Trenches, Guns, and Magic

When the buzzing of propellers drifted over from the rear of the valley, Steiner almost jumped out from behind his rock.

At this time, from this direction—there was no need to guess; it could only be their own reconnaissance aircraft.

Across the entire Europa continent, aircraft were still rare novelties that only a few major powers could effectively operate.

Following the Gallic Republic's exit from the war, the Saxon Empire was the only one left truly deploying aircraft on a large scale in actual combat.

As for the Britannians?

Their esteemed mages could fly themselves and control the skies; naturally, they looked down on machines that required expending effort to train ordinary people to pilot.

Therefore, whenever the roar of airplanes sounded in the sky, it practically meant "our guys are here."

The instant the two "Taube" reconnaissance aircraft crossed the mountain peak, the 3rd Battalion soldiers waiting on the reverse slope for the bombardment to end simultaneously let out a low but irrepressible cheer.

"It's our planes!"

"Whoa! Two of them!"

On the open ground outside the river valley, the Romanian skirmish line advancing toward the high ground also noticed the two buzzing objects suddenly appearing overhead.

Many soldiers looked up at the two "big birds" sweeping across the sky, their footsteps noticeably faltering.

However, the Romanian officers quickly suppressed the hesitation in the ranks, waving their pistols and shouting to drive the soldiers forward.

The artillery fire hadn't stopped yet; they had to use this window to close the distance.

"Keep moving! Ignore those things in the sky! Take advantage of the artillery cover and charge!"

After a few roars, the skirmish line resumed its movement.

In the rear, the old colonel also noticed the two aircraft emerging from the river valley.

He squinted slightly from his horse, not paying them much mind.

Previously, when the global situation was still relatively "peaceful," the nations of Europa frequently engaged in military exchange activities. As a liaison officer, he had observed early aircraft demonstrated by the Saxon Empire.

To his knowledge, the performance of these delicate machines was quite limited. They could basically only hang in the sky to observe the ground situation—essentially acting as aerial binoculars—and possessed no substantial offensive capabilities.

Besides, even if they could drop something down, flying so high and wobbling so much, how much of a threat could they pose?

The old colonel's judgment seemed to be validated.

After flying out of the river valley, the two reconnaissance aircraft didn't immediately attack any targets. Instead, they traced a large-radius circle above the river valley exit, circling lazily.

"See, they're just here for reconnaissance."

The old colonel muttered to himself, then turned to urge his chief of staff.

"Ignore those two things in the sky! Have the infantry speed up! While the artillery is still suppressing them, charge up there!"

The final volley of shells from the mountain gun battalion blasted a row of smoke pillars along the edge of the high ground.

Above the high ground, the remaining observation post poked a head out, scanned the dense mass of heads below, grabbed the small flag nearby without a word, and waved it vigorously twice toward the reverse slope.

The signal was simple: They're coming up.

The company and platoon commanders immediately sprang into action. The NCOs urged the men in hushed voices.

"Move out! Get into combat positions!"

"Keep quiet, move fast!"

The 3rd Battalion soldiers silently crept back to the positions at the top of the high ground from the reverse slope.

The fast ones were already prone; the slower ones were still crouching and moving forward. But no one spoke, no one panicked. The speed at which everyone took their positions was even faster than on the training ground.

Immediately following, the soldiers in the various positions also began pulling out stick grenades and placing them in front of them, ready to be "grabbed and used" momentarily.

As the artillery fire ceased, the Romanian soldiers at the very front of the skirmish line had reached the gentle slope below the high ground and began bending over to climb up.

The high ground above was eerily quiet.

No gunfire, no grenades, no movement whatsoever.

"The enemy seems to have been wiped out by the bombardment. Let's charge!" a Romanian squad leader climbing in front shouted back to his men.

The soldiers behind him began to form similar judgments.

After all, those ten-plus minutes of bombardment just now sounded truly fierce. The Saxons' numbers were already small; covered by twelve mountain guns, probably not many were left.

Observing through his binoculars from the rear, the old colonel couldn't help but form the same thought.

Hmm, it seems the Saxon vanguard's numbers were indeed limited. They should have been mostly wiped out by the bombardment...

Before he could finish the thought, a massive swarm of dark objects suddenly flew out from the top of the high ground.

Stick grenades.

Over a hundred stick grenades spun through the air, raining down from above.

The instruction unit's average grenade-throwing scores were leaps and bounds ahead of the rest of the Saxon Army.

And this time, they had a terrain advantage.

Once again, the timeless classic: "Shooting from high to low makes fools out of your foes."

Thrown from high ground to low ground, those stick grenades sailed over the heads of the front-line Romanian soldiers and smashed directly into the main body of troops huffing and puffing their way up the mid-slope.

"Boom boom boom boom!"

A chain of explosions ripped across the middle of the gentle slope. Shrapnel and scree flew horizontally.

A large number of Romanian soldiers were blown off their feet, screams rising and falling.

A massive gap instantly appeared in the entire attack formation—a blank zone filled with smoke and corpses emptied out between the men in front and the men in back.

Immediately following, a second volley of grenades flew out.

Before the smoke of the explosions had completely cleared, gunfire finally erupted from the high ground.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Bolt-action rifles and semi-automatic rifles led the way, their accuracy still terrifyingly high.

With every gunshot, someone fell, and it was almost always a one-shot kill.

Then light machine guns and submachine guns joined the chorus. Short bursts rang out from several different directions simultaneously, weaving a net of fire across the slope.

The entire first wave of the attack, from start to repulse, took less than five minutes.

The skirmishers in front were pinned down by firepower and couldn't raise their heads; the reinforcing troops in the rear were cut off below by the gap created by the grenades. The entire attack formation was shattered.

Leaving over a hundred corpses and wounded on the gentle slope, the remaining Romanian soldiers scrambled and tumbled back down.

The old colonel watched the entire process through his binoculars, the muscles on his face twitching repeatedly.

But he was not intimidated.

On the contrary, this Balkan veteran extracted the information he wanted from the firefight just now—the Saxons' heavy firepower on the high ground had been forced out.

And even counting these "heavy machine guns," the Saxons' firepower wasn't considered dense.

Clearly, this old colonel had mistaken the firepower of the MG14 light machine guns for heavy machine guns on the high ground.

"Second wave of attack! Commit more troops!"

Riding his white horse, the old colonel looked at the smoking high ground ahead and continued to command:

"1st Battalion and 3rd Battalion attack simultaneously! Artillery, compress the ceasefire time further. Have the infantry start charging during the last few shells of the barrage! Don't give them time to react!"

To be honest, in the early 20th century of this alternate world, issuing an order to compress the interval between the end of a bombardment and the infantry charge was already considered extremely exquisite "micro-management"...

The order was passed down. More Romanian soldiers began surging forward from the rear, reforming their ranks on the open ground.

Preparations for the mountain gun battalion's second wave of attacks also began in earnest.

And in the sky, those two "Taubes" were still lazily drawing circles.

The old colonel glanced at the planes overhead, still not taking them seriously.

What he didn't know was that Manfred and his wingman's continuous circling wasn't purely to admire the scenery.

Inside the cockpit, while maintaining the circling attitude, Manfred constantly turned his head to look at the ground.

When they flew out of the river valley, they confirmed the friendly forces' position at first glance.

Although Steiner's men had rushed over hastily, on the reverse slope behind the position, according to the latest edition of the instruction unit's "Air-Ground Coordination Combat Manual," several massive cross markers had been laid out using rocks, sprinkled with white lime powder.

Viewed from the air, the white crosses were exceptionally conspicuous against the grayish-brown mountain background.

With IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) completed, Manfred wasn't in a hurry to act.

While circling just now, he had seen with his own eyes the scene of the high ground being bombarded—pillars of smoke rising one after another indicated the enemy had artillery support.

The Romanians' artillery—that was the target he was looking for.

Infantry could be dealt with slowly, but if these mountain guns were left alone and the friendly ground troops had to endure them head-on, the unit would suffer heavily sooner or later.

So from the very first circle, Manfred had been searching for the Romanian artillery positions.

And after flying out of the river valley, the weather suddenly cleared up. At an altitude of about 300 meters, visibility was excellent.

The future "Red Baron (Ground Attack Edition)" looked past the rear of the Romanian attack force toward the depth. In a clearing about 3 kilometers away, a row of small, dark squares was neatly lined up.

Around the squares, a large number of small black dots—human figures—were running back and forth.

Found it!

Manfred's wingman also spotted the target.

As the two aircraft closed to a parallel distance of about 10 meters, the wingman pilot, Max Immelmann, made a downward pointing gesture toward Manfred from his cockpit, then pointed to himself—meaning I'll go first.

Manfred returned an "OK" gesture.

The two "Taubes" rapidly adjusted their attitude, executing a tight turn with an even smaller radius, swinging around to the side-rear of the artillery position.

Then the wingman dipped its nose first. The engine's hum pitched up sharply as it dove toward the artillery position.

As the old colonel was arranging the second wave of attacks, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the two Saxon planes flying toward the rear.

He frowned.

Reconnaissance? Let them reconnoiter. These planes couldn't do anything anyway.

He pulled his attention back to the battlefield before him, continuing to discuss the deployment method of the second wave with several officers.

Then, dense gunfire erupted from the rear.

From the perspective of the Romanian artillerymen on the ground, one of the two buzzing objects in the sky suddenly charged toward them, flying lower and lower.

The first reaction of most gunners was to freeze.

They had absolutely no experience dealing with aircraft and didn't understand what the other party was doing.

By the time they figured it out, it was already too late.

The wingman dove to an altitude of less than 80 meters, and the 7.92mm machine gun in the front seat opened fire fiercely.

"Da-da-da-da-da—!"

Two tongues of fire descended from the sky. Bullets kicked up strings of mud upon hitting the ground, then accurately swept across the lined-up artillery position.

With the speed boost of the aircraft, this belt of ammunition carved a long trail across the ground, cutting across the entire position like a giant scythe.

The gunners who were loading shells were caught completely off guard. Bullets tore through the crowd, cutting down seven or eight people in less than two seconds.

The wingman roared past just above the position, its wings almost grazing the treetops.

Following closely behind, Manfred also pushed his nose down.

"Da-da-da-da—!"

The second strafing run accurately covered the middle section of the position. A few bullets struck an ammunition box whose lid hadn't been closed in time.

Then Manfred reached out from the side of the cockpit and dropped a bundle of cluster grenades.

The five stick grenades bundled together with canvas strips tumbled and fell through the air. The impact point was a few meters off from what he anticipated—but it was enough.

"Boom!"

A massive, muffled boom erupted from the center of the artillery position. A pillar of black smoke wrapped in dirt and debris shot into the sky.

The position instantly descended into chaos.

The surviving gunners dropped whatever they were holding and ran. Some dove into the woods behind them; others simply lay flat on the ground motionless, not even daring to raise their heads.

The two "Taubes" pulled up their noses to climb, banked in a half-circle in the air, and split up again.

When the messenger, galloping madly on horseback with a panicked face, brought the news that the artillery position had suffered an aerial attack, the old Romanian colonel almost fell off his tall white horse.

Saxon planes mounted with machine guns? And dropping bombs?

He had seen aircraft and knew they could theoretically be equipped with weapons.

But from "theoretically possible" to "someone actually doing it," the distance between the two, in his eyes at the time, still required a period of time to gradually close.

He didn't expect it to be completely flattened in this very moment.

Before he could recover from this news, the roar of a propeller suddenly sounded from behind. A Saxon airplane was flying straight toward him.

More precisely, it was flying toward an infantry assembly area about two hundred meters away.

"Scatter! Everyone, scatter—!" the old colonel roared at the top of his lungs, but it was too late.

The "Taube" dipped its nose, and the front seat machine gun spat fire again.

The bullets plowed a long trail across the ground, sweeping from the edge of the assembly area all the way to the center.

Immediately following, a dark object fell from the plane.

Cluster grenades.

A bundle of five stick grenades tied with canvas strips smashed directly down from an altitude of about fifty meters.

"Boom!!"

The explosion flipped at least half a platoon of Romanian soldiers in the assembly area. The shockwave shoved the surrounding people in all directions, sending shrapnel and clods of dirt flying.

The assembly area instantly exploded in panic.

Soldiers sprinted in all directions. Their organization, already not very high after a long march, collapsed instantly.

Some ran left, some ran right, some simply lay flat on the ground playing dead.

The cursing of the officers was completely drowned out by the panicked screams.

For these soldiers of the Romanian reserve division, being shot by rifles or bombed by artillery shells was something they were somewhat mentally prepared for.

But machine-gun strafing and bombs dropping from the sky clearly exceeded the cognitive scope of these men, who were merely honest farmers before the war.

You can't shoot back, you can't hide, you don't even know which direction the next attack will come from...

Manfred pulled his nose up to climb again, glancing down from the cockpit.

Good effect.

The infantry assembly area on the ground had fallen apart. The crowd was routing in all directions; don't even think about them reorganizing in the short term.

As he pulled the stick back to re-enter a circling pattern, he turned his head to look for his wingman.

Immelmann was still in the rear, conducting a second attack run on the artillery position.

Manfred squinted and watched for a few seconds. The wingman swept low over the artillery position and pulled up. The flashes of machine-gun fire could be seen under the nose.

The pack horse teams on the position had stampeded. Several panicked pack horses dragged overturned ammunition carts wildly across the open ground, trampling the gunners who had finally tried to return to their guns into chaos.

Just then, Manfred's gaze swept over the horizon further behind the Romanian army below.

More marching columns.

Extending from the makeshift road in the distance, densely packed infantry columns were moving rapidly in this direction.

Visually estimating at least several thousand men, the marching column stretched very long, like a grayish-khaki ribbon laid across the road.

The Romanians' follow-up troops had arrived.

"No time to contact Max..."

Manfred made his decision.

Since his wingman was still busy dealing with the artillery and supply train in the rear, he would go and greet these arriving enemy reinforcements alone first.

"Welcome, Romanians!"

Manfred muttered to himself while working the control stick. The "Taube" flew off toward the further distance.

The Romanian marching column below was still maintaining a dense two-column formation.

They clearly didn't know what had happened ahead... or if they did, they hadn't reacted yet, let alone had time to adjust their formation.

Manfred pushed the nose down along the direction of the road, the engine's roar rapidly peaking.

The distance closed.

Three hundred meters, two hundred meters, one hundred meters...

He pulled the trigger. The twin-linked machine guns opened fire.

7.92mm bullets swept down along the longitudinal axis of the marching column.

Dense, two-column formations were the optimal target for this kind of longitudinal fire.

Every bullet could pass through several rows of people, causing lethality far exceeding that of a lateral strafing run.

The marching column was instantly thrown into chaos.

As Manfred swept over the column, he leaned half his body out of the cockpit and shoved his last bundle of cluster grenades straight down.

"Boom!"

Five grenades blossomed in the center of the road.

He didn't look back at the results, pulling the stick to climb directly, preparing to turn around for another run.

On the high ground, Steiner didn't know every detail of what was happening in the air, but he could hear it.

The continuous sounds of explosions and machine-gun fire from the distant rear told him and the officers beside him that their "reconnaissance aircraft" were likely reaping quite a harvest.

Taking advantage of this breathing room, he hurriedly checked the firing positions of the companies and platoons again, having several machine gun teams that had consumed a lot of ammo redistribute their remaining supplies.

Before long, movement appeared below the high ground once again.

The Romanians' second wave of attacks had arrived.

This time, the scale was clearly much larger than the first wave.

Looking down from the observation posts on the high ground, at least two battalion-sized infantry formations were deploying into skirmish lines, pushing up from below the gentle slope.

A dense mass of figures blanketed the entire front of the gentle slope.

"That's a lot of people this time..."

The battalion executive officer nearby muttered softly, then turned to look at him:

"Commander, can the heavy machine gun positions open fire this time?"

Steiner nodded without speaking. The executive officer also nudged a messenger lying further down with his foot. The messenger, upon receiving the order, immediately got up and left.

As for the silent Steiner, he was rapidly calculating in his head how many more defensive battles of this scale they could sustain with their current ammunition.

The answer was not optimistic.

Two basic loads of ammunition—handling one or two attacks was no problem.

But if the opponent recklessly piled bodies on them wave after wave, by the third or fourth wave, their ammo would hit bottom.

"Hold steady. Wait until they close in before firing."

Steiner instructed the people around him in a low voice.

This order was passed to every firing position through the NCOs.

Everyone fell quiet, staring only at the increasingly close Romanian skirmish lines on the gentle slope.

One hundred and fifty meters.

One hundred meters.

Eighty meters...

"Grenades!"

Another overwhelming volley of stick grenades flew out from the high ground.

But this time, the Romanians had quickly completed an "extensive battlefield learning course" during their deadly attacks.

Their skirmish lines were spread much wider. The distance between individuals was much greater than during the first wave. So, while the lethal effect of the grenades was still considerable, it wasn't as exaggerated as the first time.

After the explosions, a significant number of Romanian soldiers were actually still charging up.

"Fire!"

The MG14 light machine guns roared first, pouring swathes of bullets into the crowd on the gentle slope. Rifles and submachine guns joined in simultaneously.

But the Romanians' will to attack this time was unexpectedly tenacious.

Although those Balkan veterans kept falling under the fire, the men behind them stepped over the corpses of those in front and continued to climb. A few even climbed to within thirty meters of the top of the high ground before being taken down by bursts.

"Left flank! Watch the left flank! Someone's sneaking up!"

A shout suddenly erupted from the left side of the position.

Half a platoon of Romanian soldiers, utilizing the blind spot of a rock formation, had actually sneaked around to the side of the high ground.

However, soon after, a cross-deployed MG08 heavy machine gun position threw off its tie-dyed camouflage canvas and swept a barrage of bullets at these soldiers.

"Dong-dong-dong-dong-dong—"

Amidst the heavy thudding of the heavy machine gun, over half the Romanian soldiers fell on the spot. But immediately, more men popped their heads out from that blind spot.

Under the proactive command of middle-level NCOs, a squad of instruction unit soldiers charged over with guns leveled. The two sides engaged in a fierce firefight at a distance of thirty meters.

The firepower advantage of the submachine gun was once again demonstrated in this close-quarters combat.

After a few short bursts and several thrown grenades, the Romanians attempting to infiltrate from the flank were entirely repulsed.

But the ammunition consumption across the entire position also skyrocketed to a dangerous level during this round of defense.

"Commander, 1st Company reports ammo is at less than half," the battalion executive officer crawled over to relay the message.

"2nd Company is about the same."

Steiner gritted his teeth. If the Romanians launched another attack of the same scale, even if they could withstand it, they might genuinely run out of ammunition.

In this instant, Steiner felt the reliance of automatic weapons on logistics for the first time.

In an independent combat environment lacking resupply, a unit's self-sustainment capability in high-intensity combat was basically zero...

Below the gentle slope, the repulsed Romanian soldiers were regrouping.

The old colonel's face was incredibly grim right now.

The attack by those two airplanes just now had smashed his artillery position to pieces.

Of the twelve mountain guns, only half the gun crews could still continue firing. The remaining crew members had suffered casualties to the point of losing combat capability.

Without artillery cover, the cost of infantry attacks multiplied.

But he also saw hope from the second wave of attacks—the defenders' firepower on the high ground was indeed weakening.

"They're almost out of ammo," the old colonel judged.

"One more wave! Throw all remaining reserves in!" He roared at the chief of staff through gritted teeth. "Take it down in one fell swoop!"

The chief of staff hesitated.

"Commander, the airplanes—"

"I don't care about that right now!" The old colonel shoved him aside. "We must take the high ground before the Saxons run out of ammo! The planes won't fly in the sky forever; their fuel and ammo will run out eventually!"

The order for the third wave of attacks was passed down.

This time, the Romanians brought up every infantryman who could move.

The regrouped strength of three battalions deployed simultaneously, launching an assault on the high ground from the front and both flanks. The gentle slope was quickly covered with running, hunched figures.

Steiner watched this formation, his chest tightening sharply.

"Commander..."

"I see it."

He quickly scanned the entire defense line, then calmly issued his orders.

"Mortars commence attack. No need to conserve ammo. You must beat back the enemy's attack!"

"Everyone else... those with rifles, fix bayonets! Prepare for hand-to-hand combat when the ammo runs out!"

When Steiner issued this order, his voice was unnaturally calm. His command quickly spread along the position.

Then, the rising and falling sounds of clashing metal rang out across the position—it was the soldiers equipped with Gew98s and M1915s locking their bayonets into their rifle lugs.

As for the soldiers equipped with submachine guns, they silently unhooked their entrenching tools from their backpack straps.

The Romanians on the gentle slope had already charged to within sixty meters.

"Fire!"

All remaining firepower on the high ground was unleashed.

The Romanians fell row by row, but the men behind them surged up row by row.

Just then, a messenger rode frantically into the middle of the high ground, then abruptly dismounted and scrambled to Steiner's side on all fours.

"Commander, reinforcements have arrived!"

Steiner snapped his head toward the valley.

Over a hundred figures in field-gray uniforms were sprinting wildly out of the mountain woods of the river valley.

Their faces were covered in sweat, their uniforms soaked, running unsteadily... but every one of them held a weapon, charging toward the high ground as they ran.

The vanguard company of the instruction unit's 2nd Battalion, led by Rommel, had arrived.