Before long, the vast white snowfield was covered by a moving forest of deep-blue steel. The main force of the Carnford-Franklin allied army arrived at the predetermined final battle line with the steady tread of a giant.
The deafening, sharply rhythmic sounds of horns and war drums were no longer an accompaniment to the march, but cold, merciless commands for positioning and alignment. Under the direction of this primitive yet efficient "language," every part of the enormous army became a precise component.
"Mark time—! One! Two!"
"Halt—!"
"Dress left (right)—!"
The officers' hoarse shouts rose and fell in the biting wind. Tens of thousands of soldiers in heavy blue uniforms, with some clad in red, raised and brought down their iron-shod boots to a unified drumbeat.
At first, it was a chaotic roar, but after repeated adjustments, the footfalls swiftly converged and synchronized, finally becoming a deep, orderly, heart-quaking BOOM! BOOM!—as though some colossal beast deep beneath the earth were beating its chest in rhythm. The faint tremors from the ground traveled through the soles of boots and straight into the hearts of every soldier and distant observer.
This was a tangible demonstration of discipline and strength.
Guided by countless snapping battalion flags, company flags, and command banners of every kind, the various units flowed into their pre-marked fighting positions, staked out with wooden posts and lime, like streams returning to their beds.
Though the entire process was filled with clamor, there was order amid the chaos, displaying the terrifying efficiency of a highly professional army.
Carnford's immense battle line rapidly took shape, forming a steady, solid, oppressively deep two-line deployment.
The first line, like the edge of a drawn sword, was an iron wall formed by seven infantry battalions. From left wing to right wing, they were the Carnford