Chapter 677: Burning Eastern Europe V
"Don't let your guard down, everyone!"
Drasowitz waved his arm and shouted loudly:
"That was just a probing attack by the Russians; the real battle is yet to come!"
However, his left cheek was badly swollen, making his speech somewhat muffled, and for a moment, no one paid him any attention.
Drasowitz grew anxious, climbing onto the breastwork. Just as he was about to yell again, his captain walked over, clapped him on the shoulder, and shook his head. "Let them enjoy themselves for a bit. There will be fewer and fewer easy moments like this from now on."
Their company's mission was to hold Zagazig Village for three days. So far, only three hours had passed.
The soldiers celebrated for a while, then began to collect the bodies and tend to the wounded.
Father Stasiak, who was assigned to Drasowitz's company, arrived and stood before each fallen soldier, offering a brief prayer for them.
The captain rushed over, saying anxiously, "Father Stasiak, you shouldn't be here now. The Russians could attack at any moment; it's too dangerous..."
After he and his assistant finished praying for all 41 fallen soldiers along the Zagazig Village defense line and were heading to the next defensive position, the sound of Russian bugles already drifted from the distance.
The priest turned back, raised his wrinkled hand, and declared loudly, "Brave Crusaders, God is with you!"
A wave of enthusiastic cheers erupted from the trench line.
Drasowitz squinted at the Russian soldiers continuously pouring out from the forest ahead, his brow furrowing deeper. 'At least 1,300 men, perhaps even more...'
Then, the faint sounds of skirmishers reporting to an officer drifted from afar: "The Russians are gathering... centered around an infantry regiment... also skirmishers, about a battalion... north side of the village... traces of Russian cavalry..."
Drasowitz spat forcefully onto the ground, his face grim. "Those Russian bastards certainly have a lot of men."
A regiment plus a skirmisher battalion, that was at least 2,000 men. And cavalry too.
Meanwhile, the Polish troops defending Zagazig Village numbered fewer than 1,400.
Another new recruit had taken the place beside Yanick. He remembered his name was Jerzy Łaczkiewicz, so he turned his head and greeted him. "Jerzy, you're here?"
"Yeah. We met at the training camp, didn't we? You guys were really impressive just now!"
"Yeah, a lot of people died. Are you nervous?"
"No!" Łaczkiewicz puffed out his chest. "I'm thrilled!"
Yanick nodded. "Keep your hands steady. That's crucial."
"Got it!"
"Also, the Russians are nothing special; they die when they're shot. So, hit them as quickly as possible."
"Okay, I understand!"
The Russian cannons began to fire, a suppressive barrage before their assault.
Behind the breastwork on the eastern side of Zagazig Village, the Polish soldiers stood rigidly, gritting their teeth and ignoring the whistling cannonballs.
When someone was occasionally shattered by a shell, another immediately stepped up to fill the gap. Still, they stood tall and unyielding.
Before long, the faint sound of Russian drums became audible.
Drasowitz murmured to the new recruits on either side of him, "Hold on. If we can endure this wave, we might just hold out for three days."
He knew well that the first major assault from the attackers was always the fiercest. But if no breakthrough was achieved, the Russian morale would suffer a setback.
And their own new recruits would transition from initial panic to numbness—numbness to the sounds of gunfire, artillery, and death.
This defense line would become even sturdier as a result.
As the drums grew clearer, a Russian infantry column appeared in Drasowitz's vision.
The column was three ranks wide, with a dozen or more rows of soldiers following behind, jogging forward with bowed backs.
This was the most popular attack formation among European powers in recent years.
Drasowitz knew that on a broad battlefield, there would likely be a dozen or so such columns assaulting simultaneously.
Behind the columns were infantry lines.
If their side became entangled with the Russian assault columns, the enemy infantry lines would seize the opportunity to advance, using their numerical superiority to crush them.
'If only we had more cannons,' he grumbled to himself, then heard the officer's voice. "Prepare—"
Yanick beside him quickly raised his Flintlock Musket, moving a few beats faster than Drasowitz.
Drasowitz smiled and murmured, "Another one, my Crusader."
"Yeah."
"Aim—"
"Fire—"
Dense flashes of fire erupted along the Polish defense line, and a dozen or more approaching Russians immediately fell.
Łaczkiewicz clapped Yanick on the back, exclaiming excitedly, "I hit him! Did you see? I hit..."
Yanick glared at him. "Reload quickly!"
"Oh..."
Immediately, the Polish troops unleashed several more volleys.
But the Russian infantry was extremely tenacious. Though men were constantly being shot down, they continued to push forward relentlessly.
Yanick had lost count of how many times he'd reloaded. As he raised his rifle, he saw the Russian troops had stopped, aiming their weapons from about 30 paces away.
"Fire—"
The officer's command rang out. Yanick hurriedly pulled the trigger, glancing sideways to see Łaczkiewicz still struggling to reload.
Crack-crack-crack—
The Russians returned fire with a volley almost simultaneously.
Bullets cruelly crisscrossed, and soldiers on both sides let out a series of muffled groans as blood spattered everywhere.
The Russians' reloading speed was clearly faster than the Polish recruits'. With another crack of gunfire, several more Polish soldiers who were still loading were hit.
"Hold on!" Yanick and Drasowitz yelled together.
There was now one less man on each of their sides, but the other Polish soldiers acted as if they hadn't seen a thing, firmly raising their rifles.
Volley.
Several Russian soldiers were also killed, and they immediately returned fire with a volley.
In this manner, the soldiers on both sides relentlessly harvested each other's lives at extremely close range, simultaneously staking their own lives on the outcome.
Wails and screams enveloped the entire battlefield, even drowning out the gunfire and drumbeats.
Blood and severed limbs flew everywhere, but they were quickly covered by fresh blood and new corpses.
Lives fell in clumps like the cheapest weeds beneath the pervasive smoke of battle.
"Jerzy, reload quickly!"
Yanick raised his rifle, turning his head to remind him, only to see a different face on his right.
He froze for half a second, then wiped his face with his elbow, unsure if it was sweat or blood, and shouted to the new recruit, "Carol, keep your hand steady. That's crucial!"
"Fire—"
Yanick echoed the officer's roar, his Flintlock Musket spewing flames. The flag-bearing Russian opposite him stumbled and fell.
The other Russian soldiers exchanged glances, then looked at the scattered corpses around them. Suddenly, they all turned and retreated.
On the battlefields to the north and south, seven or eight Russian columns, finally unable to bear the casualties, also began to turn and flee.
"Hey! They're retreating!" Carol enthusiastically pumped his fist.
Yanick nodded, stating gravely, "Don't let up. There are still plenty of enemies coming."
Indeed, just a few minutes later, the Russian infantry lines appeared before everyone. In front of them, three or four hundred Russian skirmishers maintained continuous suppressive fire.
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