Chapter 148 - Death and Honor Are Not the Same (12)
"…How?"
That was Bertrand's first word after hearing the report—a question he managed to utter only after a long silence, unable to comprehend the situation even with his sharp mind. He understood why they had lost. But he just couldn't grasp how it had happened.
"…I'm sorry."
"Spare me the apologies. Just tell me how the enemy managed to pull it off. Was there a missing report somewhere along the line?"
"I'm truly sorry. I don't know."
"I told you apologies aren't what I want. Just speak up, quickly."
Bertrand couldn't accept the situation at all, and, forcing a dry laugh, pressed the Commander again and again, but all he heard was "I'm sorry" and "I don't know."
"Your Excellency, what's done is done."
Unable to watch this any longer, Jade finally spoke to Bertrand.
"I know, I know what's done is done, but…"
Bertrand thought Jade must not have understood the situation, so he tried to explain it to him—but the words caught in his throat.
The plan had collapsed right from the outset.
Now, even if Bertrand's Army pooled all their remaining Balt Batteries with what the 1st Battalion had, they still couldn't take on the 13th Regiment surrounding Lanosel.
No, to be precise, they didn't even have enough Balt Batteries left to support a small skirmish!
Bertrand had failed.
The clarion call meant to announce the revival of Belliang had been snapped and trampled into the dirt.
Belliang was about to be crushed beneath the boots of the Empire.
In truth, no matter how well Bertrand fought, he could never revive Belliang on his own.
That was why the battles with the 1st Battalion, the 13th Regiment, and the support units that would follow were so vitally important.
Bertrand needed to win those engagements one by one, to prove that victory was still possible—not just to the people of Belliang, but to the Alliance Army, including Konchanya.
Konchanya, having already decided Belliang was beyond saving, had abandoned any thought of support.
It would have been better if they'd helped back when they were holding the Empire at bay in Bertagne Forest, but they'd only hesitated, and things had come to this.
However, if Bertrand could show extraordinary results against the 5th Division here and somehow get word of it to the Konchanya Rangers stationed in the Bertebras Mountains, there was still a chance of securing support from the Konchanya Army, even now.
Bertrand had been confident.
While the quality of the Konchanya ground forces might be lacking, with enough soldiers and supplies, he believed his strategies could drive back the Empire, who were fighting a two-front war against the Alliance Army.
In fact, the plan had been perfect: he'd succeeded in luring the 13th Regiment to Lanosel, and in leading the 1st Battalion into the forest and isolating them.
But then, because of a single, small-scale skirmish—which had resulted in just seventy casualties between both sides, something he hadn't even considered when crafting his strategy—all of it had come to nothing.
It was ruined.
The plan was ruined, and so was Belliang.
"Y-Your Excellency!"
At that moment, Bertrand finally collapsed in utter despair, feeling as though all the air had left his lungs.
"This is impossible… How could this happen…"
The strategy had been flawless.
He'd analyzed everything—from the location of Belliang's main fortresses and cities, to enemy advance routes, supply lines, and even unit operations—crafting a plan with meticulous detail, and every part had fallen into place without a single error.
All that was left was to carry it out.
If he did, he could drive out the Imperial Army and protect Belliang, even against overwhelming odds.
Honestly, the defeat itself didn't trouble him much. He had considered that possibility.
But what he hadn't anticipated was burning through so many Balt Batteries here.
Nor had he imagined suffering such a heavy loss in such a minor battle, or the fact that—even after all this—he couldn't even be sure he'd truly worn down the enemy.
"I can't understand it."
Bertrand, still reeling as Jade helped support him, murmured in shock. Even after hearing the reports, he couldn't fathom how the battle had turned out like this.
"Summon all the commanders who participated in the fight. I need to get a detailed account of how the battle unfolded."
"…Yes, understood."
Everyone responded to Bertrand with faces as pale as the dead. It was already over. Bertrand's strategy had lost all momentum, and now, no matter what he did, it was meaningless.
Yet Bertrand could neither comprehend nor accept this situation—one that had unfolded utterly outside his calculations.
Failing to hold Bertagne Forest and being forced to retreat—that, at least, was acceptable.
They'd never truly been able to defend it in the first place, and the fact that they'd managed to hold on for over two months was more miraculous than anything else.
But this was a battle they should have won.
Losing was inconceivable, and even if defeat was unavoidable, it should have been the result of a meticulously calculated retreat, one that would leave the enemy utterly demoralized.
For Bertrand, the strategist who always kept even defeat within his plans, this was simply unforgivable.
"So how did this happen!"
"..."
No matter how many times he listened to the stories again and again, no matter how thoroughly he cross-examined every commander to reconstruct the events, Bertrand simply could not understand how this had happened.
How did the enemy realize that their forces were lying in ambush there, even without any scouts?
How did they, in a forest belonging to an enemy nation that they had never even set foot in, manage to form such perfect ranks and seize the tactical advantage of the terrain?
How did they predict precisely where the Star of Summer would fall and concentrate every Baltracher at that exact spot?
How did dozens of soldiers charge forward, unhindered in total darkness where they couldn't even see their own feet, and drag our forces into the depths of confusion and chaos?
How. How. How. How!
"It was Krieger."
To questions that even the most capable commanders of the Belliang Army could not answer, there came a voice: gentle and soft—ill-suited for war, and yet it burned with hatred and resentment as it replied.
"It's Krieger. That lunatic can read the entire battlefield like the palm of his hand."
"Sir Estelle."
The Star of Summer, Estelle Pouarrié, strode forward and spat blood-tinged saliva forcefully onto the ground.
Estelle, whose movements were so quick and aggressive that she ended up injuring herself more through her own actions than the enemy's attacks, looked as if she might collapse at any moment.
Yet in her eyes, blazing with a hatred hotter than any fire, there was not a hint of retreat.
"From the layout of the terrain, to troop arrangements, armaments and training levels, to tactics, and even the strategies built from all that—he sees right through it all."
Estelle's Piercing, Blazing Gaze completely overwhelmed even the most renowned noble officers present.
Looking at her now, it was almost impossible to believe that just three months ago, she was a noble lady who had never fought anyone except the occasional scuffle with her younger brother.
"It's not just that he's sharp-eyed—he knows everything, as if he's some kind of god who already understands it all!"
Crack!
In a fit of burning rage, Estelle swung her arm, and a long, thin blade sliced through the air—so fast and silent it was chilling—and struck the ground right in front of Bertrand's feet.
Jade, the knight guarding Bertrand, swiftly lifted Bertrand up like a rag doll and pulled him back, shouting at Estelle.
"Sir Estelle! What are you doing!"
"I told you, if we don't kill Krieger, not even Your Excellency can win a battle with this many variables, you idiot!"
"..."
Everyone gasped in shock as Estelle Pouarrié, the hero and hope of the Kingdom of Belliang, the Star of Summer herself, hurled such harsh words at Bertrand—her cousin, Count Lafayette, and nephew of the King.
Her voice was nearly ripping apart as she screamed, berating Bertrand, tears of rage streaming from her eyes.
"I told you we had to kill that bastard…"
Estelle removed her headscarf, which was a mess of her own blood and sweat, and mumbled as she covered her tear-stained face.
Her beautiful dark brown hair, which had once reached down past her waist, was now cut short like a boy's, and with her face hidden, she looked just like a small, slender boy.
"…I'm sorry, Sir Estelle," Bertrand said after staring at her, his face pale with shock.
"I thought you were blinded by revenge. Your story sounded too far-fetched to be real."
"..."
Estelle had already warned Bertrand about Ernest.
She had told him not just once, but several times.
Although Bertrand hadn't actually seen Ernest himself in the daylight battle, he had ended up fighting against him.
Even so, Bertrand simply couldn't grasp the kind of person Ernest was.
Estelle's words had just sounded too incredible to believe.
After all, in all of Belliang, Estelle was the only Baltracher who could fight the way she did—and perhaps she was the only one like that on the entire Continent.
But that wasn't just down to Estelle's remarkable skill with Balt; it was because her spatial awareness, cognitive abilities, reaction speed, judgment, and analytical powers were all developed to a clearly abnormal degree.
Just using Balt demanded an immense amount of concentration.
In such a situation, only someone with truly extraordinary talent could exhibit this level of complex intellectual ability to its utmost.
And in Estelle's view, Ernest seemed to be even further removed from normal than she was.
If he weren't just an ordinary officer but a Baltracher, that would be the only reason he hadn't surpassed this level—if Ernest had been a Baltracher, he would have become a monster far beyond Estelle, who was now praised as the Star of Summer.
"So, how do we kill him?"
"..."
Bertrand pressed his thumb to the end of his brow and asked Estelle.
By now, Bertrand already knew that there was no longer any meaning in fighting and winning.
Yet, even though he was aware of how irrational he was being, he simply couldn't stop himself.
It was already over.
Their final move to resurrect Belliang had been blocked.
Now that it was over, there was no need for self-restraint.
It was no different from a lost person wandering aimlessly in utter despair, trudging wherever their feet happened to take them—a foolish act born of hopelessness.
Still, wasn't doing something better than sitting idly by?
***
Ernest tossed and turned all through the night before finally falling asleep, and woke as the sky began to lighten at dawn.
At most, he'd probably slept only three hours.
Even though it was summer, it was still only early summer.
The temperature had dropped considerably at night, and the dew left his body soaked, making it quite cold.
It would have been nice to at least have a tent, but when they had fought in front of Lanosel, no one had anticipated a charge, so he hadn't taken his military pack.
Charging in without it, they had ended up isolated in the forest—and consequently, left without a tent.
Ernest forced his exhausted body upright.
"Haa...."
As Ernest got up and looked around, he let out a sigh.
Even in this situation, there was a remarkably decent tent set up right in the center of the 1st Battalion's campsite.
It was the battalion commander's tent, made from sacks and other materials left behind by the Belliang Army when they'd abandoned their supplies.
Everyone had spent the night exposed to the dew, but Bailey alone had slept in that makeshift tent.
Even if Bailey had been made to sleep outside with everyone else, it would only have caused discomfort for both the officers and soldiers, yet Ernest couldn't help but feel a twist of irritation anyway.
He deliberately averted his gaze from the tent and began walking around the campsite.
Everyone was sleeping deeply, worn out by sheer exhaustion.
Even the sentries looked completely out of it.
With a heavy sense of anxiety, Ernest went to check on Georg.
...
As he approached the area where the wounded were gathered, a foul stench attacked his nose.
It wasn't just the smell of infected wounds.
Clearly, someone had died, and their body had relaxed, releasing waste. With the humidity and heat of summer, decomposition was progressing rapidly.
"How have you been managing the wounded?"
"…I'm sorry."
Ernest questioned the soldier who was responsible for taking care of the injured.
But the soldier could do nothing except apologize, and since Ernest understood this, he didn't press him any further.
With no supplies for treatment, there was no way to properly care for the wounded.
The only thing to do was to leave people to suffer if they were in pain, or let them die if that was their fate.
No—perhaps the only real mercy left was to end their suffering entirely.
"Georg."
"...."
"Georg, can you hear me?"
"...."
Ernest woke the feverish and shallow-breathing Georg.
He wanted to give Georg the last mouthful of water left in his waterskin. But Georg couldn't even open his eyes. At the sound of Ernest's voice, he just moved his lips and mumbled something faintly.
"Damn it."
Ernest knew it was a useless hope, but it was still unbearably painful to have his denial shattered—he'd almost managed to convince himself that Georg just had a minor cold.
But Georg was dying quickly.
The only reason he'd even lasted this long was because he was so young and healthy—if he'd been a little older or much younger, he probably wouldn't have survived the night.
Maybe, if he got treatment right now, there was still a chance he could be saved.
If they could get out of the forest and reach Baltracher for help, maybe—since Georg was so young and strong—he'd be able to pull through.
"…Move the body. There's a risk of an epidemic spreading."
But all Ernest could do right now was order the bodies to be taken outside the campsite so Georg wouldn't end up lying among the corpses.
"Damn it, this is hell."
Then, Ernest remembered that Battalion Commander Bailey might have another outburst since he hadn't reported this to him. If Ferdinand had still been in command, he would have approved of the swift action and probably even praised Ernest for it, but Bailey…
"I don't even care. If he says anything, I'll just let it go in one ear and out the other."
Leaving bodies inside the campsite in these conditions was insane—an absolute must-not.
If Bailey complained, Ernest decided he would ignore it.
In any case, Ernest no longer had the capacity to pay attention to anything Bailey said.
Ernest inspected Georg's wounds and changed the bandages. As expected, the injury was badly infected; the area around the bullet wound was dangerously swollen.
"..."
My friend is dying. And there's nothing I can do to help.
The helplessness was so crushing, it felt like he might break.
Time passed indifferently, and before long, the sun rose and light began to stream through the forest.
Everyone was waking up, struggling to shake off their exhaustion.
"I feel so dizzy…"
Despite sweating so much yesterday, no one had been able to drink enough water.
Most people complained of dehydration as soon as they woke up in the morning.
A bit of dew had collected on the cloth wrapped around the tree branches, so if they squeezed it with all their might, they could moisten their parched mouths with a few drops.
They'd also managed to gather a tiny amount of tree sap.
But it wasn't even close to enough.
Even if they pooled everything together, it would hardly be enough to quench the thirst of ten people.
"Who would have thought I'd miss that damned rain so much."
Who could have imagined there would come a day when they'd long for those hellish days spent in the Bertagne Forest?
Those who survived that horrific battle now looked back with self-mocking nostalgia, remembering how they used to drink water to their heart's content, mouths gaping wide, as if their bellies would burst.
A decision had to be made, and in a situation like this, no one was sentimental enough to forgo water just to spare a horse's life. Bailey, who received a brief report that morning, felt the same.
"At the very least, let's make it painless."
At the request of Bailey—battalion commander and the horses' owner—they tied blindfolds around the eyes of the five horses that had accompanied the 1st Battalion and gathered them in one spot.
The horses, clever animals, seemed to sense what was about to happen and grew restless and anxious.
"I'm sorry."
Ernest gently stroked the horses' necks and spoke to calm them before things got underway. He felt a pang of guilt for the horses, who had followed him faithfully all this way, still trusting and relying on him in this very moment.
"Fire."
Ferdinand, who regarded horses as little more than tools, gave the order to shoot in Ernest's place—because Ernest truly loved the animals. The staff officers, including Bailey, were not present. It seemed they couldn't bear to watch the killing of horses they had raised and ridden themselves.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Five powder guns were fired to send the horses off without pain. Struck in the head, the horses died instantly. Right away, the soldiers looped ropes around their necks, hung the bodies from the trees, and began to drain the blood.
With even the Balt Batteries for the Baltrachers in short supply, the 1st Battalion was now armed with powder guns. In fact, they had so few captured guns that nearly half the soldiers had to fight with Bayonets fixed on Balt Guns they couldn't even fire.
"Bruno, you're our only hope now."
"..."
All the Balt Batteries left in the 1st Battalion were currently strapped to Bruno's body like armor. Of the four Baltrachers remaining in the battalion, Bruno's Balt efficiency was the best, so every battery had been assigned to him.
To extract Balt from the batteries, they had to be in direct contact with the body.
So Bruno, having stripped off his clothes and cut his undergarments high up his thighs to only cover himself modestly, covered every inch of his exposed skin with Balt Batteries tied together with string.
Not only did they collect batteries meant for the Baltrachers, but also any Balt Gun firing batteries that still had even a little Balt left. Since transferring Balt from one battery to another always led to losses, they'd simply hung all of them directly on Bruno's body.
"I… I can't move."
"..."
But of course, with more than a hundred batteries dangling from his body, there was no way he could actually move. The batteries, while not as heavy as one might think, swayed and knocked against him with every small movement, making it impossible to keep his balance.
"This is so humiliating…"
"Endure it."
In the end, since Isaac and two other Baltrachers had become useless without any Balt Batteries, the three of them decided to carry Bruno together. Bruno, nearly naked with Balt Batteries dangling all over him, could hardly bear being hauled around like luggage by his comrades. To make matters worse, he was even wearing his boots, since his feet couldn't be injured in this state.
Honestly, if this scene appeared in a dream, even the burly, bald Andersen would probably shriek and run away like a five-year-old—it was that horrifying.
"Take a good look. That man is our last hope," Robert declared in an effort to sound upbeat, pointing at Bruno.
"Our hope!"
"Oh! Our hope!"
"Please don't do this!" Bruno protested, but the soldiers, hoisting their arms in prayer as Bruno was carried along like a sacrificial offering, only grinned a little at his obvious discomfort.
"This is seriously fucking barbaric," Ralf muttered, his face pale.
On one side, they were boiling horse blood to get water; on the other, they were lugging around Bruno, who looked like some ancient shaman or sacrificial victim—any way you saw it, he looked bizarre. And in front of them, the soldiers stood with their arms raised in prayer.
It was a truly, literally savage scene.
Ralf felt terrified, half expecting someone to smear the boiled blood on their bodies or tear into clotted lumps as part of some ritual.
With that urgent morning crisis handled, Ernest began organizing the items he needed to report at the morning briefing.
"…What happened to your face?"
Ernest looked at Robert's face and said,
"What happened to your face?"
"Now you're picking on how I look?"
Robert frowned and waved his hand dismissively, though there was no strength in the gesture. Ernest grabbed Robert's shoulder and brought his hand to the back of his neck.
"What are you doing? Are you crazy?"
"…You have a fever."
"Huh? Me? I do?"
"You idiot! You're running a fever!"
Robert's face was flushed bright red, and his body was burning with heat. But Robert himself hadn't even realized he had a fever—he just thought the dizziness and weakness were due to dehydration.
"Damn it! Check if anyone else has caught a cold!"
"Uh, okay…"
"Not you, idiot!"
At Ernest's shout, Robert—trying to carry out his duties as Platoon Leader despite having a cold—ended up getting scolded, subdued by Ernest, and slumping back down on the spot.
The men hadn't even been able to eat properly because of the lack of water.
After spending all of yesterday running around the forest and suffering, they were all experiencing symptoms of dehydration, hadn't been able to replenish their nutrition, and were buckling under the stress of a life-and-death battle.
Now that the fight was over and the adrenaline had faded, exhaustion truly hit them.
On top of that, in this state, they had slept outside in the early summer forest, with dew falling over them. It was hardly surprising that their bodies broke down in just a single day and that many caught colds.
Probably, the tough physical condition from all those months of Bailey's harsh training—and the grueling rides in that cursed transport vehicle—had quietly chipped away at their stamina, making things even worse. Bailey's training had been severe, and the ride in the transport vehicle was so rough that even just being inside left men feeling sick and wiped out.
Because of Ernest's shout, not just the 2nd Company but also the other companies woke up to the situation and started checking for soldiers with colds. With everyone already suffering from dehydration, it was hard to tell dehydration symptoms apart from those of a cold. So even men who were ill had simply gritted their teeth and assumed, "Dehydration is a nightmare," and tried to endure it.
The result was grim.
About twenty percent of the 2nd Company, who'd suffered the most yesterday and had the most survivors, showed symptoms of a cold, and both the 1st and 3rd Companies already had patients as well.
Most likely, someone had already been sick, but while everyone was relatively healthy, it wasn't a problem.
Now, with their bodies falling apart all at once, the illness was spreading rapidly.
When you have a fever, you need to drink lots of water.
But with everyone already suffering from dehydration and water in short supply, they were at a complete loss for how to handle this. And since they were isolated deep in enemy territory, there was no way to quarantine the sick. It was already hard enough just to maintain this cramped campsite; trying to isolate patients by pushing them outside the camp would be as good as abandoning them to die.
The morning meeting was delayed as they tried to figure out who was sick. Bailey and the staff officers stood waiting. Bailey's face was twisted in a scowl, while the staff officers, oddly enough, looked a bit hopeful, out of step with how dire things truly were. They were already suffering from depleted supplies and dehydration, and now the flu was spreading among them. Honestly, if anyone had the slightest bit of common sense left rattling around in their wrinkled brains, there's no way they'd even suggest fighting in this situation.
The staff officers still held onto the hope that, unless Bailey had taken his brain out of that cursed head of his and tossed it somewhere, he would choose to end this by ordering a retreat.
At last, the postponed morning meeting began. The unit's current status was quickly reported, and naturally, everyone became aware of just how dire the 1st Battalion's condition truly was.
After the losses suffered in yesterday's battle and the soldiers who died during the night, only 170 men remained in the 1st Battalion. Of those, about thirty were so badly wounded that they couldn't fight, leaving a mere 140 who were actually capable of combat. All 140 of them were suffering from dehydration, and around thirty of them also had colds.
Dehydration threatened to wipe them out completely, but at least—if it came to it—they could try to distill and drink horse blood, so dehydration might be addressed. But if you excluded those sick with the flu, the number of soldiers truly able to fight was only about 110.
Just before entering the forest yesterday, the Infantry Company alone had numbered over three hundred, and when you added the Cavalry, Artillery, and Transport Companies, the 1st Battalion had nearly six hundred men.
But now, all those other companies had been left outside the forest, and the Infantry Company had suffered such heavy losses that the number of relatively unharmed, combat-ready soldiers barely exceeded one hundred.
Crippled by catastrophic supply shortages and unable to absorb further losses, they were effectively shattered.
The truth was, the 1st Battalion was finished.
"Even if we distill and drink horse blood, it'll be difficult just to survive until tonight. Everyone's suffering from dehydration. The wounds of the injured are festering, and the bodies are piling up. With no water to even wash themselves, there's no telling when an epidemic might break out. On top of that, the flu is spreading, so by tomorrow we might not have any soldiers left able to fight."
Section Chief Hans, acting as the battalion staff leader, summarized the situation and reported to Bailey. This alone was enough to drive everyone to despair, but unfortunately, that wasn't even the end of it.
"We gathered all the remaining Balt Batteries, but it's not even enough for a Baltracher to fight a single battle. Only eighty-two soldiers are armed with Powder Guns, and the rest—exhausted and sick—will have to fight in close quarters armed with bayonets, and nothing more. What's worse, there are far too few soldiers with enough training to actually use Powder Guns."
They had some gunpowder and ammunition left behind by the enemy, but no guns. They'd managed to capture only eighty-two Powder Guns—barely enough to arm just over half of the 140 men still able to move. And most of the soldiers left in the 1st Battalion had never even used a Powder Gun before.
"We're trying to run emergency training through the non-commissioned officers who know how to use Powder Guns, but there's no way they'll be proficient enough to fight in a single day."
Hans spoke to Bailey, taking responsibility as Section Chief and battalion staff leader.
"The 1st Battalion managed to foil the enemy's plans and prevent them from achieving their strategic objectives, but we're in no condition to keep fighting. The enemy can't profit from pressing the fight any further either, so I think it's best if we negotiate and withdraw now."
"...."
They'd accomplished the important feat of stopping the enemy's plans, but as for the state of their unit, it was no better than a bunch of patients dragged in from the slums. They'd done everything they could. It was time to retreat.
The company commanders had stepped up and overcome impossible odds again and again. They had said everything—whether it was easy to say or not—in their attempts to persuade Bailey. And now, even Hans Schum, Captain and Section Chief, not just obediently going along with Bailey's word, was telling him it was time to pull out. Naturally, the soldiers, facing annihilation, desperately wanted to survive and return home.
Everyone wanted to retreat, and it was clear there was no other option. But because of one man—Lieutenant Colonel Bailey Hoffman, the Battalion Commander—they were all staying in this hell, throwing themselves toward certain death.
"..."
Bailey didn't meet the countless gazes fixed on him.
His bloodshot eyes just darted somewhere into empty space, and his unsteady shoulders heaved with jagged breaths as he struggled to rein in his emotions.
Though the 1st Battalion had ultimately thwarted Bertrand's plan, Bailey had made too many blunders along the way.
Throughout the battle in the forest, he had done nothing—he'd simply withdrawn, giving in to despair.
Even if they managed to retreat safely from the forest and the 1st Battalion received recognition for its achievements, once the details came to light, Bailey would be demoted.
The honor of both himself and his house would be tarnished— unless every man here survived and kept silent, covering up Bailey's failures.
Bailey had thought that as long as he got rid of the informer Levin had planted—Captain Ernest Krieger, Commander of the 2nd Company—he would be fine.
But from the way things were unfolding, it seemed not only the other company commanders but even his own staff officers were beginning to turn their backs on him.
"This is all Levin's fault!"
Bailey squeezed his eyes shut and screamed inwardly.
"That bastard kept interfering with every decision in my battalion—there was nothing I could do because of him!"
Unable to bear the situation any longer, Bailey began blaming Levin for everything.
"Krieger was made a company commander by Levin, and the staff officers all came in under Levin, too. On top of that, the senior unit—the 13th Regiment—is currently led by Levin. So all of this must be Levin's fault."
That's what he told himself, trying to run from reality. But thinking that didn't change anything. Bailey would have to take responsibility as the 1st Battalion Commander for any damage the battalion suffered, no matter how things turned out.
"Battalion Commander Sir, the longer we delay, the worse things will get."
Hans once again urged Bailey to make a decision. The sooner, the better.
While the soldiers could still move, they needed to negotiate with Bertrand and secure a retreat. If they waited too long and the soldiers became completely unable to move, they would all die in the forest even if a way out was found.
Bailey, his hands trembling, wiped his face. He knew full well that they would have to retreat sooner or later; it was unquestionably the right tactical choice.
Bailey wavered.
Should he negotiate with the enemy here and withdraw?
Or should they fight to the bitter end and get annihilated? If they retreated, they could save their lives, but he would be disgraced and demoted.
If they fought to the end, they'd be wiped out—but then no one would be left to reveal his mistakes, and it could all be spun as a valiant sacrifice that thwarted the enemy's plans.
As Bailey's indecision dragged on, Ernest grew anxious. Georg was dying of sepsis.
Robert had caught a cold, too.
Without prompt treatment, a simple cold could turn into pneumonia and then into sepsis.
They desperately needed to retreat as soon as possible, but this so-called Lieutenant Colonel, the commander, was so caught up in saving face that he was just wasting precious time, doing nothing.
Bang!
Just as Ernest, having reached his limit, was about to speak, a sharp gunshot rang out through the quiet forest.
Everyone quickly turned toward the source of the gunfire.
"It's the enemy!"
Immediately after, an unforeseen situation erupted like a storm, sweeping everyone up in its chaos.
Bertrand, who no longer had any reason to fight, had begun tightening the encirclement and attacking the 1st Battalion.