised his rifle again and saw the bearded Russian also aiming at him.

"Ah!" He gave a start, instinctively bending down to dodge.

"Fire!"

The Polish army unleashed another volley. But Yannick felt the sting of an officer's whip, "Get up, coward!"

At this point, a dozen Russian soldiers had advanced to within 20 paces (about 15 meters), shouting wildly and firing their rifles.

Seemingly influenced by Yannick, more and more Polish soldiers huddled behind the breastwork.

The Russians immediately seized the opportunity and charged forward. The bearded man even leaped onto the breastwork, lunging at Drasowitz with his bayonet.

Drasowitz forcefully parried upward with his flintlock musket, and the cold bayonet grazed his scalp. The Russian then lifted his foot and kicked him in the face.

Drasowitz grunted and also stooped down.

Krzysztof, the only recruit still firing, cried out anxiously:

"Get up! Stand up and shoot!"

But the surrounding soldiers remained huddled. No one reacted. Even Drasowitz, the veteran, was squatting there, clutching his face.

"Damn it! Have you all forgotten that girl from yesterday?" Krzysztof roared. "If we let the Russians break through, all Poles will end up like her!"

Indeed, he still didn't know the girl's name. After she died, the little boy named Kachi hadn't spoken a single word.

"Damn you all! Keep firing! This can't become another Livonia! You..."

Krzysztof's voice abruptly cut off.

Yannick froze. He turned his head to look. Krzysztof's neck had been ripped open by a bullet. Blood spurted from the gaping wound, spraying the Russian soldier in front of Drasowitz's face.

"Krzysztof!"

Yannick cried out in shock. He suddenly remembered that his rifle was still loaded. Strength surged through his arm. He raised his rifle and fired at the Russian soldier.

"Bang!"

The bearded Russian was still wiping blood from his face when a hole appeared in his abdomen. He swayed twice, then toppled from the breastwork.

Yannick roared. He swung his flintlock musket, knocking down another Russian climbing onto the breastwork. The officer's command echoed in his ears again.

"Ready!"

"Right, time to shoot!" Yannick quickly stood his flintlock musket upright and began pouring powder into the muzzle.

Flashing before his eyes was the girl hit by artillery yesterday, Bartrovich with his head smashed, and Krzysztof, spurting blood.

In that instant, his hands seemed to forget how to tremble.

Yannick quickly reloaded, took a deep breath, and then raised his rifle, roaring like a wild beast:

"Damn it! Russians can die too! I just killed one! And I'm going to kill another one, damn it!"

Drasowitz also recovered. He shook his head, then reluctantly raised his rifle:

"I have to hold this place! My Maryna and Fyodor are in Volhynia. I must stand in front of them!"

Perhaps Krzysztof's words had resonated, or perhaps they were inspired by Yannick's sudden bravery. The recruits who had been cowering nearby now rose to their feet.

"Fire!"

At the officer's command, the Polish positions at Zagazig Village unleashed their most coordinated volley since the engagement began.

A dense curtain of fire swept across the field, and the foremost Russian soldiers instantly fell in droves.

On a hill three kilometers away.

In front of the temporary Russian command post, General Morkov, commander-in-chief of the Russian-Polish Front, observed the sparse flashes of gunfire along the Polish defensive line through his telescope, and the Russian skirmishers who were on the verge of entering Zagazig Village. A disdainful smile played on his lips.

"His Imperial Majesty, the Tsar, should have declared war long ago. He didn't even need to mobilize these 120,000 troops."

He handed the telescope to a nearby staff officer: "These Polish troops are almost as weak as the Ottomans."

Indeed, he had only sent a probing force of skirmishers, and they had nearly breached the Polish defenses. This gave him a clearer understanding of the Polish army's strength.

He motioned to the dispatch rider: "Have Vladislav withdraw. Korolyov will launch a full assault in one hour.

"By the end of today, I want the front line pushed to the outskirts of Mozyr."

"Yes, General!"

Morkov was not arrogant. As the main direction of attack for this Polish campaign, he commanded a full 75,000 troops, bringing as many as 92 artillery pieces, which was why the Polish positions had been so brutally shelled.

Moreover, this army had participated in the Russo-Turkish War, and its combat effectiveness was significantly higher than that of the Poles.

In contrast, Poland only had 50,000 soldiers and likely no more than 30 artillery pieces.

If he couldn't achieve a swift victory under these circumstances, then he wouldn't need to return to Petersburg.

Soon, gongs sounded from the Russian rear, and the attacking Russian skirmishers immediately began an orderly retreat.

It wasn't until the Russians had retreated beyond the range of flintlock muskets, and the Polish officer yelled "Stop!" that Yannick belatedly lowered his flintlock musket.

On the open ground before him, Russian corpses lay scattered haphazardly, at least sixty or seventy of them.

Yannick stared for a moment. He suddenly felt a surge of warmth rise from his back to the top of his head, and, unable to contain himself, he waved his arms and shouted:

"We drove back the Russians! They ran away! They ran away!"

The surrounding recruits also paused for a moment, then joined in the joyous shouts and cheers:

"The Russians are retreating!"

"Haha, let them know who they're dealing with!"

"Long live Poland!"

"Long live the homeland!"