The Courage of the Skirmish Line?

Mackensen snatched the telegram and tore open the seal. Inside the tent, only the rustle of paper remained.

A moment later, an odd look of disbelief crossed Mackensen's face. Anger and confusion mingled there before giving way to a cold sneer.

He walked over to the staff officers and slapped the telegram onto the table.

"Take a look. This is what our General Staff has decided."

The commander of the 16th Brigade carefully picked up the telegram. One glance, and his expression became just as remarkable as Mackensen's.

"Authorize the expeditionary forces in the Kingdom of Aragon to undertake 'necessary military action' immediately... but require you to... return home at once to recuperate?"

The order stunned everyone present.

They wanted a general who had just suffered a humiliating defeat and was bent on revenge to leave his post before the battle began?

What was this... changing commanders on the eve of battle?

"General Prittwitz will take over your duties..." the chief of staff read on with difficulty.

"Prittwitz..." Mackensen repeated, a mocking curl to his lips. "That coward who only dares fight defensive battles when he has superior numbers? They want him to command an offensive?"

He looked around, then let his gaze settle on the attack plan. A flash of unwillingness crossed his eyes, but a moment later he seemed to realize something and gave a cold snort.

"Since authorization for combat has already come through, launch the attack according to the plan you just presented. Drive the Royal Army and the Britannians out of Seville!"

The old general did not raise his voice, but his resolve left no room for argument.

"Until that fool Prittwitz arrives, I'm still the expeditionary force commander! 'Necessary military action,' is it? I'll show them what 'necessary' means!"

While Mackensen and the others had been waiting anxiously in the Brigade Headquarters tent, Morin's 1st Battalion of the 33rd Infantry Regiment had already set out.

Darkness was the best cover for a large force of marching infantry.

Three infantry companies, along with the various units attached to Battalion Headquarters and the baggage train, moved along the country dirt road like a silent gray serpent.

The battalion was the Saxon Imperial Army's basic tactical unit, and its marching formations were organized around it with orderly precision.

Apart from the scrape of boots on gravel and the occasional hoofbeats of a messenger galloping past, the column of nearly a thousand men made scarcely a sound. Discipline had sunk into this army's very bones.

Morin led his infantry platoon within the marching column of the 3rd Company.

His initial nerves and awkwardness faded quickly once they were on the road.

It was as if this body's default settings had switched back on: how to pace his breathing, how to conserve his strength, how to watch the soldiers from the corner of his eye...

The skills of a capable junior officer surfaced as naturally as instinct.

And then there was the knowledge and experience he had gained before crossing over, when he had trained as a cadet in Blue Star's strongest army...

Morin did not even have to think to tell whether the column's pace was steady or whether the gaps between soldiers were too wide or too tight.

It was a strange feeling, like being an RTS veteran with thousands of hours under his belt. Even on a new account, the micro and game sense were already hardwired into him.

At least physically, he was a genuine Saxon second lieutenant now.

Moonlight filtered through gaps in the roadside trees, scattering patches of light across the soldiers' spiked helmets.

The air was cool and smelled of earth and grass, with the faintest trace of gunpowder mixed in—as though the wind had carried an ill omen from Seville.

A little over two hours later, the column reached its designated assembly area.

It was a sparse woodland near the road, with gently rolling ground that offered good concealment.

As messengers passed down Major Thomas's orders through the ranks, the 1st Battalion swiftly shifted from marching to battle readiness.

The column spread out by company and platoon, the men practiced at finding cover and places to hide.

The low hum of officers talking replaced the silence of the march. An atmosphere of tension and anticipation spread through the trees.

Morin was settling his men into the woods when his platoon sergeant Klaus came over and spoke in a low voice.

"Platoon leader, a messenger just came by. Company Headquarters wants you over there."

"Got it."

Morin nodded, handed his rifle to his orderly, straightened his uniform and equipment belt, then headed toward a few flickering oil lamps deeper in the woods.

That was the 3rd Company's temporary headquarters. Captain Hauser and the other two platoon leaders stood around a map spread on the ground.

"Morin, you're here. Good."

Captain Hauser beckoned him over and pointed at the map.

"Bad news and good news. Which do you want first?"

The familiar opening made Morin's mouth twitch.

"Sir, when someone asks that, neither piece of news is usually any good."

Captain Hauser chuckled, but the smile soon vanished and his expression turned grave.

"The bad news is that the combat order has come down. The 1st Battalion is the regiment's first attacking echelon. We're to make a frontal assault on the village up ahead, San Isidro."

He picked up a pencil and drew a thick arrow on the map, pointing straight at the village marker.

Morin's heart sank. That was bad news, all right. Very bad.

A frontal assault. The first echelon...

Put those two together, and they practically spelled heavy casualties.

"And... the good news?" he asked, clinging to a sliver of hope.

"The good news," Captain Hauser said, his tone lightening, "is that the 3rd Company is the battalion reserve. The 1st and 2nd Companies go in first. We'll enter the fight if needed, or plug a gap."

Morin nodded and quietly let out a breath.

Truth be told, though he was gradually beginning to act like a Saxon Empire second lieutenant, he had no desire to give his life for this unfamiliar country.

If he had not known that desertion was both shameful and carried serious consequences, Morin would already have found a way to slip off.

Being the reserve for the first attacking echelon was hardly safe, but at least he would not have to charge in at once and test the enemy's firepower with his own flesh and blood.

Every little bit longer I stay alive counts. Every little bit longer...

Morin repeated it silently as he considered what to do next.

But when his eyes returned to the battle map spread before him, more of this body's military academy memories stirred.

More and more knowledge about how the Saxon Imperial Army—or rather, armies in this world—fought ground battles surfaced in his mind.

And Morin realized they were in serious trouble.

On the map, the attack arrows marking the 1st and 2nd Companies covered a very narrow front.

The 1st Company's three infantry platoons would deploy in three successive skirmish lines, each 150 meters wide. With one to two meters between soldiers, they would advance slowly and suppress the enemy's forward positions with rifle volleys.

Roughly a hundred meters behind the 1st Company, the 2nd Company would follow in a dense column, ready to launch a bayonet charge as soon as the 1st Company's skirmish lines opened a breach...

No flanking maneuver, no penetration, and certainly none of the later tactics where squads took turns covering one another as they advanced in dispersed groups.

Troubling memories flashed through his mind.

He remembered what this body's original owner had learned at the military academy: the tactical theories instructors had proclaimed with flying spittle and immense pride.

"Saxon shock tactics," "the courage of the skirmish line," "the devastating power of a regimental attack group"...

Scenes from the classroom raced through his mind.

He remembered how the gray-haired tactics instructor had praised, in a near-fervent voice, the "magnificent sight" of soldiers lined up in skirmish formation, moving like a gray tide, marching to the beat of drums through artillery fire and advancing unwaveringly toward the enemy's position.

Back then, this body's original owner had listened with the same pounding excitement as all his classmates, convinced it was the ultimate expression of Saxon military glory.

But now Morin, with the soul of a twenty-first-century military academy cadet, felt sick to his stomach.

Despite extraordinary forces such as "magitech" and "Armored Knights," this world's ground warfare remained, in its conventional infantry tactics, at the level of European armies in the early days of World War I as Morin remembered them.

They still put blind faith in the courage and discipline of soldiers, and in the force of a dense formation's charge.

I'm done for.

I've landed right in the final days of massed-formation charges!