The remnants of field gray uniforms converged into a determined torrent, surging down from the high ground. The gray tide violently crashed into the black tide. On the other flank, the motley crowd (of the International Brigades) mixed with a small handful of field gray (Morin’s platoon) also churned into the large wave of khaki (the Britannians). A fierce and bloody hand-to-hand combat had begun.
The commander of the International Brigades’ ‘Eastern Europa Brigade, 2nd Regiment, 1st Battalion’ clearly noticed the charge of Morin’s small group. They quickly maneuvered to link up with them, preventing Morin’s men from being instantly overwhelmed.
Before this, Morin never understood what a unit clad in heavy armor and wielding cold steel weapons could do on a bullet-ridden battlefield. Now, he knew.
He watched as the Britannian Iron Cans simply ignored the incoming rifle fire, slamming into the International Brigades’ formation, knocking the front-line soldiers head over heels. The massive longswords they wielded were clearly far superior to a rifle-mounted bayonet in close combat. With every swing of the sword, heads and limbs flew, as if nothing could stop these Iron Cans.
As for Morin, who had plunged into the enemy formation, he felt his blood boil. The splashing blood and the piercing screams around him seemed to act as his most effective stimulant, making him fight with increasing ferocity. He didn’t understand why this body was excited by the gruesome hand-to-hand combat, but this excitement was now the key to his survival in the melee.
The bayonet drill from the Saxon Military Academy and the melee techniques he had learned before his transmigration merged strangely in his mind.
An Royal Army soldier charged him with a strange cry, his bayonet aimed straight for Morin’s chest. Morin advanced instead of retreating, twisting his body slightly and raising his rifle in an ‘upward parry’, precisely knocking the enemy’s bayonet aside. The soldier, having lunged with too much force, was left wide open. Morin did not waste the opportunity. With a flick of his wrist, the sharp bayonet was driven deep into the soldier’s chest. He didn’t pause for a moment, kicking the corpse away, pulling out his bayonet, and then aiming and firing at an enemy soldier nearby.
“Bang!” The enemy fell.
Having killed two men in quick succession, Morin quickly attracted the enemy’s attention. Two more enemies charged him, intending to attack him jointly and give him no chance to parry. Seeing this, Morin sneered and drew the P08 pistol from his belt.
“Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”
The sound of dishonorable gunfire rang out, and both enemies fell. The times have changed, old man.
Relying on this ‘Combined ranged and melee attack’ routine, interspersed with shooting during the melee, Morin quickly took down several enemies, but he soon drew the attention of a more formidable target.
It was a Heavy Armored Soldier wielding a two-handed greatsword. He roared, his heavy footsteps causing the ground to faintly tremble, charging straight toward Morin. Morin fired several rounds, emptying his pistol magazine, but the bullets only left shallow dents on the enemy’s chest armor before harmlessly deflecting. It really can’t penetrate the armor! This seemingly enchanted heavy armor was completely immune to pistol fire at close range.
Morin dared not engage directly, relying on his superior agility to circle the Iron Can. He took a moment to aim, firing his Gew.98 rifle once at the enemy’s head. Although it did not penetrate the armor, the impact of the full-power round still left the enemy momentarily stunned. The Heavy Armored Soldier forced the distance closed and began to attack. His greatsword swings were wide and powerful, each cutting the air with a whistling sound, but the heavy equipment severely hampered his speed.
A bayonet clearly couldn’t parry a greatsword slash, so Morin could only grit his teeth and constantly dodge, searching for a weakness. Finally, when the enemy’s powerful horizontal slash missed, Morin seized the fleeting opportunity. He lunged forward, and the bayonet in his hand, like a viper, precisely slipped into the gap beneath the enemy’s armpit armor.
“Psshht!”
The sound of the bayonet entering flesh was clearly audible. The Heavy Armored Soldier let out a muffled groan, his movements freezing. Morin did not hesitate, taking one more step forward, pressing the muzzle of his Gew.98 rifle against the wound, and pulling the trigger.
“Bang!”
The point-blank rifle shot was dull and fatal. The 7.92mm bullet, following the wound torn open by the bayonet, plunged unimpeded into the Heavy Armored Soldier’s body. The massive body of the Iron Can trembled violently, then crashed to the ground with a loud clang of its heavy armor. Morin took no chances. He quickly reloaded his rifle and fired a follow-up shot at the enemy’s exposed neck before feeling safe.
Having eliminated this mortal threat, Morin didn’t even have time to catch his breath, immediately turning to engage in the fight elsewhere.
On the high ground, the battle situation had undergone a decisive change. The Royal Army soldiers, whose morale had been shattered by Morin’s previous machine gun fire, were already at their breaking point. Facing the counter-charge of the high-spirited 1st Battalion soldiers from the high ground, they were routed almost immediately. In hand-to-hand combat, they were no match for the well-trained Saxon soldiers, quickly being cut down and retreating again in a complete rout.
Major Thomas, having routed the enemy in front of him, keenly noticed that Morin’s position was struggling.
“All 1st Battalion, follow me! Support the left flank!” He made a snap decision, gathered his troops, and immediately charged toward the flank of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment.
With the main force of the 1st Battalion joining the fight, the pressure on Morin’s men, who had been at a distinct numerical disadvantage, instantly eased. The numerical disparity between the two sides rapidly closed. However, the combat resilience of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment soldiers far exceeded everyone’s expectations. Even when surrounded on three sides, these elite Britannian soldiers surprisingly did not break. They quickly compressed their formation, using the Heavy Armored Soldiers as their core, forming small defensive rings, stubbornly resisting the attacks coming from all directions. Bayonets clashed with longswords, rifle butts slammed against shields, occasionally interspersed with rifle fire.
The battlefield became a huge, bloody meat grinder, frantically devouring the lives of soldiers on both sides. Every second, someone fell.
Morin was fighting with reckless abandon. His hands gripped his rifle tightly, and every lunge of his bayonet was delivered with full force, aimed directly at the enemy’s vitals. Platoon Sergeant Klaus and Corporal Jonah fought with similar desperation, repeatedly driving their bayonets into enemy bodies with simple, direct thrusts.
The battle devolved into a strange stalemate. Although the Saxons and the International Brigades soldiers gradually gained a numerical advantage, they could not completely crush the stubborn Britannian unit.
Time dragged on. Morin felt his physical strength rapidly draining away. His arms were aching badly from repeated parrying and thrusting. He couldn’t understand why the Brigade Command, which had clearly dispatched two ‘Armored Knights’ to follow the 1st Battalion, had not sent these ‘elite units’ forward to provide support at this critical moment. What were they waiting for?
Just then, a hurried, dense sound of hooves, like rolling thunder, came from the other side of the high ground. Morin instinctively looked up toward the sound.
On the other side of the high ground, a Saxon Black Eagle banner was fluttering in the wind. Beneath the banner was a dense mass of cavalry. They wore field gray cavalry uniforms, metal spiked helmets, and held three-meter-long lances high in their hands.
The Saxon Empire Army’s 52nd Cavalry Regiment!
The Cavalry Regiment Commander, riding at the front, brought his lance down, the tip slicing a dazzling arc in the air.
“Charge—!”
At the command, hundreds of cavalrymen charged simultaneously. The earth trembled beneath their iron hooves, and the overwhelming momentum took everyone’s breath away.
The rear of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment’s 4th Battalion, which was locked in battle with the Saxon infantry and the International Brigades, was now completely exposed to this torrent. The defiance and resolve on the faces of these Britannian soldiers were finally replaced by terror and despair.
They tried to turn, to reorganize their defensive line, but it was too late. The wave of cavalry arrived in an instant.
The leading horsemen lowered their lances. The sharp tips, gleaming with a fatal coldness in the morning sun, easily pierced the bodies of the Britannian soldiers. The sheer impact lifted them high and slammed them heavily to the ground. Following riders wielded their sabers, striking down from above and taking lives as they crossed paths with the enemy.
Although many Heavy Armored Soldiers swung their greatswords, striking down Saxon cavalrymen along with their horses, they could only shatter the part of the tide directly in front of them, unable to stop the overwhelming spread of the whole force.
After the cavalry completed their first charge along a sweeping circular arc, the 4th Battalion of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment was suddenly bitten, like a target of a passing shark, and a massive gap appeared in their formation.
The final straw that broke the camel’s back had arrived. The line of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment’s 4th Battalion instantly crumbled under the cavalry charge.
(End of Chapter 34)
The remnants of field gray uniforms converged into a determined torrent, surging down from the high ground. The gray tide violently crashed into the black tide. On the other flank, the motley crowd (of the International Brigades) mixed with a small handful of field gray (Morin’s platoon) also churned into the large wave of khaki (the Britannians). A fierce and bloody hand-to-hand combat had begun.
The commander of the International Brigades’ ‘Eastern Europa Brigade, 2nd Regiment, 1st Battalion’ clearly noticed the charge of Morin’s small group. They quickly maneuvered to link up with them, preventing Morin’s men from being instantly overwhelmed.
Before this, Morin never understood what a unit clad in heavy armor and wielding cold steel weapons could do on a bullet-ridden battlefield. Now, he knew.
He watched as the Britannian Iron Cans simply ignored the incoming rifle fire, slamming into the International Brigades’ formation, knocking the front-line soldiers head over heels. The massive longswords they wielded were clearly far superior to a rifle-mounted bayonet in close combat. With every swing of the sword, heads and limbs flew, as if nothing could stop these Iron Cans.
As for Morin, who had plunged into the enemy formation, he felt his blood boil. The splashing blood and the piercing screams around him seemed to act as his most effective stimulant, making him fight with increasing ferocity. He didn’t understand why this body was excited by the gruesome hand-to-hand combat, but this excitement was now the key to his survival in the melee.
The bayonet drill from the Saxon Military Academy and the melee techniques he had learned before his transmigration merged strangely in his mind.
An Royal Army soldier charged him with a strange cry, his bayonet aimed straight for Morin’s chest. Morin advanced instead of retreating, twisting his body slightly and raising his rifle in an ‘upward parry’, precisely knocking the enemy’s bayonet aside. The soldier, having lunged with too much force, was left wide open. Morin did not waste the opportunity. With a flick of his wrist, the sharp bayonet was driven deep into the soldier’s chest. He didn’t pause for a moment, kicking the corpse away, pulling out his bayonet, and then aiming and firing at an enemy soldier nearby.
“Bang!” The enemy fell.
Having killed two men in quick succession, Morin quickly attracted the enemy’s attention. Two more enemies charged him, intending to attack him jointly and give him no chance to parry. Seeing this, Morin sneered and drew the P08 pistol from his belt.
“Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”
The sound of dishonorable gunfire rang out, and both enemies fell. The times have changed, old man.
Relying on this ‘Combined ranged and melee attack’ routine, interspersed with shooting during the melee, Morin quickly took down several enemies, but he soon drew the attention of a more formidable target.
It was a Heavy Armored Soldier wielding a two-handed greatsword. He roared, his heavy footsteps causing the ground to faintly tremble, charging straight toward Morin. Morin fired several rounds, emptying his pistol magazine, but the bullets only left shallow dents on the enemy’s chest armor before harmlessly deflecting. It really can’t penetrate the armor! This seemingly enchanted heavy armor was completely immune to pistol fire at close range.
Morin dared not engage directly, relying on his superior agility to circle the Iron Can. He took a moment to aim, firing his Gew.98 rifle once at the enemy’s head. Although it did not penetrate the armor, the impact of the full-power round still left the enemy momentarily stunned. The Heavy Armored Soldier forced the distance closed and began to attack. His greatsword swings were wide and powerful, each cutting the air with a whistling sound, but the heavy equipment severely hampered his speed.
A bayonet clearly couldn’t parry a greatsword slash, so Morin could only grit his teeth and constantly dodge, searching for a weakness. Finally, when the enemy’s powerful horizontal slash missed, Morin seized the fleeting opportunity. He lunged forward, and the bayonet in his hand, like a viper, precisely slipped into the gap beneath the enemy’s armpit armor.
“Psshht!”
The sound of the bayonet entering flesh was clearly audible. The Heavy Armored Soldier let out a muffled groan, his movements freezing. Morin did not hesitate, taking one more step forward, pressing the muzzle of his Gew.98 rifle against the wound, and pulling the trigger.
“Bang!”
The point-blank rifle shot was dull and fatal. The 7.92mm bullet, following the wound torn open by the bayonet, plunged unimpeded into the Heavy Armored Soldier’s body. The massive body of the Iron Can trembled violently, then crashed to the ground with a loud clang of its heavy armor. Morin took no chances. He quickly reloaded his rifle and fired a follow-up shot at the enemy’s exposed neck before feeling safe.
Having eliminated this mortal threat, Morin didn’t even have time to catch his breath, immediately turning to engage in the fight elsewhere.
On the high ground, the battle situation had undergone a decisive change. The Royal Army soldiers, whose morale had been shattered by Morin’s previous machine gun fire, were already at their breaking point. Facing the counter-charge of the high-spirited 1st Battalion soldiers from the high ground, they were routed almost immediately. In hand-to-hand combat, they were no match for the well-trained Saxon soldiers, quickly being cut down and retreating again in a complete rout.
Major Thomas, having routed the enemy in front of him, keenly noticed that Morin’s position was struggling.
“All 1st Battalion, follow me! Support the left flank!” He made a snap decision, gathered his troops, and immediately charged toward the flank of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment.
With the main force of the 1st Battalion joining the fight, the pressure on Morin’s men, who had been at a distinct numerical disadvantage, instantly eased. The numerical disparity between the two sides rapidly closed. However, the combat resilience of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment soldiers far exceeded everyone’s expectations. Even when surrounded on three sides, these elite Britannian soldiers surprisingly did not break. They quickly compressed their formation, using the Heavy Armored Soldiers as their core, forming small defensive rings, stubbornly resisting the attacks coming from all directions. Bayonets clashed with longswords, rifle butts slammed against shields, occasionally interspersed with rifle fire.
The battlefield became a huge, bloody meat grinder, frantically devouring the lives of soldiers on both sides. Every second, someone fell.
Morin was fighting with reckless abandon. His hands gripped his rifle tightly, and every lunge of his bayonet was delivered with full force, aimed directly at the enemy’s vitals. Platoon Sergeant Klaus and Corporal Jonah fought with similar desperation, repeatedly driving their bayonets into enemy bodies with simple, direct thrusts.
The battle devolved into a strange stalemate. Although the Saxons and the International Brigades soldiers gradually gained a numerical advantage, they could not completely crush the stubborn Britannian unit.
Time dragged on. Morin felt his physical strength rapidly draining away. His arms were aching badly from repeated parrying and thrusting. He couldn’t understand why the Brigade Command, which had clearly dispatched two ‘Armored Knights’ to follow the 1st Battalion, had not sent these ‘elite units’ forward to provide support at this critical moment. What were they waiting for?
Just then, a hurried, dense sound of hooves, like rolling thunder, came from the other side of the high ground. Morin instinctively looked up toward the sound.
On the other side of the high ground, a Saxon Black Eagle banner was fluttering in the wind. Beneath the banner was a dense mass of cavalry. They wore field gray cavalry uniforms, metal spiked helmets, and held three-meter-long lances high in their hands.
The Saxon Empire Army’s 52nd Cavalry Regiment!
The Cavalry Regiment Commander, riding at the front, brought his lance down, the tip slicing a dazzling arc in the air.
“Charge—!”
At the command, hundreds of cavalrymen charged simultaneously. The earth trembled beneath their iron hooves, and the overwhelming momentum took everyone’s breath away.
The rear of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment’s 4th Battalion, which was locked in battle with the Saxon infantry and the International Brigades, was now completely exposed to this torrent. The defiance and resolve on the faces of these Britannian soldiers were finally replaced by terror and despair.
They tried to turn, to reorganize their defensive line, but it was too late. The wave of cavalry arrived in an instant.
The leading horsemen lowered their lances. The sharp tips, gleaming with a fatal coldness in the morning sun, easily pierced the bodies of the Britannian soldiers. The sheer impact lifted them high and slammed them heavily to the ground. Following riders wielded their sabers, striking down from above and taking lives as they crossed paths with the enemy.
Although many Heavy Armored Soldiers swung their greatswords, striking down Saxon cavalrymen along with their horses, they could only shatter the part of the tide directly in front of them, unable to stop the overwhelming spread of the whole force.
After the cavalry completed their first charge along a sweeping circular arc, the 4th Battalion of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment was suddenly bitten, like a target of a passing shark, and a massive gap appeared in their formation.
The final straw that broke the camel’s back had arrived. The line of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment’s 4th Battalion instantly crumbled under the cavalry charge.
(End of Chapter 34)