Chapter 678: The Burning East Europe, Part 5
"Don't let your guard down yet!"
Drasowicz waved his hand and shouted, his voice somewhat muffled due to the swelling on his left cheek.
"That was just a probing attack by the Russians. The real battle is still ahead!"
But no one paid him much attention. Frustrated, he climbed atop the breastwork to shout again. Just then, the company commander approached, patted his shoulder, and shook his head.
"Let them enjoy this moment. Times like these will become rarer as the battle drags on."
Their mission was to hold Zagazdek Village for three days. Only three hours had passed so far.
After celebrating briefly, the soldiers began gathering the bodies of the fallen and treating the wounded.
Father Stasiak, the chaplain assigned to Drasowicz's company, arrived and knelt beside each fallen soldier to offer a short prayer.
The company commander hurried over, visibly worried.
"Father Stasiak, you shouldn't be here! The Russians could attack at any moment—this place is too dangerous!"
The priest raised a calming hand, his expression serene.
"I must bring the Lord's comfort to these brave young men."
After he and his assistant finished praying for the 41 fallen defenders of Zagazdek Village, they started for the next defensive position. But just as they began their journey, the distant sound of Russian bugles filled the air.
Father Stasiak turned back and raised his weathered hand high, calling out:
"Brave Crusaders, God is with you!"
A roar of cheers erupted from the Polish defenders.
Drasowicz squinted at the Russian soldiers pouring out from the forest ahead, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper.
"There must be at least 1,300 of them, maybe more..."
He could faintly hear the mounted scouts reporting to the officers.
"The Russians are assembling... centered on an infantry regiment... supported by a battalion of skirmishers... cavalry spotted to the north of the village..."
Drasowicz spat forcefully on the ground, his face darkening.
"These Russian bastards brought plenty of men."
An infantry regiment and a battalion of skirmishers meant at least 2,000 Russian soldiers, plus cavalry. The Polish defenders of Zagazdek Village numbered fewer than 1,400.
Next to Janik stood another recruit—Jerzy Raczkow, if he remembered correctly. Turning to greet him, Janik asked:
"Jerzy, you're here?"
"Yeah. We met back at the training camp. You guys were incredible earlier!"
"We lost a lot of people. Nervous?"
"No!" Raczkow puffed out his chest. "I feel thrilled!"
Janik nodded approvingly. "Keep your hands steady—that's important."
"Got it!"
"And remember, Russians are no big deal. Shoot them fast, and they'll die just like anyone else."
"Understood!"
The Russian artillery began their bombardment, a standard fire-suppression tactic before advancing.
Behind the breastwork on Zagazdek's eastern side, Polish soldiers stood tall, teeth clenched, ignoring the screaming shells overhead.
When the occasional soldier was struck down by a cannonball, another would step forward to fill the gap, standing firm and resolute.
Soon, the rhythmic pounding of Russian drums grew faintly audible.
Drasowicz murmured to the nervous recruits on either side of him:
"Hold the line. Survive this first wave, and we just might hold out for three days."
He knew the first major assault was always the fiercest. If the attackers failed to break through, their morale would waver.
Meanwhile, his own green recruits would grow numb—to the sound of gunfire, the explosions of cannonballs, and even to death itself. And with that numbness, the defensive line would grow stronger.
As the drumbeats grew louder, a Russian infantry column came into view.
The column was three files wide, followed by over ten ranks of soldiers, crouched and running. This was the most modern assault tactic used by Europe's major armies in recent years.
Drasowicz knew that across the broader battlefield, a dozen or more such columns were likely advancing simultaneously.
Behind them marched the infantry line.
If his position was overwhelmed by the Russian column, the infantry line would move in to exploit the breach, using their superior numbers to crush the defenders.
If only we had more cannons... he thought bitterly.
The officer's command broke his reverie.
"Prepare—!"
Janik raised his musket faster than Drasowicz, prompting the older soldier to smile faintly.
"Another one for our Crusaders, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Aim—"
"Fire—!"
The Polish line erupted in flame and smoke, cutting down a dozen Russians.
Raczkow clapped Janik on the back, shouting excitedly:
"I hit one! Did you see that? I hit—"
"Reload!" Janik snapped, glaring at him.
"Oh, right..."
The Polish defenders fired volley after volley, but the Russian infantry pressed forward, undeterred despite their mounting casualties.
Janik lost count of how many times he reloaded. By the time he raised his musket again, the Russians had halted, just 30 paces away, and were taking aim.
"Fire—!"
The officer's command rang out. Janik fired hastily and glanced to his side just in time to see Raczkow struggling with his reload.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The Russians unleashed their own volley, and several Polish soldiers still reloading were struck down.
"Hold the line!" Janik and Drasowicz shouted in unison.
They were now flanked by new soldiers, as others had fallen. The replacements, however, stood firm, raising their muskets with unwavering resolve.
Both sides exchanged volley after volley, locked in a brutal contest of endurance.
The battlefield was a cacophony of screams, gunfire, and the relentless beat of Russian drums. Blood and limbs flew through the air, only to be replaced by more as fresh waves of soldiers stepped into the carnage.
Lives were cut down like grass, falling in swathes under the smoky sky.
"Jerzy, reload!" Janik shouted, turning to remind his comrade, only to find a new face beside him.
For a moment, he froze, then wiped the sweat—or was it blood?—from his face with his sleeve.
"Karol, keep your hands steady—that's important!"
"Fire—!"
Janik roared along with the officer, his musket spitting flames. A Russian flag bearer in his sights crumpled to the ground.
The remaining Russian soldiers exchanged glances, hesitated, then began retreating.
Across the northern and southern fronts, seven or eight Russian columns also faltered, turning to flee under mounting losses.
"They're retreating!" Karol cheered, pumping his fist.
Janik nodded grimly.
"Don't get too excited. There are plenty more where they came from."
Sure enough, minutes later, the Russian infantry line appeared, advancing steadily. In front of them, 300–400 skirmishers fired continuously to suppress the defenders.
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