Chapter 147 - Death and Honor Are Not the Same (11)
Ernest met Bailey's eyes for a moment, then slowly walked over and joined the command post.
"If we distill even the horses' blood, we'll be able to secure enough water to last until tomorrow evening."
Ernest spoke in a low, even voice.
Outwardly, he addressed Bailey, who was, at least in name, the Supreme Commander, but in reality, he was speaking just as much to Ferdinand, Andersen, and Hans.
Bailey had been so completely checked out, lingering at the back all this time, that he had no idea what was going on.
At this point, anything Bailey tried to do would only get in the way.
"…"
As soon as Ernest finished, a suffocating silence filled the gap.
The soldiers held their breath too, leaving only the crackling of the campfire to be heard.
"Where are Count Lafayette and the Royal Flag?"
Bailey finally spoke, and as everyone exchanged uneasy glances, only Andersen let out a deep sigh and wiped his face.
"Battalion Commander Sir, we're completely cut off here in the middle of enemy territory. We're struggling just to find water to drink."
Strictly speaking, 3rd Company Commander Andersen, who had been in the service longer than Section Chief Captain Hans Schum, spoke up on everyone's behalf.
"And besides, there's no way Count Lafayette would personally risk everything by appearing with the Royal Flag in such a dangerous, even advantageous, situation, is there?"
"Captain Kissinger."
Andersen's tone, despite his smooth manner, was rather confrontational, causing Hans to shoot him a warning look.
But Andersen had only spoken what had to be said, so there was no further reprimand.
"First, let me report on the status of our unit."
As the Operations Section Chief and head of the battalion staff, Hans tried to quell the rising tension in the air by starting to report their current situation to Bailey in detail.
The 1st Battalion had suffered significant losses in the recent battle.
The number of casualties was only around twenty, but their combat capability had plummeted after using up Balt Batteries so recklessly.
Even if they managed to seize more bullets from the enemy's supplies, without Balt Batteries, it was all useless.
Now, even if they scraped together every last remaining Balt Battery, it would barely be enough to power a single Baltracher.
They had already fought three battles in just one day—once outside the forest, once after falling into a trap, and once just now.
In fact, during the most recent fight, they had purposely wasted more Balt in order to prevent Bertrand from achieving his strategic objective.
Although the Empire had recently started supplying them with more batteries, they never had enough to fight three battles in a row and still have leftovers like this.
Technically, they did start out with more, but the rest had been left behind on the plain when they had to follow Bailey's order to charge.
It was maddening.
They had seized food from the enemy and still had horses they could slaughter, so there was no shortage of rations.
But water was so desperately scarce that they were even distilling urine to drink.
The number of wounded kept increasing, making everyone's bodies feel heavier, and as time passed, exhaustion set in faster and faster.
Now, even if they wanted to move, they simply didn't have the strength to do so quickly.
No, trying to move would just burn up what little energy they had and make them sweat.
Marching through the forest during this sweltering summer was no easy feat.
Sweat would pour out like rain.
And the more they sweated, the more water they would need.
At this point, just moving at all had become nearly impossible for the 1st Battalion.
Despite everything, the 1st Battalion was actually in a better situation than initially expected.
They hadn't even had enough water to get through the day, but now they had enough to last until tomorrow evening.
They had ample food, spirits were high after securing a hard-fought victory, and morale had risen.
Most importantly, just as the 1st Battalion had used up their Balt Batteries, so too had the Belliang Army under Bertrand's command.
The Star of Summer, who walked right into the trap Ernest had set, had burned through an immense amount of Balt, and the Belliang Army sent in to rescue her had used up even more.
By now, even if they wanted to use more Balt Batteries, they'd barely have any left.
In the end, neither side was able to destroy the other, and both withdrew.
But now, the total amount of Balt left on the battlefield had been drastically reduced, which meant that even if Bertrand managed to defeat the 1st Battalion, he wouldn't have enough Balt Batteries left to wage battle against the 13th Regiment.
In other words, a critical flaw had just been introduced into Bertrand's plan for Belliang's revival.
Now, even if the 1st Battalion were to surrender and hand over all their Balt Batteries, Bertrand would still have trouble fighting the 13th Regiment.
The fact that a single battalion, isolated deep within enemy forest, had managed through a series of small-scale engagements to block the resurrection of an entire nation was nothing short of astonishing!
And all of this had been accomplished by the 1st Battalion without their Battalion Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Bailey Hoffman.
"This was my doing."
After hearing the report, Bailey—who had sat in silence for a long while, his face twisted in agony as if about to explode—let out a growl in a wounded beast's voice.
If you only heard his words, you might have thought he was trying to shoulder the blame, but unfortunately, that wasn't the case.
"It was me who fought Count Lafayette, chased him down, and decided to stand and fight here in this forest without retreating. All of it."
Bailey wasn't trying to take responsibility—he was trying to claim the credit.
More precisely, he was desperately scraping together achievements to convince himself that he wasn't useless to the 1st Battalion, where everything seemed to run more smoothly since his absence.
Responsibility and authority always go hand in hand.
If you take responsibility, you gain authority; if you gain authority, you must also take responsibility.
However, right now, Bailey was refusing responsibility but trying to claim only the rights.
As a soldier, a noble, an adult, and even as a man, this was an act of cowardice that should never be committed.
Some clearly had a lot to say, but held their tongues.
Others were on the verge of snapping and confronting Bailey, their superior, but, sensing the mood, restrained themselves.
After all, Bailey was still the Battalion Commander of the 1st Battalion.
Since he was the commanding officer, they had no choice but to endure, even if it rubbed them the wrong way.
Besides, if someone recklessly picked a fight with Bailey now, he might throw a fit and the situation—which had only just been brought under control—could get worse.
"We're short on water, so I won't be issuing rations to the wounded."
"…Yes, sir."
As no one challenged his orders, Bailey resumed command of the 1st Battalion as Battalion Commander.
He started by restricting water rations for the wounded.
Given the dire circumstances, it was a reasonable order.
Everyone showed obvious reluctance, but nevertheless, they acknowledged and obeyed.
"In addition, meals will be strictly rationed.
Eating food causes thirst for water. Make sure the soldiers don't start overeating and demanding more."
"Yes, sir."
Bailey began to lead the 1st Battalion with basic, common sense orders.
Though he'd made a string of mistakes under mounting mental pressure, the truth was that, when assigned to a post, Bailey was a commander who could turn even an untrained rabble into elite soldiers.
Turning a unit into elites isn't something you can achieve by simply increasing the amount of training.
Bailey was a capable man, well-versed in both knowledge and experience.
"Concentrate the Balt Battery on the Baltracher with the highest efficiency, and have the soldiers arm themselves with the powder guns abandoned by the enemy."
"To block the Star of Summer, we need at least three Baltrachers."
"If the enemy is determined to attack, we lack enough Balt Battery to hold them off anyway. I'd rather have at least one Baltracher used to its full potential."
"Yes, sir."
"Section Chief, conduct training for handling the powder guns as soon as possible."
"Yes, Battalion Commander Sir."
"What about reconnaissance and security in the surrounding area?"
"Currently, 2nd Company is on duty under Captain Krieger's command."
"..."
Bailey, who had been giving orders smoothly, froze the moment Ernest was mentioned.
He slowly turned his head to look at Ernest.
Everyone glanced back and forth between Ernest and Bailey, faces tense and expressionless.
"Give a report on the current terrain and troop dispositions."
With a piercing glare fixed on Ernest, Bailey spoke—remarkably calm and not erupting in anger.
"…Yes, Battalion Commander Sir."
Within Bailey's gaze, Ernest could see the flames of hatred and resentment burning.
At that moment, Bailey needed someone to blame to escape the miserable reality, and there was no one more suitable than Ernest—the person Bailey had arbitrarily chosen to keep opposing all this time.
But Bailey had now come to the painful realization that he simply couldn't do without Ernest, and knew that acting on his feelings here would do no good.
So he was doing his utmost to remain as cool-headed as possible.
In response, Ernest also didn't let emotions dictate his behavior and reported only as a Company Commander should.
Relying on the light from the campfire, Ernest used charcoal made by boiling urine to meticulously sketch the surrounding terrain in his notebook.
He marked troop positions atop the map, drew in the enemy's likely routes of advance, and the directions for the lookouts—then even reported the schedule for changing sentries.
"..."
Bailey silently looked at the map Ernest had drawn, listening as he spoke.
There wasn't a single flaw to be found.
If he had to point out one fault regardless, it would be that Captain Ernest Krieger of the 2nd Company had acted independently without reporting, carrying out matters outside the authority granted to him.
Security is the most important operation in a nighttime battle—it's no exaggeration to say so.
It requires the most thorough, meticulous planning and execution.
Yet Ernest had done it on his own.
"…Understood."
Bailey closed his eyes and took a deep breath, speaking those words as he struggled to control his anger.
Given the situation, with everyone busy to the point of dropping, Ernest hadn't done anything wrong—he had simply found work that needed doing and carried out the security operation perfectly.
What's more, Ernest's 2nd Company had fought hardest and longest in the most dangerous part of the battle, seized enemy supplies through reconnaissance, and now were even taking on sentry duties.
Honestly, if you were human, you couldn't possibly criticize Ernest at this point.
No, even if you were some kind of brute animal, out of pure gratitude you'd be moved to tears, roll over before Ernest, and show your belly.
With that in mind, the fact that Bailey didn't scold Ernest but also didn't offer praise was really rather petty.
Still, with the Battalion Commander himself finally stepping up to take direct command, several problems quickly began to be resolved.
Although Ferdinand was effectively commanding the unit, he was, after all, just a seventeen-year-old Company Commander.
Honestly, you had to wonder if he was really only seventeen, because when discussions touched on anything beyond his authority, he was so inflexible it made you want to drill a hole in his head just to get the blood circulating.
Truthfully, Hans, the Section Chief, should have been the one taking command in Bailey's stead.
But Hans simply wasn't the kind of man with the resolve to make firm decisions in moments like this.
So, certain issues kept going in circles among the officers, never getting resolved—until Battalion Commander Bailey tackled them head-on with decisive authority.
Most of the officers felt deeply reassured, convinced that Bailey had finally come to his senses.
It seemed like there was no longer any need for unnecessary worry.
"Battalion Commander Sir, I think it'd be best to clarify our operational goal," Andersen suggested cautiously.
He'd been silent after his earlier confrontational remark but finally spoke up again, watching Bailey with an inscrutable look in his eyes.
"We've already prevented Count Lafayette from achieving his objective."
Breaking the silence, Andersen spoke bluntly, a clear change from his usual sly evasiveness.
As the most senior officer aside from Bailey within the 1st Battalion, he had decided to take the lead and address the issue directly.
"There's no need for any further fighting, is there? Now would be the time to withdraw."
"Can we withdraw? After all this?"
Because Andersen spoke up, Bailey, instead of flying into a rage or drawing his pistol, simply threw the question back at him. Even if the situation had turned around, the 1st Battalion was still isolated deep within enemy woods. If they wanted to leave, they'd have to get Bertrand's permission.
"Yes. I believe Count Lafayette knows as well that any further fighting would be pointless."
"So what then? Do you really think he'll just let us go? After we've completely ruined his operation?"
"Even if he's angry, if we appeal to reason…"
"Reason with him?"
The mood changed in an instant.
Bailey glared at Andersen, his face twisted with fury. Andersen paused for a moment, but instead of backing down, he met Bailey's gaze with his chin raised, speaking in a heavy voice.
"Yes, fighting any further would only bring more losses, so if we enter negotiations and both sides withdraw…"
"Negotiations! How dare you!"
"Battalion Commander Sir!"
"The Empire does not negotiate with the enemy! The only way we end this battle is by fighting and winning by the authority of His Majesty the Emperor!"
At last, Bailey snapped. He drew his pistol and pointed it at Andersen, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Had Hans not rushed forward and grabbed Bailey's arm before he could raise it, something—whether it was an accident or an incident—would surely have happened.
Andersen looked calmly around the room. The staff officers and soldiers looked lost, and the young Company Commanders, barely seventeen years old, were shouldering the weight of the entire battalion.
"A flag is just a flag. It's not as if something miraculous will happen just because we seize it."
"What…!"
"In the same way, being bestowed the battalion flag once more isn't such a big deal. After all, it's just a piece of cloth."
Andersen spoke up boldly and took responsibility for his words. As Andersen dismissed the value of honor and glory themselves, not only Bailey but all the other officers and soldiers were left stunned.
As everyone stared at him, Andersen shrugged his broad shoulders a bit awkwardly, clearly feeling some discomfort under the weight of so many eyes.
"And besides, if we survive and return, and tell them how we thwarted Count Lafayette's plan, the higher-ups will surely recognize our efforts, don't you think? If we all die here, it'll just go down in the records as us being lured into the forest by the enemy and wiped out."
Bailey could only open and close his mouth without a word, having nothing to say against Andersen's utterly reasonable point.
"If we just make it back alive and explain the situation properly, the higher-ups will no doubt acknowledge our achievement. They might even give us the battalion flag back. Honestly, though, instead of any damn flag, I'd rather be promoted to major already."
Having been on the verge of promotion when the war broke out, only to be reassigned as a company commander and forced to endure all this chaos on the battlefield as a captain, Andersen Kissinger's words rang honest and bittersweet.
Bailey's grip on his pistol loosened.
"Battalion Commander Sir, for now, I think we should distribute water and get some rest. Everyone's completely exhausted," Hans said softly, still holding Bailey's arm. Bailey squeezed his eyes shut, torn, and finally took his finger off the trigger.
"Let go."
"I'm sorry."
At Bailey's words, Hans released his arm and stepped back With trembling hands, Bailey holstered his pistol and pretended to wipe his face, as if to hide himself.
"...Do as you said."
"Yes, sir."
The moment Bailey spoke, Hans answered and signaled to the officers.
Though anxiety was written all over their faces, everyone dispersed to attend to their duties, given the state of things.
First and foremost, water distribution took priority. No one wanted to drink the water distilled from urine, so naturally, the water seized from the Belliang Army's supplies was handed out first.
"Move! I was here first!"
"Get lost!"
Everyone scrambled, desperate to get the clean water first. Despite the chaos, the noble officers and non-commissioned officers exercised their privilege, receiving water before anyone else and watching the madness unfold from a step away.
"We'll give out the remaining water later to those who get their rations last!"
"...But anything's better than urine!"
"Well... still, survival comes first, right..."
Eventually, the situation settled only after promising that those who made the noble sacrifice would be rewarded.
The bastards who ended up drinking the distilled urine were given a larger share than the others.
After receiving his share of water first, Ernest ran straight to where the wounded were gathered.
"Georg."
"..."
"Georg, it's me, Ernest."
"…Ah… um… Ernest…"
Georg, who had been shot, responded to Ernest's voice with shallow, ragged breaths.
For a moment, he blinked in confusion, then managed a faint smile, his face drenched with sweat.
"Ferdinand just brought me some water. I'm okay."
Water distribution for the wounded was severely restricted.
Just being injured made life almost unbearable, but without water, it really wouldn't take long for them to die.
That's why Ernest rushed over to Georg as soon as he got his water.
But Ferdinand—who had received his water before Ernest—had already beaten him to it.
"..."
"What's wrong?"
Instead of relaxing or smiling at those words, Ernest's expression turned serious.
He placed a hand on Georg's forehead, lifted his eyelid to check his eyes, and then pressed his fingers to Georg's neck to check his pulse.
Georg flailed his hands in confusion, and when Ernest's hand finally withdrew, he stared at him in a daze, as if something incredibly strange had just happened to him.
"…No, it's fine. But you're sweating so much—you really should have another sip."
"Forget it. You guys who can still fight need it more than I do."
"Would you please just do as I say and drink some?"
"…"
Georg was genuinely afraid of what Ernest might do if he refused when Ernest was still speaking so kindly, so he had no choice but to take just a single sip of water.
"It may be summer, but the nights are cold. Let me move you closer to the campfire."
"No, I can manage on my own…"
"Let's just do this the easy way, okay? Stay still."
"…"
Ernest carefully helped Georg over to the campfire, and Georg grumbled under his breath.
While they were at it, Robert and Baumann, who received their water rations later than Ernest and Ferdinand because they were lowly second lieutenants, came over holding their waterskins.
"That's enough. Really, I've already had two sips. Stop it."
Georg was quick to refuse the water. After chatting with Georg for a short while, the others left to tend to their tasks. Since Georg didn't seem to be in bad shape, Robert and Baumann felt a little relieved.
"Georg's condition is really bad."
"What?"
But once Ernest was out of earshot from Georg, he spoke in a low, somber voice.
"It took only a few minutes from when Ferdinand gave him water until I got there, but in that short time, he lost consciousness. He even momentarily lost track of time."
With a heavy heart, Ernest shared with his friends what he had deduced from the brief pause before Georg responded to his words, and how he had looked in that moment.
"Maybe he was just tired and dozed off, that's all?"
Baumann, who was usually calm and composed, grabbed Ernest's arm in desperation and asked almost pleadingly. Ernest's face twisted as he denied Baumann's hopeful guess.
"He has a high fever, his pulse is rapid, and his breathing is quick and shallow."
With those words, Baumann's face crumpled in despair—he had enough medical knowledge from the Military Academy to understand what that meant.
"I-It could just be a cold, right? Couldn't it?"
Baumann clung to denial, struggling to reject the grim reality. But if you catch a cold with a gunshot wound like Georg's, and are left untreated in these harsh conditions, all that awaits you is death. Still, a simple cold would almost be preferable.
"I think the wound's become infected"
"..."
Ernest spoke painfully. When someone dies from injuries sustained in battle, if they don't bleed out on the field, then it's almost always due to infection of the wound.
Georg was injured just this afternoon. For signs of infection to appear this quickly meant his condition was extremely serious.
"If it's sepsis, he needs to be treated by a First-Class Baltracher right now."
What Ernest said was essentially no different from pronouncing his friend's death sentence.
If a wound gets infected and sepsis sets in—and for symptoms to develop this fast—even a First-Class Baltracher would see more than a fifty percent mortality rate. If you don't get treated by a Baltracher, you're as good as dead. Even if by some miracle you manage to hold on for now, with sepsis, you'll only suffer as you waste away before dying.
"No. No way. That can't be true."
Baumann clung to Ernest, powerless to do anything, mumbling in disbelief.
"Calm down, Baumann. Ernest always considers the worst-case scenario, doesn't he? Besides, it's not like getting shot could lead to anything less than this. Right? Yeah?"
"…Yeah."
As Robert tried to calm Baumann and shot a glance at Ernest, Ernest just lowered his head and stared helplessly at the dark ground as he answered. Supporting the nearly-collapsing Baumann, Robert gave Ernest a slight nod—a subtle signal to stop talking and just go. Robert's eyes, wordlessly pleading with Ernest, looked ready to spill over with tears at any moment, and Ernest was no different.
Ernest carried out his duties as Company Commander as if nothing had happened.
Then, wanting to give his exhausted body a bit of rest, he started to walk towards the campfire—only to stop dead in his tracks.
"…"
Between the campfires, in the darkness filled only with the snores of soldiers sleeping as if they'd dropped from sheer exhaustion, Ernest stood motionless, head bowed, staring blankly at the ground. His hand moved slowly, reaching into his pocket for the cigarette box.
Click.
Even after opening the box, he couldn't see anything in the darkness. Ernest fumbled with his fingertips among the cigarettes packed inside, took one out, and, with his eyes shut, ran his fingers over the horseshoe embroidered on Yurgen's handkerchief before closing the box. Holding the cigarette, he walked over to the campfire, fixed his gaze on the flames, and then threw the cigarette into the fire.
"Damn it."
Not a soul paid heed to the lonely muttering of the young man.