Chapter 678: Burning Eastern Europe VI
Chapter 679: Burning Eastern Europe VI
The Russian fire was denser and more accurate than the Poles'.
When their infantry line formation reached about 30 meters from the breastwork on the east side of Zagazig Village, several gaps had already appeared in the Polish lines.
The number of Polish soldiers replenishing the ranks from behind was steadily dwindling.
From the nearby bell tower, a Polish captain lowered his telescope and anxiously reported to Lieutenant Colonel Lubinska, who was commanding the Zagazig Village defenses: "Colonel, at this rate of casualties, if we don't send in reinforcements, the line might... collapse."
Lieutenant Colonel Lubinska's brow furrowed deeply.
He knew his staff officer was right. However, those 300 soldiers were the last of his reserves.
Today was only the first day of the war.
If the reserves were also used up, he would have no choice but to abandon Zagazig Village. Yet, his mission was to hold the position for three days.
Lubinska took a deep breath and declared, "I believe in them."
The Russian barrage grew fiercer. In just over ten minutes, their elongated line formations, covering both the north and south sides of the village, had advanced to within roughly 25 meters of the Polish defenses.
"Don't be afraid!" Drasowitz's voice was hoarse, yet he still bellowed, "Our homeland is right behind us!"
He had remembered that line last month while listening to a speaker from the Bar Confederation.
He had actually heard much that day, but only that single sentence had stuck with him.
'Yes, my homeland is behind me, and more importantly, my son and daughter.'
'No invader will get past me.'
'Not unless I die.'
The surrounding recruits echoed his shouts: "Protect our homeland!"
"Fight them for the homeland!"
The Russian infantry line formation opened fire.
Instantly, twenty or thirty men fell from the Polish line.
But in the next moment, the Polish soldiers returned fire with a synchronized volley.
Although their marksmanship was inferior, the Russians also suffered nearly thirty casualties.
Though the breastwork was only slightly higher than an adult's waist, it still offered some protection. It was the Poles' only reliance.
The Russian commander was also loudly inspiring his men. Their numerically superior infantry line formation had successfully closed in on the Poles, and their own soldiers were of a higher caliber; there was no reason they couldn't breach this defense.
In just seven or eight minutes, both sides had exchanged dozens of volleys at close range.
Formations on both sides became ragged, and the intense firefight left them no time to deal with the dead, nor could their rear ranks easily replenish their numbers.
In the Russian command post behind the lines, General Morkov observed the Polish defenses through his telescope and told his staff officer, "Order the supply battalion to prepare. Zagazig Village will be ours shortly. We'll begin our attack on Maryce Town before half past two, and that will require a large amount of artillery shells."
He could clearly see that the defending Poles had suffered at least a fifth of their numbers. Even the mighty Russian army would falter with such heavy casualties, let alone the weakened Poles.
In truth, he was almost inclined to praise the Polish army. If it had been the Ottomans, they would have likely surrendered as soon as his infantry line formation closed to within 30 meters.
"Poor Poles," he chuckled, shaking his head. "How long can you last? Twenty minutes? Or will you hold out until Stepashin begins his attack?"
The fierce exchange of fire in front of Zagazig Village's defenses continued.
Polish soldiers continued to fall, and those still alive were breathless under the relentless Russian fire.
However, it was completely unlike Morkov's prediction.
This army, largely composed of recruits, might have been nervous, disoriented, or even scared, but not a single man wanted to flee.
Their souls had been tightly bound together by the concept of "the Polish nation."
This was not a collection of individuals; they were a part of Poland.
No one would dare to invade the homeland they cherished most!
Furthermore, with the conviction of the Crusader Holy War bolstering them, life and death at this moment were the least significant matters.
Their duty was to shed their last drop of blood for their great homeland, under the watchful eye of God.
Even if only one man remained standing behind that breastwork!
All the senior officers in Drasowitz's company had fallen. At this moment, mentally counting the drumbeats, he yelled, "Aim—"
No one questioned his command. The seventy-odd men around him simultaneously raised their flintlock muskets.
"Fire—"
Drasowitz's hoarse shout seemed to pierce through the battlefield, carrying dozens of lead bullets that slammed into the Russian line formation, tearing apart six men, including a drummer.
The Russian officer was stunned to realize that despite heavy casualties, the Poles showed no signs of faltering. Instead, some of his own men were beginning to shrink back.
Several Russian company commanders successively shot down six or seven retreating soldiers, finally stabilizing the situation.
Just then, a cold smile crept onto the Russian infantry commander's face. He heard the sound of hooves approaching from the northwest.
"Look, those bastards are scared!" Drasowitz noticed the retreating Russian soldiers and immediately shouted to rally his comrades.
But at that moment, someone on the left flank of the defense line suddenly cried out, "Cavalry! Watch out!"
The nearest infantry company commander of the Seventh Company turned to look, his heart instantly tightening. Over forty Cossack cavalrymen, under the cover of skirmishers, had secretly slipped past the northernmost end of the defense line.
And behind their lines, lay their own artillery position.
Yes, though there were only two cannons, they had been playing a crucial role.
In fact, they accounted for at least a quarter of the Russian casualties.
Drasowitz was merely a soldier; he wasn't privy to the thrilling diversions, feints, and clashes happening elsewhere on the battlefield. But he knew that while forty cavalrymen couldn't shake an infantry line, they could easily destroy those two cannons.
The commander of the Seventh Company drew his saber and yelled, "Follow me to protect the cannons! Only veterans, quickly!"
Drasowitz immediately ran toward him, waving to Janik: "You too!"
"Alright!"
The Seventh Company commander led over thirty veterans toward the artillery position. This was the maximum number of men he could pull from the line; any more, and the defense would collapse.
Drasowitz ran frantically, but despair washed over him. He remembered that only about ten guards had been left at the artillery position; by the time he arrived, the cannons would likely have already been destroyed by the Cossacks.
A quarter of an hour later, the Seventh Company commander and his men reached the artillery position, and a wave of relief washed over him as he saw the artillerists still loading and firing their cannons.
"Where are the enemy cavalry?" he shouted to the nearest gunner.
"They were stopped over there." The gunner raised a hand, pointing northeast.
The commander immediately saw a small group of men, about 150 meters away, fiercely engaging the Cossack cavalry from behind two dilapidated farmhouses.
No, the fighting there could no longer be called fierce. Too few men were holding back the cavalry; most had already been wiped out, and in a flash, only sporadic gunshots echoed from behind the farmhouses.
'Who's over there?' The commander frowned. He knew that the mere dozen or so soldiers guarding the artillery position could never have held off the Cossacks for so long.
The gunner lowered his head, picked up a cannonball, and ran toward the muzzle, his voice hushed: "It was Father Stasiak, and... the shoemakers and blacksmiths..."
Armies of this era could not do without these artisans for a single moment—they were invaluable skilled workers, constantly needed to repair boots and firearms for the troops.
There were twelve shoemakers and ten blacksmiths in Zagazig Village.
It was they, along with the priest, who had assisted the fourteen infantrymen here, using their own lives to stubbornly hold back the Russian cavalry for nearly twenty minutes.
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