"How is this possible? What was that?"
Benoît de Coulon roared. He could hardly believe his eyes as the brave French soldiers fell in droves.
The power was nothing like what the books described. If British rockets really had that kind of force, then tens of thousands of them wouldn't have burned Copenhagen to the ground—they would have blown it flat.
The staff officers around him exchanged bewildered looks. Their pre-battle optimism had vanished without a trace. The explosions from these rockets were now more powerful than canister shot fired directly from a six-pounder.
But six-pounders were usually only loaded with canister within 150 meters to ensure it did enough damage.
The Austrian rockets, however, were at least seven or eight hundred meters from the French. To pack such terrible force at that distance was simply outrageous.
The French soldiers at the front were even more shocked than Benoît de Coulon. Their comrades had been blown to pieces right beside them.
These rockets were even deadlier than the heavy artillery.
Poor Benoît Valentin was struck by misfortune once again. His comrades in front of him had shielded him from the shrapnel, but the blast from an antipersonnel rocket still swept him up and hurled him into the air. He came crashing down headfirst into the soft grass.
The French soldiers hit by shrapnel weren't so lucky. The enormous quantity of explosives sent fragments flying like bullets, easily piercing clothing, skin, and muscle before ricocheting through their bodies with tremendous force.
Dying on the spot was a blessing. Those who didn't were left to endure unimaginable pain. Most would die from blood loss or lack of timely medical care; some would simply be tortured to death by their wounds.
Even the few who were rescued and treated promptly would likely die