Chapter 1100: Chapter 1039: Rare Clarity in Confusion
The sky was dark, and Gael, the commander of the left route division, was groggy, his gray-white hair messily tangled.
He forcefully propped his head with his hand to prevent himself from plunging into the stack of documents piled higher than his helmet.
For an elderly man over seventy, even with the support of breathing techniques, getting up in the middle of the night to handle military affairs was torturous.
"...Based on my experience in the Thousand River Valley War, there are at least five hundred men on their side.
So far, when I returned, I didn’t see any comrades, and the beacons hadn’t been lit. I speculate this is the beginning of a large-scale assault..."
In front of the table, Pierre, covered in blood, spoke anxiously and uncomfortably.
Gael nodded slightly, his fingers sliding over a worn and greasy copy of the "Falan Army Code", eyes half-closed like a cat just waking up.
"You are a deserter, aren’t you?"
"Ah?" Gael’s first words left Pierre stunned.
"The beacons weren’t lit, and you came back by yourself, which makes you a deserter."
"No, I, I returned to deliver the message, how can I be a deserter?"
"See for yourself Falan Army Code Chapter Five, Article Seven, you did not fulfill your duties, there’s nothing more to say, guards, take him away."
"Sir, sir... Mad, you old fool, I could have chosen not to return, you know? I came back hoping for victory!
How can we win with people like you, you will surely lose!"
The deserter Pierre’s angry curses followed him out of the tent, and the guard captain nearby yelled in anger, "So arrogant, what’s a deserter’s deal? Go slap his mouth!"
"No need, punish according to the rules." Though cursed as an old fool, Gael’s patience was profound, brushing off the insults lightly.
Turning around, he spoke to the clerk and accompanying Priest-in-Charge: "Record it, the outpost was attacked, casualties... well, several."
"Sir!" Thousand-man leader Miller stepped forward, his uniform’s copper buttons shining brightly, "Pierre is a veteran of the Thousand River Valley War. He said there were at least five hundred of them, with gunfire as dense as hail.
This is definitely not a random skirmish, reconnaissance units wouldn’t have so many people, their numbers are indeed significant.
We should follow Count Kazi’s advice, proactively retract the defense line, reinforce the stone bastion on the flank, and wait for the legion’s main forces to converge!"
Gael rubbed his reddened eye corners but didn’t speak, slowly flipping through the documents until he found a wax-sealed dispatch.
The iris flower on the seal was somewhat blurred, brought by someone from Montel three days ago.
Though Count Kazi, as an adviser at the military meeting, expressed that the left-route army should restrain the enemy’s flank, not to take initiative without orders, thus creating conditions for the main forces to encircle.
Yet, the order from Montel was, if encountering a small enemy contingent, to opportunistically strike, securing an initial victory for the army.
Count Kazi said not to take the initiative, Montel said to take the initiative.
Stuck in the middle, Gael was now hitting a dead end on both sides.
"Take a look at this document yourselves?" He tossed the General Order to the three present chiefs, then leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.
He was old, but his mind wasn’t.
Though he hailed from a civil background, his family was rooted in military aristocracy, otherwise, he wouldn’t hold the role of division commander.
He could clearly judge that Count Kazi’s strategy was more prudent, but the issue was that Count Kazi was merely an adviser.
His verbal contributions at the military meeting could only be considered as reference; the real military orders inherently had to look to Montel.
Montel’s order, without doubt, was riskier, but it was issued by him, Gael was merely an executor.
If something truly went wrong in the future, the responsibility was Montel’s, having nothing to do with Gael.
If Gael refused to obey, and the post-battle was won, he’d gain no benefits, and if lost, he’d suffer greatly.
Though militarily Gael leaned more toward Count Kazi, but no merit or fault was always better than merit with fault.
"So you mean we go with Montel’s opinion?" one of the chiefs tentatively asked.
"Yes, take the initiative to attack, we have five thousand men, mostly combat soldiers, unlike the right route army."
"But Montel the legion commander isn’t here!" Miller sweated in panic, "This is definitely not a skirmish with a small contingent..."
"Count Kazi is just an adviser!" Gael suddenly raised his voice, "The Army Code Chapter Three, Article Five states that subordinate divisions must unconditionally execute orders from the superior legion commander.
Montel is the legion commander, his orders override anyone else’s."
"Sir Gael, surely you’ve already seen it?" Miller stepped forward again, "This is definitely not a small contingent, one hundred cavalry, one hundred infantry, only one escaped.
The degree of elite and the opponent’s reaction speed certainly exceeds our expectations.
With this expectation, we might very likely encounter Holy Alliance elite units outfitted with powerful wind equipment, like the Black Champion Army or nearby Divine Punishment Army.
They might even have spring cannons, a Holy Alliance battle group should have forty-eight three-pounder cannons, while we only have half..."
"Miller, thousand-man leader!" Gael suddenly slammed the table, causing the ink pot to shake, black ink splattering on the Army Code’s cover, "Mind your role! You’re a thousand-man leader, and I’m the division commander!"
Miller wanted to argue but was stopped by the gazes of his colleagues.
Old Gael stood up, his joints letting out light cracks, like the sound of breaking branches: "Since you’ve decided so, Miller, then proceed to reinforce the stone bastion, yes, that’s it."
"But..."
"If there’s nothing else, then return and prepare, we will set out at dawn."
Miller looked around disappointedly at his colleagues, finding them all staring blankly and remaining silent.
"Sigh..." As the three chiefs exited, leaving Gael alone in the tent.
He brought out a candle, staring at Montel’s dispatch for a long while, then pulled out his clerk’s memorandum.
On it were densely recorded various military supply audits and document archival, but not a single notable battle merit.
He sighed, picked up the quill, and scribbled on the command: "Left-route army advances at dawn, following Montel the legion commander’s strategy, opportunistically seeking the enemy, annihilating its small units."
Ink spread on the paper, like an ugly black blot.
The next morning, cooking smoke curled.
Soldiers yawned, emerging from the camp and forming formations on the grass.
In the mist before dawn, Miller watched the Falan soldiers marching in neat ranks, unable to resist glancing back at old Gael.
Honestly, in such a situation, dividing forces to guard the stone bastion rather preserved Miller’s thousand soldiers.
If old Gael actually went on the battlefield, according to Miller’s speculations, it might not end well.
But old Gael probably didn’t care, as long as his actions were correct, it was simply a matter of ability.
It wasn’t even his ability problem, Montel would still have to share half the responsibility.
Regarding the outcome of this battle, Gael certainly cared, but there was no choice, if he were thirty years younger, he would definitely disobey.
Back during the first battle of Windmill Field, he was also a rebellious and hot-blooded youth charging ahead.
But Falan had changed, and so had he.
Gael rode on horseback, clutching the signed order, the sweat from his palm crumpling the paper.
Life, so easy to feign ignorance.
"Advance!" he shouted, his voice swallowed half by the morning fog.
