“At this rate of consumption, we can withstand one more general assault of equal scale from the Gauls at most.”
The Quartermaster’s face was also grim, and he added worriedly: “At that point, we’ll have no choice but to fight them with bayonets.”
The atmosphere in the temporary Battalion Headquarters imdiately beca heavy. Kleist and Manstein were silent, unable to think of any solution. Morin stared at the military map spread out on the table, his mind working at lightning speed.
It was impossible to retreat at this stage; their mission was to hold the Gallic main force here. Even if he wanted to pursue the matter with Ludendorff and von Bulow, it would have to wait until after this battle was over. Therefore, he had to find a way to solve the ammunition problem and continue the fight.
He glanced at the movents of friendly forces on the system map. The large blue arrow representing the main force of the ‘Ludendorff Battle Group’ had ford a semi-encirclent around the reinforcing Grand Duchy of Flanders Fifth Infantry Division. The battle was extrely fierce, with unit tokens from both sides constantly colliding and disappearing on the map.
From the battle situation, the Ludendorff Battle Group held a decisive advantage, but the Grand Duchy of Flanders soldiers, fighting to defend their own country, also had a huge morale bonus. In the world before he crossed over, these troops, once called ‘Chocolate Soldiers,’ still managed to bloody the German Army’s nose several tis.
“It’s clear Ludendorff intends to use his two-to-one nurical superiority to annihilate these thirty-five thousand n in one go,” Morin calculated. As long as Ludendorff could resolve the enemy there quickly, he could spare troops to support Charleroi.
But the question was, how quick was ‘quickly’? A day? Or two days?
They couldn’t wait that long. A new idea surfaced in Morin’s mind, making him realize once again that his own thinking was indeed becoming rigid.
“Summon the Logistics Officer in charge of the Military Trucks for ,” Morin told a Dispatch Rider at the Battalion Headquarters.
Soon, the officer in charge of managing the Radiant Crystal Truck convoy hurried over to the command post.
“Battalion Commander!”
“Imdiately organize n and select a third of the Military Trucks in the best condition. Clear out the cargo beds.” Morin pointed to the map, speaking with a serious tone: “I need you to personally lead the convoy and return to the rear of the Battle Group to haul a batch of ammunition back for us.”
The Logistics Officer was taken aback, a look of difficulty crossing his face. “Battalion Commander, return now? We are completely unfamiliar with the situation outside the city. What if we encounter Grand Duchy of Flanders cavalry or patrols?”
“Give your map. Follow the route I draw for you; it will be absolutely safe.” Morin interrupted him. He took the map handed to him by the officer, picked up a pencil, and drew a route on the Logistics Officer’s map based on the real-ti situation shown on the system map.
This route perfectly avoided all known and potential enemy activity areas. Only he, with his god-like perspective, could have planned it. The Logistics Officer looked at the strange route on the map, and although filled with doubt, he chose to obey the order.
“Yes! I will go prepare imdiately!”
Morin then quickly walked over to the desk, picked up a paper and pen, quickly wrote a short note, sealed it with wax, and handed it to the Logistics Officer.
“Hand this personally to General Ludendorff, or give it to any senior officer you can find, preferably a Chief of Staff, to relay it.”
“Tell them that the situation in Charleroi is much more severe than they imagine.”
“Yes!” The Logistics Officer solemnly accepted the letter and turned to leave. To ensure absolute certainty, Morin also sent out several of his most capable Dispatch Riders, ordering them to ride ahead of the convoy to scout and deal with any possible unexpected events.
With a roar of engines, the hastily organized small convoy, led by several cavalryn, quietly drove out of South Charleroi, disappearing down the road in the distance.
Just as Morin’s supply convoy quietly set out, the atmosphere in the temporary Division Headquarters of the Gallic Army Ninth Infantry Division was even more oppressive than at the Instruction Assault Battalion.
Division Commander General Jean-Clént Fournier sat in his chair, his face ashen, his eyes bloodshot. Scattered on the table in front of him were several battle reports that had just been sent back from the front line. The staff officers were all dejected, standing by and not daring to breathe. A deadly silence perated the command post, broken only by General Fournier’s heavy breathing.
Half an hour ago, when the second wave of attack forces retreated from Charleroi City in disarray, General Fournier could hardly believe the news he was hearing. Eight infantry battalions, a force of over eight thousand n, had advanced with such confidence, aiming to punch through the Saxon’s perceived weak defense. Yet, when they retreated, only less than five thousand n remained, all demoralized, having lost their helts and gear, and completely lacking the courage to fight again.
Now, the detailed casualty report lay before him.
“The second wave of attack forces suffered approximately 3,900 killed, missing, and severely wounded… More detailed figures are still being tallied,” the Chief of Staff stood aside, reading the numbers on the report in a dry voice. With every word, General Fournier’s face grew darker.
“Most battalion and company-level officers are either dead or wounded. The formations of multiple units have been completely broken…”
“Enough! Stop reading!” General Fournier slamd his fist onto the table and stood up abruptly. He glared fiercely at his Chief of Staff and the other staff officers, like a wounded lion.
“Tell ! What the hell is going on! Why did this happen! In less than a day… in less than a day! My entire organized infantry division is on the verge of being crippled!” His roar echoed through the headquarters, making everyone’s ears ring.
The staff officers were terrified into silence. No one dared to cross him at this mont. They also wanted to know why this had happened.
Before the war, everyone thought this would be an easy battle. The number of Saxons in the city was unknown, but it certainly couldn’t be many. Even if they were well-equipped, they should have been easily defeated by the Ninth Division’s absolute nurical advantage.
But reality had slapped them soundly across the face.
“General…” The Chief of Staff hesitated for a mont, then reluctantly spoke: “We severely underestimated the enemy’s firepower and their bizarre defensive fortifications. Their tactics… completely exceeded our expectations.”
“Tactics?” General Fournier sneered. “You call that tactics? Hiding in the city and sniping, laying those despicable traps! That is the act of a coward!”
Despite his words, a sense of doubt about the ‘Offensive Doctrine’ he had always believed in arose in his heart for the first ti. Were courage and bayonets truly effective against the enemy’s storm of steel?
Before long, new information reached the headquarters, adding insult to injury for General Fournier. The Field Hospital had completely collapsed. The number of wounded delivered today alone had entirely overwheld the hospital’s capacity. All the military doctors and nurses, who were temporarily conscripted after the war began, were working non-stop, yet could only treat a small fraction of the severely wounded. dical supplies, gauze, and bandages had reached the red line. A large number of wounded n, unable to receive tily care, were dying in batches due to their injuries worsening. The head of the hospital pleaded with the Division Headquarters, in a voice bordering on despair, to stop sending any more wounded.
General Fournier completely broke down upon hearing this news. This battle could no longer continue. The soldiers’ morale had plumted, junior officers were decimated, and the logistical and dical systems were entirely paralyzed. He dared not imagine what would happen when the soldiers who were still desperately holding the line learned that there was no longer any hope of treating the wounded in the rear.
“Stop… stop all offensives.” Fournier’s voice was weak, as if it could be blown away by a gust of wind. “Order all units to hold the urban area they have already taken, regroup the scattered troops, and treat the wounded.”
He waved his hand, as if using all his remaining strength. “Send a telegram to the Third Corps Headquarters. I need support…” After saying this, he closed his eyes, unwilling to speak another word.
Sha, regret, despair… All kinds of emotions intertwined in his heart, causing him intense suffering. He couldn’t understand why his entire organized division had been so utterly shattered beneath a small city like Charleroi.
With General Fournier’s order issued, the Ninth Division’s offensive completely stopped. Throughout the afternoon and evening, South Charleroi fell into an eerie calm. Only sporadic gunshots occasionally rang out outside the city, and the sounds of agonizing groans, emanating from unknown sources, echoed in the silent night.
The sentries of the Instruction Assault Battalion monitored the enemy’s movents closely from their positions. They watched all night, but there was no sign of the Gauls launching a night attack. This rare period of tranquility provided the exhausted soldiers with precious ti to rest.
And in the temporary Battalion Headquarters, Morin continued to monitor the system map. As he watched the unit token representing the supply convoy successfully arrive at the rear of the ‘Ludendorff Battle Group’ at midnight, the extre tension that had been gripping him finally eased, and he let out a long, audible sigh.
August 11th, Morning.
The sun rose, casting a golden light upon the war-torn city of Charleroi, yet it brought no warmth. As the temperature gradually increased, an indescribable, foul stench began to drift from the streets of the South City, quickly pervading the entire urban area.
“Ugh…” A young soldier, eating black bread for breakfast behind a sandbag barricade, felt his stomach churn at the sll. He couldn’t hold it back and violently dry-retched while clutching the wall.
“What is that sll? It’s so strong!” his veteran comrade cursed, tearing off a piece of cloth, wetting it with water from his canteen, and covering his mouth and nose. The other soldiers on the line followed suit, using whatever they could find to cover their mouths and noses, attempting to ward off the pervasive stench.
Even Morin slled the odor in the temporary Battalion Headquarters. He frowned, instantly understanding.
It was the sll of decaying corpses.
(End of this Chapter)
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