Chapter 131 - A Burden Too Heavy (8)
Due to Belliang's artillery bombardment, the 13th Regiment suffered tremendous losses and retreated.
When Ernest reached the trench line, he saw that the regimental flag had already fled to the far side of the forest and was nowhere to be seen.
"We're pulling back."
However, Lieutenant Colonel Levin Ort, commander of the 1st Battalion, and a portion of the battalion headquarters troops still remained.
He calmly gave the order to withdraw to the returning 1st and 2nd Companies.
"…Belliang won't come into the forest. We need to occupy the trenches and rebuild the line."
Holding Jonas's body in his arms, Ernest spoke to Levin.
Belliang wouldn't dare come back into the woods now.
This time, the roles were reversed—the Empire was on defense, and Belliang was attacking.
It was impossible for the Belliang Army to safely bring their artillery into the woods and set them up, so they'd have no choice but to send only infantry.
And sending infantry armed with powder guns against Imperial troops holding trenches—well, that would be madness.
"I know."
Levin nodded slowly.
He, too, knew full well the Belliang Army would not enter the forest.
"But the order to retreat has been given. Follow your orders. Lieutenant Krieger."
"...."
Ernest lowered his head.
Cradling his friend, who would never move again, he rested his chin on Jonas's shoulder and closed his eyes.
Yurgen was dead.
Jonas was dead.
And countless others had died as well.
Yet after all their sacrifice, after finally capturing the forest, they now had to abandon it and retreat.
Because of one commander blinded by glory who had ordered a reckless charge, all of it had become meaningless.
"Company Commander's body…"
"It has already been recovered."
As Ernest, hoping to at least bring back Yurgen's body, spoke, Levin replied in an expressionless voice.
Yurgen's remains had already been retrieved.
All that remained was to gather the scattered soldiers who had fled in panic, and then they could head back.
"Battalion Commander Sir. Everyone's assembled."
Ferdinand, having gathered the scattered troops of the 1st Battalion, reported to Levin.
Levin nodded.
"Well done."
Even after saying that, as if he couldn't bring himself to say more, he silently looked around the quiet trench line and the forest, littered with countless bodies.
He let out a small sigh, tilting his head and hiding his eyes beneath his helmet before shouting loudly.
"We are retreating!"
With that, the 1st Battalion began to stagger and stumble out of the forest.
In the end, the 13th Regiment was defeated.
After suffering heavy losses to barely capture the woods, they threw all their remaining troops into Belliang's artillery fire, killing nearly everyone and losing combat capability, so they had no choice but to retreat.
By charging forward and revealing the enemy waiting outside the forest, the 13th Regiment inadvertently allowed the 14th and 15th Regiments to remain safely inside and capture the forest without further losses.
Despite everything, the 5th Division finally succeeded in occupying the Bertagne Forest, which they had coveted so desperately.
However, the 13th Regiment once again suffered devastating casualties and failed to break through the forest into the plains.
After returning to the campsite, the 1st Battalion focused on collecting what little strength remained.
Ernest, exhausted as he tried to leave the woods, handed Jonas's body—which he had carried alternately with Robert—to the Transport Company.
"This is Second Lieutenant Jonas Adler."
"Yes, confirmed. If you have any letters or belongings you'd like to send with him, please bring them by tomorrow."
"…Understood."
"…I'm sorry for your loss."
Yurgen's body was also turned over to the Transport Company.
After that, Ernest, now acting Company Commander, had to devote all his energy to managing the ruined 2nd Company.
He checked the casualties and reported them, moved the wounded, inspected weapons and other supplies, and requested resupply from the Quartermaster.
"Lieutenant Krieger."
"Yes, Battalion Commander Sir."
"The First-Class Baltracher is here, so make sure you get your hand treated."
It was only after Levin informed him once the reports were done that Ernest realized he needed to have his hand treated.
After Jonas's death, he had struck the ground while crying, to the point his skin split and bones fractured.
It hurt terribly, even just to walk, as the jolts sent pain shooting through his hand, yet he hadn't even thought to seek treatment.
"Yes, understood."
"No need to salute."
"Yes."
Levin stopped Ernest, who'd been about to salute with his mangled right hand, and sent him on his way.
With heavily lidded eyes, Levin watched Ernest's retreating back for a moment before turning to talk with the staff officers, ready to tackle the mountain of work still ahead.
When Ernest went to get treated, he found the First-Class Baltracher he'd seen before sitting with her legs crossed, smoking a cigarette.
Her eyes, half-closed from exhaustion, fixed quietly on Ernest as he stood at the tent entrance.
"Do you blame me, Lieutenant?" she asked around her cigarette.
"…No."
Ernest answered, standing beneath the light drizzle that continued to fall on his shoulders.
If the First-Class Baltracher had been there at that time, maybe Yurgen and Jonas could have been saved.
Even though he knew there was nothing to be done about the past, he couldn't help but think that way.
But that didn't mean he blamed this First-Class Baltracher.
She wasn't at fault for any of it.
"Then hurry up and sit down. I need to get some rest soon, too."
At the First-Class Baltracher's words, Ernest moved like a ghost and sat down across from her.
She looked over his blood-caked hand, blew out a thick cloud of smoke, and then flicked her still-long cigarette out the tent.
"Who died?" she asked as she washed Ernest's dirty hand with water.
She saw at a glance that these wounds were self-inflicted.
"The Company Commander and my friend died."
"I see. My condolences."
Silence settled again.
Ernest washed his battered hand, and even as she cut and removed dead flesh with a knife and scissors, he didn't make a sound.
He definitely felt the pain, yet, strangely, it didn't seem to belong to him. It was as if he were touching someone else's suffering from far away, just with his fingertips.
"I heard the gist of what happened. The Regimental Commander really made a mess of things."
"..."
"He'll probably be demoted. There's no way this will blow over quietly because of Hartmann."
The Major spoke as she set Ernest's broken bone and let the blood flow away.
The 13th Regiment Commander would be demoted.
His tactical blunders alone would be hard to excuse, but now, with Little Hartmann, the 1st Battalion's 1st Company Commander, and even Ferdinand almost getting killed because of his incompetence, it was inevitable.
In fact, getting off with just a demotion would be lucky.
He might be stripped of his rank entirely, and after that, the military authorities could see to it that he's ostracized from Noble Society.
"If he gets promoted just once more, he becomes a general, so it makes sense he'd lose his head over it."
"...Is that really so important?"
"For some people, it is."
"Is it more important than a person's life?"
"Of course not. Probably not."
The Baltracher replied as if it was nothing.
Yet, despite her nonchalance, Ernest sensed both cynicism and a small measure of trust from her.
"At the very least, Major, you're saving people."
"..."
"Unlike us, who are only out there killing."
The Major's hands, which had been setting bones and stitching wounds, abruptly stopped.
She slowly looked up and stared straight at Ernest.
She frowned a little.
"You arrogant brat."
She was deeply displeased—and a little unsettled—that this young man had seen right through her feelings.
She was leaving countless dying people behind, focusing instead on diligently treating nobles whose wounds were hardly life-threatening.
Ernest had picked up on the disillusionment that came with that.
And he had also noticed that despite her misgivings, she still found meaning in saving lives and convinced herself she wasn't in the wrong.
The Major finished stitching up Ernest's wound.
She did it on purpose, making it hurt as much as possible.
"Get lost."
After finishing the treatment, the Major issued her expulsion order, pulled out a new cigarette, lit it, and exhaled the smoke.
"Don't ever let me see you in front of me again. Next time, I won't treat you."
With a cigarette between her lips, she spoke, blowing smoke out between her teeth.
"Yes, I'll be careful not to get hurt."
"..."
Without even saluting, Ernest turned and walked away under the darkening evening sky.
"That kid is annoyingly sharp," the Major muttered, frowning.
He's so clever, I honestly want to smack him upside the head and knock a little sense out of him—maybe dull him down a bit.
Life's easier if you're a little dumb, but what's he planning to do, being that sharp at his age?
Instead of heading for his own tent, Ernest went toward the 3rd Platoon's tent.
He started to step inside Jonas's tent, but hesitated when he heard a sound from within.
After a moment's pause, Ernest slowly walked in.
"Robert."
"..."
In the pitch-dark tent, with not even a single light, Robert slowly lifted his head to look up at Ernest.
He'd been crying quietly.
"Can you help me out?"
Ernest, speaking softly, turned on the Balt lamp sitting neatly on the table.
"...Sniff! What?"
Robert wiped his face, rubbing away the tears and snot.
"I need to write a letter, but my hand's like this."
Ernest raised his recently treated right hand to show it. Robert, still sniffling, stared at it for a moment, then carefully selected the best quality piece of paper among those neatly stacked on the table.
"Don't mess it up with your tears or your snot."
"I won't."
"If you do, it'll look like I was bawling as I wrote it, you know?"
"You were bawling your eyes out, too, making a huge scene."
"Yeah. I did."
"So, whatever."
"You have to write it well. No mistakes."
"Just tell me what to say."
Ernest fell silent instead of speaking right away. He had absolutely no idea what to write in the letter to the House Adler.
Honestly, he didn't know at all. It felt as though his entire arm had been cut off.
Or maybe, in this situation, it was more like his tongue had been cut out.
"…To Mrs. Vendermere."
So, Ernest decided to start by writing a letter to Yurgen's wife, following Yurgen's last wish.
With slightly trembling hands, Robert hesitated for a moment before carefully putting quill to paper.
"Mrs. Vendermere, first of all, I deeply regret contacting you under such circumstances. My name is Ernest Krieger, a friend of your husband… Yurgen."
"Who do you think you are, daring to call the illustrious Company Commander by name and say you were his friend?"
"What are you, exactly?"
"Just write it that way."
"Then I'll say I was his friend, too."
"Suit yourself."
With a sniffle, Robert began writing again. Ernest waited calmly, organizing his thoughts before speaking up once more.
"Mr. Yurgen threw himself in harm's way during the last battle to save me, and he fell in action."
"Hey, that's so sudden."
"This letter will be sent along with Yurgen."
"Damn. You're right."
"Stop complaining and just write it properly."
"All right…"
Robert set about writing the letter again.
"Mr. Yurgen always missed his wife. And he missed his children, too."
"Yurgen had kids?"
"I suppose… you could say he did."
"..."
"Don't cry. You'll get the letter wet."
"…I'm not crying."
"Mr. Yurgen believed it was his own fault, but I don't see it that way. He always took good care of his subordinates, and he looked out for young officers like me as if we were his younger brothers or sons. There's no way someone like Mr. Yurgen could be at fault. If anything, his only mistake was being too kind to belong on the battlefield."
"...."
"I told you not to cry."
"I said I'm not! And speak slower! I barely have time to dip the ink!"
"...."
"Fine. Go on."
"My friend Robert Jimman, who is writing this letter for me, is also thinking of Mr. Yurgen and bawling like a little kid, snot and tears everywhere."
"You bastard!"
"But it's true."
In the end, Robert dropped his head onto the table, burying his face in his arms, and began sobbing uncontrollably. Ernest waited quietly without saying a word.
"…Sniff! I'm fine now."
"What do you mean, you're fine? Just write what I told you earlier."
"You seriously want me to write that?"
"Yes."
"Damn it…"
Still sniffling, Robert began writing the letter again.
"Mr. Yurgen was a superior we could all respect, a dependable older brother, and a father figure we could rely on for everyone in the 2nd Company. On behalf of all the 2nd Company members, I send our gratitude and sorrow to the wife he loved. From his friend, Ernest Krieger."
Robert finished the letter and carefully moved the letter paper aside to let the ink dry.
Then, naturally, he picked out a new sheet and placed it in front of him.
"To Baron Adler and Madam Adler."
Gazing at the Balt Light, its pale glow casting shadows, Ernest muttered in a low voice.
"This is Ernest, Jonas's friend."
More informal than he had been when writing to Yurgen's wife, Ernest chose his words with the heart of a friend addressing his friend's parents, setting aside their noble status.
"I am truly sorry to be reaching out for such a reason, Jonas was killed in the last battle."
"That just sounds way too sudden!"
"Then what should I say to make his death not feel sudden to his parents?"
"…You're right…"
"In truth, Jonas was very afraid of the war and struggled a lot. But not once did he cry or run away like a coward. He fought bravely and composed, just as befits the son of Adler, and he faced death with the same courage."
Jonas had cried out of fear of dying.
He couldn't face death with composure.
But rather than tell his parents such a painful truth about their son's death, it would be better to lie and say that he met his end with dignity and courage.
"It happened while the Company Commander had fallen in battle, leaving me in command during the fight."
"Hey."
"Sorry. It was my responsibility."
"You idiot. Don't say crap like that."
"Write it."
"How is this your fault?"
"I know it's not my fault."
"Then why?"
Meeting Robert's probing gaze with reddened eyes, Ernest spoke calmly and steadily.
"Robert, fault and responsibility aren't the same thing."
"...."
"That's right, I didn't do anything wrong. But at that moment, I was the one commanding our company, and as the commander, I was responsible for everything that happened to it."
"That, that's..."
"Just write it that way."
"…In my letter, I'm going to say it wasn't your fault or your responsibility."
"Do as you like. I have no intention of interfering with what you write in your letter."
Nevertheless, Robert wrote on the letter paper that Jonas's death was Ernest's responsibility, feeling deeply sorry as he did so.
"What's even more heartbreaking is that we probably can't send Jonas back home in one piece."
Ernest's voice trembled a little.
The memory of Jonas's body, now so light after losing both his legs, threatened to overwhelm him with a tide of emotion.
No one knew what had become of Jonas's legs. And with enemy shells and bullets raining down, and cavalry charging at them, there was no chance to go searching for them.
"Jonas once said he wanted to be the most dazzling gentleman in all of Society. It may be presumptuous of me to say, but if you don't mind, please make sure he looks his best, so he won't be ashamed on his final journey."
"Wait a moment…"
Robert began to cry again, and the letter writing was interrupted once more.
Ernest, unable to bear it any longer, covered his face with his good left hand and wept quietly.
After a while, the two friends calmed themselves and resumed writing the letter.
"And I'll send a letter to Wilfried in Grimman, asking him to be there, too. Please make sure that Wilfried is there to see Jonas off. Jonas missed Wilfried, and I'm sure Wilfried misses Jonas as well. When the war is over, I'll come visit in person. From Jonas's friend, Ernest."
Once Ernest finished speaking, Robert, sobbing with tears and a runny nose, put a period at the end of the letter.
"Now go write your letter. I'm going to ask the guys from 1st Company to write a letter to Jonas's parents."
"Why… why did it turn out this way?"
Robert, crying, asked the question with his head down on the table.
Ernest looked down at Robert for a long moment and then, in a blurred voice, replied.
"Yeah. Why did it have to end up like this?"
Ernest walked away without strength, hesitating before finally leaving the tent filled with Jonas's presence.
"…Alright. I'll write it tonight and deliver it tomorrow morning."
"Damn it… Jonas…"
"..."
Ferdinand looked pained but answered steadily.
Georg covered his face and wept. Baumann said nothing, his expression frozen cold.
Ernest returned to the 2nd Company and, at last, entered his own tent.
Squish.
He took off his raincoat and tossed it carelessly to the floor, then slumped heavily into a chair.
For a long while, Ernest sat there staring blankly into the darkness.
Suddenly, something came to mind, and he turned on the Balt lantern.
The darkness receded.
Ernest reached into his coat.
Clatter.
Yurgen's battered cigarette box, its lid not closing properly, made a dull sound.
Ernest looked at it quietly for a moment before slowly opening it.
The last cigarette, saved again and again but never smoked, still bore clear traces of hesitation from having been handled so often.
And inside, there was a handkerchief worn soft from frequent use.
"..."
Ernest took out the handkerchief and unfolded it carefully. Embroidered with loving care was a horseshoe, a symbol of good luck; every stitch carried love and worry. Ernest gently refolded the handkerchief and placed it back inside the cigarette box.
Then, he drew out Yurgen's moment of hesitation and brought it carefully to his lips.
Ernest reached into his pocket and took out the lighter—the one that had been given to him, Acting Company Commander Ernest, after Yurgen's body had been recovered.
Click! Click!
Ernest had never used a lighter before, but having watched Yurgen countless times, he managed to produce a flame without much trouble.
He slowly brought the fire to the cigarette held in his mouth.
The cigarette lit, and the flame of the lighter went out.
"..."
Ernest didn't inhale the smoke; he simply sat there, the cigarette between his lips, staring blankly at the curling smoke as it drifted and swayed before him.
The Balt lantern flickered.
He'd replaced the battery only a few days ago, but he'd worked the Balt lantern so hard for his studies and lessons that it already seemed at its limit.
Eventually, the Balt lantern went out completely, plunging the tent into deep darkness.
In that darkness, only the faint glow from the cigarette held in Ernest's mouth drifted alone, shining quietly in isolation.
Thud.
Ernest closed his eyes and pressed his head against the corner of the table.
The acrid smoke and searing heat from the cigarette between his lips brought tears to his eyes.
The tears kept falling, over and over again.
The night was truly dark, and unbearably long.
Jonas's first impression of Ernest was indifference.
He didn't pay him the slightest attention when they first met.
'He's like a wild beast...'
So, it was when Ernest was arrested for nearly killing a senior by setting a trap in the dormitory—that was the real beginning of Jonas's impression of him.
'That's someone I should absolutely stay away from.'
Jonas was extremely wary of Ernest, who'd done such a horrific thing, and even felt disgusted.
He thought Ernest was hardly what you'd call a noble—he was as undignified as any commoner.
'He's kind of… no, really strange, but maybe not actually a bad person.'
Then, when Thomas led them through their first mock battle training, Jonas began to revise his opinion.
After being ignored by Wilfried, Jonas had no choice but to join Ernest's platoon.
Honestly, he was so discouraged that he didn't care what happened next.
But as he fought under Ernest's command, the group—whom he'd assumed to be nothing but a band of losers—achieved astonishing results.
Even if he still couldn't quite understand why Ernest had refused to fight for a victory at the last moment.
So, back then.
By the end, Jonas finally understood Ernest's decision from that time. Even if you think you can win, when there are too many unknowns, you must never act recklessly.
"They're not stupid, but they sure act foolish sometimes."
As more time passed, Jonas watched Ernest and Robert and thought about their relationship that way. No, that wasn't quite it. The truth was, he admired them. In Noble Society, you were never supposed to show such naive, unguarded sides—rambling nonsense, getting into scuffles, arguing, chuckling together.
Yet he found himself envying their freedom.
So, little by little, he tried to slip into their circle, and Ernest and Robert welcomed him without reservation.
They became friends.
"It felt as if my world had grown bigger."
Jonas, who had always thought the insular world of Noble Society was all there was, found himself raising his head to look farther, thanks to Ernest and Robert.
He also realized that what he thought was noble about himself was actually narrow-mindedness and arrogance.
In that moment, Jonas's small world expanded.
"I'm sorry."
Even when he was dragged to the battlefield, trembling with fear, Jonas always tried to be everyone's pillar, and silently made sacrifices.
He felt sorry toward Ernest for that.
Even after joining the 2nd Company of the 1st Battalion, Ernest and Robert always looked out for Jonas.
If not for the two of them, Jonas might have died in his very first battle.
No, more likely, he would've been paralyzed by fear and fled in tears before then.
Jonas felt sorry for Ernest and Robert, knowing that even his death would become a heavy burden for them.
If only I'd fought in a different unit, if I'd died somewhere out of sight, maybe it would've been a little easier for them.
Thank you.
And I truly was grateful.
Because of them, I genuinely had fun.
It was the most wonderful time.
Even in death, I'm sure I'll never forget those moments when we laughed, played, and joked around like children.
Just like now.
"Jonas."
With desperate longing, Ernest called out to his friend.
As tears streamed down his cheeks, he slowly opened his eyes.
Ernest never doubted, not for a second, that Jonas would answer.
Jonas had been right here.
He'd definitely been in this very spot, right beside him.
...
But there was no reply from Jonas.
That familiar voice, which used to sigh as if to say he couldn't keep up with Ernest and Robert's foolishness—and yet always answered with a smile—would never be heard again.
As the painful truth sank in once more—that his friend was gone forever—Ernest slowly pushed himself upright.
He must have dozed off slumped over the table.
His neck was stiff, maybe from the awkward position.
"Jonas."
Ernest called his friend's name again.
Still, there was no reply.
A hollow emptiness swirled in his chest.
Yet, at the same time, Ernest felt a strange warmth.
That warmth continued to well up even now, drop by drop, rolling down his cheeks as tears.
Ernest rubbed his eyes to wipe away the tears.
He'd fully accepted the fact that he would never see Jonas again, and though he was steeped in sorrow, there was no longer that searing agony.
The dream he'd just had might have only been a figment of his imagination.
But Ernest realized that he had been a part of Jonas's life, just as Jonas had been a part of his.
As long as he kept living, Jonas would live on within him.
Click.
Ernest switched off Balt's faintly flickering lamp.
He'd have to ask for a new battery.
Darkness settled in the tent once more, but thanks to the light seeping in at the entrance, Ernest didn't lose his sense of direction.
He walked slowly and stepped outside.
The Eastern Sky was aflame.
The rain had stopped.
Ernest looked up at the rising sun.
As he wept, he whispered.
"Goodbye, Jonas."
At last, Ernest was able to say a proper farewell to his friend with all his heart.
The tears continued to flow without end.
The sunlight caressing his tear-streaked face was as warm as the comfort he used to feel from his friend's hand.