Chapter 130 - A Burden Too Heavy (7)
"Charge! Charge! Charge!"
The large and splendid regimental flag fluttered in the air.
Beyond the sparkling raindrops shining in the sunlight, some people were pointing fingers at the soldiers who were slowing down and forming dispersed formations.
Amidst them, Lieutenant Colonel Levin Ort stood tall and proper, speaking to the Regimental Commander.
The Regimental Commander, furious, jabbed his finger at Levin, glared at the troops still waiting instead of charging, gestured at them with his hand, then turned back to yell at Levin again.
When Levin didn't react at all, the Regimental Commander shoved him aside and said something to the other officers.
"What are you doing?! Charge right now! You cowards!"
Then, one of the officers came running, shouting at the top of his lungs. At his words, the 1st Company under Ferdinand's command began to charge.
"What do we do?" Robert asked Ernest, glancing nervously.
Ernest felt like his head was about to split open.
No, he wanted to smash the heads of those bastards himself.
Of course, as a commander, Ernest could understand the Regimental Commander's decision.
The battle was all but over, the enemy was in full retreat, and their own troops were still capable of fighting.
At this point, it was certainly a reasonable decision to charge forward like a wildfire, finish off and drive out the enemy, and secure victory once and for all.
But that's the way people talk when they aren't the ones actually fighting.
The enemy was already fleeing, so all they had to do was wait and the battle would end safely.
In truth, this probably meant the whole war was as good as won.
So why would those actually fighting on the front lines risk their lives any further?
Ernest absolutely did not want to order a charge.
He just wanted to advance carefully, minimize any unpredictable variables, and safely occupy the forest so the battle would end here.
No doubt all the other officers and soldiers on the field felt the same way.
But the Regimental Commander had come forward himself, furious and insistent, demanding a charge.
They had no choice.
"Damn it. Charge."
Other units were already charging.
Ernest couldn't hold out and refuse to charge now.
"Charge! Charge!"
Reluctantly, Ernest ordered the 2nd Company to charge.
The 2nd Company began to move forward hesitantly, glancing at one another as they did.
No one wanted to be the first out front, so they dawdled, but they knew that if they disobeyed orders, there would be consequences—so one way or another, they moved forward.
Once they'd passed all the trench lines, all that remained was the peaceful scene of the forest.
There were no traps.
Probably, the Belliang troops knew that, having been pushed this far, it really was over.
And the stretch of forest that remained was so small, it almost didn't seem worth sighing over.
"We're outside! I can see the open!"
Those at the very front, running ahead, shouted as they reached the end of the woods.
After pushing past the last trench line, the forest ended almost immediately. The thought that they could finally escape this damned forest made some of them feel close to tears.
Ernest, too, felt a slight sense of relief, thinking that now, surely, they could occupy the forest without incident and move on to the plain. Still, he never let his guard down. In military operations, nothing ever goes smoothly from the moment they begin.
"Slow down! Check the surroundings and advance carefully!"
After making sure he was far enough from that damned Regimental Commander, Ernest called out in a loud voice.
The 2nd Company slowed their pace.
"What are you doing? I said slow down!"
"Hey! Hey!"
But some of the soldiers seemed not to hear Ernest at all and just kept running forward frantically.
In truth, they really couldn't hear Ernest's orders now, nor could they make out anyone else's shouts.
All the horrific experiences they'd endured in the forest had completely broken them.
Their minds, bleached white with the thought that they could finally escape the forest, were focused solely on running out of the woods.
The 2nd Company tried to grab those who were dashing ahead, but the distance had already grown too wide—they were powerless to intervene. In the end, the 2nd Company dashed forward at an awkward, uneven pace, nearly scattering before barely managing to regroup into formation.
"Don't go out! Hold your positions!"
The 2nd Company ran all the way to the forest's edge and halted at Ernest's shout.
There, they saw the soldiers who'd already exited the woods standing in a stunned daze.
Panting, Ernest pushed his way through the troops to the front of the formation.
...
After coming out of the dark woods—shrouded by branches and leaves—into the bright plain, his eyes took a moment to adjust, leaving everything in a blur.
Ernest squinted, staring across the stretch of open plain.
"No…"
Came the voice of a soldier who'd run ahead, heavy with despair. As Ernest's eyes finally adapted to the light, he could make out forms on the plain—somehow unfamiliar, yet all too familiar.
Ernest's voice tore across the field.
"Get down!"
BOOM!
A moment later, countless cannons, positioned across the plain, all fired at once.
From some guns, huge and heavy shells came crashing down, smashing through Baltracher's Barriers in a single blow, obliterating the lines of soldiers behind them without mercy.
From others, canister shot rained out, tearing the scattered soldiers to shreds.
Even Baltracher's Barriers were useless against artillery fire at this range.
The canister shot could be blocked with a Barrier.
However, the Imperial Army Baltrachers were already too exhausted, and their guard was down. Some Baltrachers managed to defend against the canister shot with their Barriers, but most couldn't even manage that.
As a result, the soldiers exposed to the canister fire were turned into nothing but lumps of flesh.
After the Belliang Army's artillery barrage, their infantry moved in and unleashed a volley at the surviving Imperial soldiers.
And not just the infantry—Belliang cavalry rode in as well, pistols drawn.
Meanwhile, with infantry and cavalry covering them, the artillerymen skillfully reloaded their guns.
The Belliang Army was operating these cannons—the so-called "new weapons" of the Imperial Army, according to Imperial Headquarters—as if they were perfectly familiar with them.
In a flash, Ernest had a sudden revelation.
It had always been strange that the Empire, which had practically abandoned gunpowder, had now developed an improved version.
The cannons had been invented first by the Alliance Army, not the Empire.
To neutralize the Imperial Army's Baltrachers.
The Empire had stolen the Alliance Army's technology and built its own cannons.
Which meant the Empire's leadership—at the very least, The Emperor himself—must have known full well that the Alliance Army would strike back with cannons.
That's why, no matter what, they had to cross the forest and reach the plain during the rainy season.
That way, with the Belliang Army's gunpowder soaked by the rain and unable to properly fire their cannons, the Empire could easily crush them using the speed of Balt Automobiles and the power of Balt Guns.
The Emperor had known about the enemy's new weapon—the cannon—but kept it secret to launch the war.
Then he spread propaganda claiming the Empire had invented it, boosting Imperial morale and forcing officers to find both ways to use it and ways to counter it.
In fact, not only Ernest but all Imperial Army officers knew the methods to counter cannons.
But not a single one of them imagined they'd end up walking blindly into the enemy's maw like this.
The Emperor had deceived them.
But now, there was no turning back.
The war had already begun, and the only thing left for them was to fight.
"Get back to the forest! Back to the forest—now!"
Ernest shouted, his voice raw and tearing at his throat.
The surviving soldiers, following his command, frantically sprinted into the woods. With the sheer force and thunder of the cannons, smoke thick in the air, the enemy's synchronized volleys, and the charging cavalry bearing down, they were all so stunned that, truthfully, even without Ernest's orders, everyone would have turned and fled.
The 2nd Company, which had not yet fully emerged from the forest, suffered relatively few casualties. That is, compared to the near-annihilation faced by other units—who were caught at close range by cannon fire and then swept by Belliang musket volleys—their situation was a bit better.
Above all, it was crucial that Ernest had not told the soldiers to take cover behind Barriers, but instead ordered them to hit the ground.
Those who'd kept their wits about them immediately threw themselves flat at Ernest's desperate shout, doing whatever they could to survive.
Most of the dazed soldiers who'd been standing were either killed outright or mortally wounded—but, with sheer luck, one or two who were still on their feet managed to survive unharmed, belatedly diving deeper into the forest.
"Ernest…"
But of course, not everyone was safe.
Some who dropped down quickly were still critically wounded—just bad luck.
As Ernest was about to run into the forest, he froze at the sound of a familiar voice calling him.
He turned to see his friend lying on the ground, reaching out a hand drenched in blood.
"Jonas!"
As everyone else ran for the safety of the forest, Ernest turned back and sprinted once more toward the edge, outside the woods.
Robert, who had been fleeing in a panic at Ernest's shout, stopped dead in his tracks and looked back in alarm.
"No!"
And then, seeing Ernest turn and run toward the place where enemy guns and cannons were aimed, Robert too turned around and started running after him.
"Jo-Jonas! Get up! Hurry!"
Ernest grabbed his friend's hand, trying to pull him to his feet.
But Jonas couldn't stand up.
"My legs… I can't move them…"
Hearing this, Ernest looked at Jonas's legs—and couldn't say a word.
Jonas no longer had the legs he needed to stand.
It was impossible to tell where Jonas's legs had gone, both of them caught by a shell skimming low across the ground—they were simply gone.
The moment Ernest felt his friend's body, now far too light, drag helplessly as he pulled, the fear he'd been forcing aside crashed over him, pushing him into a deep, dark abyss.
"No! Jonas!"
At Robert's anguished scream, Ernest snapped out of his daze.
There was no time for this.
He quickly dropped low and, gripping Jonas's arm tightly, heaved him up onto his shoulder.
"Mmm..."
Jonas let out a faint groan.
Ernest tried to support Jonas's leg with his right arm to keep him steady, but the remains of Jonas's leg, torn away by the shell, were barely two spans long—there was nothing to hold onto.
"Please, please, please!"
Desperately shouting, Ernest awkwardly hoisted Jonas onto his shoulder, making sure he wouldn't fall, and started running.
Enemy cavalry were bearing down on them.
There was no time.
Bang! Bang!
The enemy cavalry fired their pistols.
Since they were shooting while riding at full speed, their aim was terrible, and every shot missed—but the fear shot down the back of Ernest's knees.
Still, Ernest refused to give up on Jonas.
"Run! Keep running!"
At some point, Robert had grabbed Jonas's limp, swaying body and was lifting him together with Ernest, running alongside him.
The possibility of dying under enemy fire didn't even enter their minds.
Their heads were burning hot.
Nothing else existed for them except Jonas—nothing else could be seen or heard.
"Damn it! Platoon Leader! "Run!"
Some of the 2nd Company soldiers who had scrambled into the forest had not run away completely—they were waiting for them.
Ralf shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Fire!"
Bang bang bang!
At Gustav's urgent order, the soldiers fired out of the forest toward the enemy.
Ernest kept running frantically, unfazed even by the bullets whizzing past him.
When the Belliang Army cavalry, who had chased them to the forest's edge, came under attack, they turned and retreated without hesitation.
"Haah! Haah! Haah!"
Still carrying Jonas, Ernest ran a little further before collapsing to his knees on the ground.
"Platoon Leader! Are you all right?"
Gustav rushed over, trying to check on Ernest.
"Let go!"
Ernest shoved Gustav away, then carefully laid Jonas down.
With trembling hands, he dumped out the entire contents of his pouch and grabbed a tourniquet, quickly wrapping it around Jonas's mangled leg.
"Robert! Hurry!"
"Haah! Haah! Damn it!"
Robert wrapped a tourniquet around Jonas's other leg.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking, and his vision grew blurry.
"…Guys…"
Jonas mumbled faintly.
"Yeah, Jonas, we hear you. It's okay. Everything's going to be all right," Ernest said urgently, fighting to tighten the tourniquet on his friend's completely shredded leg until the bleeding stopped.
The left leg, where Ernest had wrapped the tourniquet, had stopped bleeding, and blood flow from the right leg, where Robert was working, was gradually slowing as well.
But Jonas had lost so much blood when both legs were blown off at once by the shell, and the wounds were a mess.
"I… I'm so cold…"
"It's—it's all right. Jonas, when we get back, a Baltracher will take care of you. She'll keep you warm, and then…"
"Robert, help me. Hurry."
Ernest urged Robert, who was sobbing and trying to comfort Jonas, then lifted Jonas himself.
Robert staggered to his feet and, working together, they managed to hoist Jonas's limp body onto Ernest's shoulder.
"It's all right. Jonas. Everything will be fine. Let's go back together."
Ernest, terrified by how frighteningly light his friend felt, tried to reassure him.
"Ernest…"
"Yeah, Jonas. I'm listening. Go on."
"I'm… scared… I don't want to die…"
"It's okay. Everything will be fine. Once we get back, you'll get treatment."
"That's right, Jonas. You'll be okay. Please… God… please…"
"I want… to go back…"
"You'll be able to go back. You can't fight anymore, so you can return to Grimman."
"…"
"If you get a prosthetic leg, you'll be able to walk. Right? Yeah?"
"…"
"Jonas, you always said you'd become the most dashing man in Society, the one everyone admires."
"…"
"Even with a prosthetic, you could pull it off. You could do things that nobody else can."
"…"
"Jonas. Please."
"Robert, look after Jonas. Jonas isn't... saying anything... Damn it! Robert! What are you doing? Snap out of it! Aren't you supposed to take Jonas with you?"
"Please... Jonas... please...."
"…Platoon Leader."
Watching Ernest, struggling to walk while carrying the now motionless Jonas, and Robert, weeping and clutching at Jonas as he stumbled along, Gustav spoke in a calm voice.
"The 3rd Platoon Leader is already dead."
"No!"
Ernest shouted back, his voice tearing through the air.
All the emotions he'd been suppressing, believing that he needed to stay strong, unwavering, and resolute, suddenly burst forth like a dam breaking.
He'd held it in, again and again.
When he was dragged here after the war broke out, when he killed a man in his first battle, when Benzen died, when he heard about Tobias's death, when sleepless nights tormented him with the thought that his friends might have died, when he worried about his father who'd lost contact, and just a moment ago, when Yurgen died—he endured, right until the very end.
But now, he simply couldn't bear it.
Ernest was chillingly, brutally aware of just how irrational he was being right now.
His rational mind, almost detached from his emotions, calmly replayed this moment even as he broke down.
But for a seventeen-year-old, Ernest was simply too young to bear such grief and pain.
"No, it can't be! Jonas isn't someone who would just... die here—not here!"
"...."
"Jonas, get up. Wake up. We— We have to go back together… Please… Say something, anything! Please!"
Desperate to deny his friend's death, Ernest clung to the vain hope that Jonas was just exhausted and asleep.
He shook him, called out his name, begged him to wake up.
But Jonas said nothing.
He didn't move.
Thud.
Ernest collapsed to his knees.
It was all too much.
His friend, once so light and easy to carry, now felt unbearably heavy.
The fear threatened to snap him in two.
With his head bowed low, Ernest tried to crawl forward on his knees, struggling under the weight.
But in the end, he collapsed where he was.
Jonas, whom Ernest had been carrying on his shoulder, slipped off and tumbled lifelessly onto the mire.
"Please… please… please… Jonas… please…"
Ernest mumbled as he stroked his friend's face.
Robert, holding Jonas's body, was weeping.
Jonas's body was so light, his face so pale.
It was unmistakably the friend they'd known for the past three years, and yet, he didn't seem like the Jonas they remembered.
Maybe it was all a mistake?
Maybe Ernest had carried back someone else entirely, and the real Jonas was waiting for them someplace safe?
Or perhaps he'd run off ahead, escaped before them?
"…Jonas."
Ferdinand's trembling voice cut through those desperate, meaningless hopes.
Ferdinand stared blankly at Ernest and Robert as they sobbed over Jonas's body, then slowly stepped closer.
He staggered as if he might collapse at any moment, barely managed to steady himself, and took another step forward.
Then he knelt beside Jonas.
"F-Ferdinand, Jonas… Jonas isn't moving…" Ernest sobbed.
Ferdinand, his head bowed, gazed endlessly at Jonas's face.
Then he reached out, gathered Jonas in his arms, and lifted him up.
The body, even fully armed, felt impossibly light for a seventeen-year-old young man—so much so that Ferdinand nearly lost his balance.
He barely managed to stand upright, breathing shallowly, and spoke.
"Ernest, Robert. Jonas is already gone."
"...."
"All we can do for him now is to make sure we don't leave him here—we have to bring him back with us."
"...."
"Get up. Now."
Even as hot tears streamed down Ferdinand's face, his voice was firm.
"Jonas would want you two—not me—to do this for him."
"Aaaaaaaah!"
Ernest, sprawled on the ground, screamed and pounded his fists against the dirt, beating at the earth where stones and tree roots jutted out.
He didn't care if his hands were torn or his bones broken.
For the first time he could remember, he let everything go and wept like a child.
"..."
After a while, Ernest staggered to his feet.
Shaking, his bloodied hands trembling, he approached Ferdinand and gathered Jonas's body into his arms, holding him close.
He didn't cry anymore, nor did he lose control to his emotions.
He had poured everything into that one outcry.
Afterward, he himself no longer knew what was left inside him.
Without suppressing his sorrow, but with his sobs dying down, Ernest spoke in a ragged voice.
"…Robert, get up."
"...."
"Hurry. Jonas is out in the rain."
Robert, who had been crouched over in tears, got up unsteadily.
He wiped the rain, mud, tears, snot, and the blood of his friend from his face as he came closer, resting his head against Jonas, who was cradled in Ernest's arms.
"…Let's go, Jonas."
Robert whispered this into the ear of the friend whose name he could no longer call.
"I'll take you home now. Let's go home. Let's go back."
It's too cold here.
It's too sad.
It hurts too much.
It's too lonely.
So let's send him back to our hometown, where we laughed and played together as children.
Let's lay him to rest in those bright days, where there was no cold, no sorrow, no pain, no loneliness.
Ernest accepted the fact that his friend Jonas had died in the battle he'd commanded as acting Company Commander.
Just as Yurgen had said, this wasn't Ernest's fault—he knew that very well himself.
But for seventeen-year-old Ernest, even if it wasn't his fault, the sheer weight of this reality was enough to nearly break him.
Yet, Ernest was too strong, and also too resilient a person to be broken here.
He realized now that he had grown up in a way he'd never wanted.
And just as Yurgen had said, that was truly a sad and miserable thing.