I'm the Dauphin in France

Chapter 1247 The Line of Defense Against Death - Part Three
Sir Graham, however, showed no displeasure—no one would expect the Tatars to be well-mannered. Moreover, the Duke of York had repeatedly instructed him that this time they must cooperate seriously with the Russian army, so he didn't want to argue.

"Are your people ready?" he asked, changing the subject.

“Of course.” Korsakov nodded proudly. “The Yefremov Corps will probably only sleep for four hours tonight, and they’ll be preparing to move out before dawn.”

"Hopefully we can capture Offenburg tomorrow." The Englishman tugged at his collar. "This godforsaken place is freezing..."

The distant rumble of cannon fire interrupted his grumbling.

"What are the French doing?" Sir Graham glanced at his pocket watch. It was almost six o'clock; both sides should have returned to their camps long ago.

The two sides' positions were about two kilometers apart, and with the sky beginning to darken, it was almost impossible for the artillery to hit them.

Korsakov chuckled: "Newbies always do this; once they get excited, they want to keep firing. If they keep doing this, they'll run out of ammunition in three or four days."

As the two were talking, a caravan of carriages slowly passed by on a path not far away, from which came bursts of painful groans.

Graham turned his head and saw that the vehicles were full of wounded British soldiers, some lying down and some sitting. There were also wounded soldiers who could walk, following behind the vehicles with their heads down. Everyone was silent.

Graham frowned, then generously instructed his staff, “Prepare some hot soup for these men, and give each of them double the amount of wine.”

"Yes, General."

In the British camp, soldiers gathered around a campfire, silently eating dry bread dipped in wine and bacon.

Almost everyone was in low spirits. They had thought today would be a one-sided massacre of the French recruits, but they hadn't expected the counterattack to be so fierce, with some battalions suffering casualties of nearly 20%.

The sound of cannons booming came from the darkness in the west, causing the British soldiers to frown.

The cannon fire has been almost continuous since the battle began at noon. They had never seen it continue even after dark before.

An older soldier waved to the others and said, "Go to sleep, there's still fighting to be done tomorrow."

The British soldiers spread out hay and blankets on the ground, about to fall asleep to the sound of cannon fire, when suddenly they heard a chilling scream coming from the camp to the north, "Ah—!"

More than ten people immediately stood up again and looked nervously in that direction.

Half an hour later, news came that French shells had landed in the 22nd Battalion's camp, killing two people.

To be honest, at such a distance and without knowing the exact location of the camp, the probability of hitting the target with a howitzer firing indirect fire is negligible.

But the French cannons continued to roar in the night, as if they were gambling on this minuscule probability.

As a result, countless British soldiers were so nervous about the 22nd Battalion being hit by artillery shells that they lost sleep amidst the continuous roar.

……

In front of the French positions on the west side, Vincent carefully examined the compass by torchlight, and then drew a line in lime in front of a twelve-pound cannon.

Before long, cavalrymen emerged from the darkness and shouted to him, "Southerly wind, 3.5 meters per second."

Fan Shang immediately took out his notebook and began to calculate. Three minutes later, he reported a series of parameters to the artillerymen around him, including the correction angle, the amount of propellant, and the elevation angle.

As a top student in the mathematics department of the University of Paris and a disciple of Professor Monge, he had only been in contact with artillery for a month and a half, but calculating the trajectory was not a difficult task for him.

More than a hundred novice artillerymen immediately adjusted the cannons according to his instructions, and then the igniter pulled the firing rope, and the eight twelve-pound cannons spewed flames into the night sky one after another.

Eight shells traced extremely high trajectories, eventually landing near British positions 1.6 kilometers away. None of them hit their mark, though the closest one came within a hundred meters of the British.

The French artillery didn't care about accuracy; they had all night to fire. God always managed to get a few shells to fall on the British.

As for ammunition consumption, it was not a problem for the French army at all.

Every day, trains continuously transported shells and gunpowder from the ironworks in Nancy and the gunpowder factory in Charleville.

If the French army ever stopped shelling, the only reason would be that the gun barrels were overheating.

Joseph knew that the recruits' training level was limited, so he could only do everything he could to cause trouble for the enemy, even if 99% of the shells hit the field, he didn't care.

With a logistical marvel like the train, he could really afford to use it.

Meanwhile, in the French army camp not far from where Vincent and others were working hard on the night shift, Gaizka followed Sergeant Poppard and got a big pot of hot beef stew with onions and carrots from the field mess truck, and then distributed it to his comrades in the company.

He was holding a button in his hand, which had fallen off Nasserli's clothes.

But the sorrow in his heart was dispelled by the singing in the center of the camp.

The person singing was a beautiful girl in a long green dress. Sergeant Popard said her name was Berenice and she was a soldier in the "Propaganda Battalion".

The folk tunes of the Parisian countryside, accompanied by the organ music of the military band, allowed all the soldiers to temporarily forget the brutal fighting of the day.

After Berenice finished singing, two more young people performed a wonderful Bourrée dance on a makeshift wooden platform.

Around 9 p.m., the propaganda camp's program ended, and they left the camp under the cover of cavalry.

Then, Gaizka's company commander stepped onto the wooden platform and announced loudly: "Just two days ago, the Prussian Blücher Army surrendered to Colonel Udino, and nearly 4 Prussian soldiers were captured. Currently, the Allied forces have completely withdrawn from Switzerland! The enemy is getting closer and closer to defeat."

Long live France!

A burst of excited cheers erupted throughout the camp, until the low, somber bugle call sounded, at which point the soldiers gradually quieted down and began to tidy their bedding.

Under the starry sky, Gaizka lay on a thick blanket, turned his head and whispered to Sergeant Popard beside him, "You said Nasser could go to heaven, right?"

"Yes, he is a hero of France, and the gates of heaven will always be open to him."

Gaizka's eyes instantly welled up with tears, and he quickly sniffed hard.

……

The next morning.

The British launched a renewed attack on Gazka's position.

Gaizka glanced at Morvan standing to his left and gripped his gun tightly. Although the sound of British artillery fire still made his heart clench, his trembling legs were enough to keep him firmly in place.

Soon, the British infantry line came into firing range, and Gaizka heard the lieutenant's order: "Prepare—"

He raised his gun and shouted, "For the motherland!"

In the village of Oracel, 3 kilometers from their defensive line, the French 31st Brigade responsible for defending the area was astonished to find that the Russians, who had been attacking like vicious dogs the day before, had not launched an attack.

(End of this chapter)