Chapter 677: Eastern Europe in Flames (Part 4)
"Ahhh—!"
Janik's eyes widened in terror, his scream cutting through the chaos as he instinctively pulled the trigger.
Bang! The bullet flew wildly into the sky.
Krzysztof, already focused on reloading his musket, heard Janik muttering under his breath:
"Holy Mary, please protect your…"
He smacked Janik's back hard. "Stop mumbling! Reload!"
"Reload? Oh, yes, reload!" Janik's trembling hands struggled to follow through. It took him ages just to untie his powder pouch, but even then, his shaking fingers couldn't manage to pour it into the barrel properly.
Though he had yearned to fight on the battlefield, to strike down the invaders with his own hands, his body betrayed him at this critical moment. The harder he tried to steady himself, the worse his limbs quaked. Even his stomach seemed to clench and churn as if an invisible hand were twisting his insides. He could hardly breathe.
Images of his own death played relentlessly in his mind—being struck down just like Batrowicz earlier.
"Aim—"
"Fire—"
The captain's voice echoed through the chaos.
Janik took a deep breath, hastily crossing himself before awkwardly attempting to pour gunpowder into his musket. Half of it spilled onto the ground.
Drasowicz called out to his men, urging them to aim carefully before firing.
The enemy soldiers drew closer, their gunfire growing denser.
Screams of pain erupted intermittently from the Polish line as soldiers fell one by one. Those in the rear quickly stepped forward to drag the bodies back and fill the gaps in the formation.
Janik pulled out his ramrod, fumbling several times before managing to pack the powder and shot into his musket. Around him, another volley of gunfire erupted.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The thunderous return fire from the Russians snapped Janik out of his stupor. Looking up, he realized the enemy was now less than 40 paces from the breastwork. He could clearly see the bristling beard of one soldier on the front line.
Finally ready, Janik raised his musket, aiming shakily at the bearded man. He squeezed the trigger, but the musket failed to fire.
Frantic, he lowered the weapon to inspect it, only to discover the flintlock hadn't been cocked.
"Damn it! I'm such an idiot!" he cursed aloud, fumbling to set the flintlock.
By the time he raised his weapon again, the bearded Russian was pointing his own musket straight at him.
"Ah!" Janik yelped, ducking instinctively.
"Fire!"
Another volley from the Polish line roared out, but Janik suddenly felt the sting of a whip across his back.
"Get up, coward!" barked an officer.
By then, a group of Russian soldiers had charged within 20 paces of the breastwork, firing wildly as they advanced.
Other Polish soldiers, seemingly emboldened by Janik's hesitance, had also crouched down behind the wall.
The Russians pressed their advantage, closing the gap. The bearded soldier vaulted over the breastwork, his bayonet plunging toward Drasowicz.
Drasowicz managed to parry with his musket, the cold steel scraping dangerously close to his scalp. But the Russian soldier kicked him hard in the face, forcing him to stumble and crouch.
"Stand up! Fire back!" shouted Krzysztof, the only soldier in the unit still firing. His voice was frantic as he tried to rally the men.
But the others, including Drasowicz, remained cowering in fear.
"Damn it! Have you all forgotten that girl yesterday?" Krzysztof screamed. "If we let the Russians break through, every Pole will end up like her!"
He was referring to the girl killed by the Russian advance the day before. He still didn't know her name. After her death, little Kaczi had refused to utter a single word.
"Get up and fight! Don't let this become another Livonia! If you—"
Krzysztof's impassioned plea was abruptly cut short.
Janik froze, turning toward the voice just in time to see a bullet tear through Krzysztof's neck, leaving a gaping wound. Blood gushed from the tear, splattering across the face of the bearded Russian soldier who'd been grappling with Drasowicz.
"Krzysztof!" Janik screamed in anguish.
The sight of his fallen comrade reignited something in him. He suddenly remembered that his musket was loaded. A surge of energy coursed through him as he raised the weapon and aimed at the bearded soldier.
Bang!
The bearded Russian soldier was still wiping blood from his face when a bullet tore through his abdomen. Staggering for a moment, he toppled from the breastwork and fell to the ground.
Janik let out a wild yell, swinging his musket like a club and knocking another Russian soldier off the breastwork. The sound of the officer's command rang in his ears:
"Prepare—!"
"Yes, fire!" Janik shouted, scrambling to reload his musket. He quickly began pouring powder into the barrel, his mind flashing with images: the girl killed by cannon fire yesterday, Batrowicz's shattered skull, Krzysztof's blood spraying into the air.
For a moment, his trembling stopped.
Janik loaded the musket with uncharacteristic steadiness, took a deep breath, raised his weapon, and bellowed like a wild animal:
"Damn it! Russians can die too! I just killed one, and I'll kill another!"
Drasowicz also snapped back to his senses. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he forced himself to lift his musket.
"I have to hold this line! My Marlene and Fyodor are in Volyn—I must stand between them and these Russians!"
Perhaps it was Krzysztof's earlier words, or maybe Janik's sudden bravery, but the nearby recruits, who had been cowering in fear, began to stand.
"Fire!"
With the officer's command, the Polish defenders at Zagazdek village fired their most synchronized volley yet.
A wave of gunfire swept across the advancing Russian soldiers, cutting down dozens in the lead.
Three kilometers away, on a hillside.
At the temporary Russian command post, General Morkov, commander of the Polish Front Army, watched the Polish defenses through his spyglass. The scattered flashes of musket fire from the Polish line and the progress of his own skirmishers advancing into Zagazdek village brought a faint smirk to his lips.
[Note 1]
"The Tsar should have declared war long ago," he remarked. "Honestly, we didn't even need to muster this entire force of 120,000 troops."
Handing the spyglass to a nearby staff officer, he continued dismissively:
"The combat effectiveness of these Polish forces is as feeble as the Ottomans'."
Indeed, Morkov had sent only a probing force of skirmishers, yet they had nearly breached the Polish defensive line. This reinforced his view of the Polish military's inadequacies.
Turning to a courier, he gave his next orders:
"Have Wladyslaw withdraw. Korolev's division will launch the full assault in one hour.
"By tonight, I want our line advanced to the gates of Mozyr."
"Understood, General!"
Morkov's confidence was not baseless. As the main thrust of the invasion, his army numbered 75,000 men, supported by a formidable 92 cannons—an artillery advantage that had already devastated the Polish defenses.
Moreover, many of his troops were veterans of the Russo-Turkish Wars, far more experienced and disciplined than their Polish counterparts.
In contrast, the Polish side had only 50,000 troops, with fewer than 30 cannons. If he failed to secure a swift victory under these circumstances, he might as well not return to St. Petersburg.
Soon, the sound of gongs echoed from the Russian rear, signaling their skirmishers to retreat. The attacking Russians began withdrawing methodically.
Only after the Russians had moved out of musket range did the Polish officers call out, "Cease fire!"
Janik finally lowered his musket, suddenly aware that the battle was over.
Before him lay the battlefield, littered with the bodies of Russian soldiers—at least sixty or seventy of them.
For a moment, Janik stood frozen. Then, a surge of heat rushed from his back to his head. Unable to contain himself, he pumped his fist in the air and shouted:
"We drove them back! The Russians are retreating! They're running away!"
The other recruits blinked in surprise before breaking into cheers, leaping and shouting:
"The Russians are retreating!"
"Ha! Let them taste our wrath!"
"Long live Poland!"
"Long live the Motherland!"
[Note 1]
The Russian army invading Poland was divided into northern and southern forces. The northern force was the Lithuanian Front Army, while the southern force was the Polish Front Army. The term "Polish Front Army" does not mean it was composed of Polish soldiers.
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