When the Third, Fifth, and Eighteenth Corps subordinate to the Gallic Fifth Army Group began their advance toward the border, General Charles Lanrezac, the commander, was still pacing back and forth in his headquarters, the feeling of unease in his heart not diminishing in the slightest.
The descriptions of the Flanders Dispatch Riders who fled back from Charleroi echoed repeatedly in his mind.
"The enemy might have over ten Heavy Machine Guns…"
Such a description was like a thorn, deeply piercing Lanrezac's heart. How could a company or platoon-level unit possibly be equipped with over ten Heavy Machine Guns? This completely defied common sense. The Gallic General Staff had conducted detailed studies on the firepower configuration of Saxon infantry squads and platoons. According to the latest pre-war information, over ten Heavy Machine Guns was the configuration for at least a division-level unit.
This also made Lanrezac deeply concerned that the Flanders soldiers, whose quality was already not high, had completely misjudged the true scale of the enemy amidst the great chaos and fear of the battlefield.
This was not him looking down on these 'allied forces,' but it was simply the truth of the matter.
Since the humiliating defeat in the 'Sago War (Saxon – Gaul War,' the Saxon Empire had greatly enhanced its national power in all aspects, including population, thanks to technological advances in the Radiant Crystal industry. This had forced the Gallic Republic to live under the constant pressure of potential national demise for these past years. They had increased the conscription period to the harsh level of '5 years active service and 12 years reserve service,' making the professional level of their army incomparable to the past. The conscripts of the Grand Duchy of Flanders, however, could not be compared with Gallic veterans, either in training or will.
"General, are you still concerned about the situation in Charleroi?" an Aide-de-Camp walked up cautiously and asked softly.
Lanrezac stopped pacing, looked at the location of Charleroi on the map, and nodded with a grave expression.
"I have a feeling things are not that simple… Commander-in-Chief Joffre and the others are blinded by the 'victory' on the Southern front. They simply do not understand that once a breach is made on the Northern front, the entirety of Paris will be exposed to the Saxon spearhead."
He pointed to the Sambre River on the map and continued:
"If the Saxons were truly just a small unit, why would they risk being annihilated by our main force and penetrate so deep here alone? Their target must be these bridges! They want to open a path for their follow-up main forces!"
The Aide-de-Camp's face also showed concern upon hearing this. "Then what should we do now? The Third Corps won't arrive until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest."
"We can't wait that long!" Lanrezac said decisively: "I need to know immediately exactly how many Saxons are in Charleroi City, and what their precise firepower configuration is… Intelligence, I need accurate intelligence!"
He spun around suddenly and issued a new order to the Aide-de-Camp.
"Immediately issue an order to the Third Cavalry Division! Have them advance toward Charleroi at maximum speed! I don't care what method they use… whether it's armed reconnaissance or a probing attack, I must receive an accurate report on the enemy scale in Charleroi as quickly as possible!"
"Yes, General!" The Aide-de-Camp stood at attention and immediately turned to relay the command.
Under the night sky, the camp of the Third Cavalry Division was a hive of activity.
A piercing bugle call broke the silence, awakening the sleeping cavalrymen. The urging of the officers, the 'clanging' of soldiers organizing their equipment, and the snorting of horses mingled together, forming the unique pre-battle symphony of the cavalry camp.
Cavalry Captain Léo Bordela, commander of the Second Squadron of the 11th Dragoon Regiment subordinate to the Third Cavalry Division, was quickly putting on his uniform while loudly issuing instructions to his non-commissioned officers.
"Quick, quick, quick! Feed your prized possessions well, and check the horseshoes and saddlery! In ten minutes, I want to see everyone on horseback!"
The cavalrymen throughout the camp were busy. They first fed their beloved horses oats and hay to replenish the energy needed for the long-distance rush, then carefully prepared the saddles and checked every buckle. These horses were the cavalrymen's companions and their second lives, allowing no room for carelessness.
The Third Cavalry Division was one of the most elite cavalry divisions in the Gallic Army. It comprised three cavalry brigades, one horse artillery battalion, one bicycle battalion, and a signals platoon. Each cavalry brigade also included a Heavy Machine Gun Platoon and two cavalry regiments. After the Gallic Republic declared total mobilization, these cavalry regiments quickly expanded from their usual four squadrons to six squadrons, with each squadron typically having 150 cavalrymen.
In total, the entire cavalry division possessed nearly 5,400 cavalrymen and over 400 infantrymen, making it one of Lanrezac's valuable mobile forces.
The main force, the Dragoons, primarily carried the Berthier Carbine, with ninety-six rounds of ammunition, to handle small-scale encounters. Of course, as cavalrymen, the long Cavalry Lance remained their most trusted companion when launching a charge. Officers wore revolvers and sabers, symbolizing their rank and command authority. The most relied-upon support firepower for the entire division was the twelve precious 75mm Magic Guided Cannons of the horse artillery battalion, and the six Saint-Étienne M1907 Heavy Machine Guns attached to the two brigade headquarters.
Once the division headquarters confirmed the marching route, the huge cavalry force merged into the night in regimental units, forming a long marching column. Captain Léo led his Second Squadron, lanterns attached, following closely behind the First Squadron, advancing along the road toward Charleroi, a straight-line distance of fifty-five kilometers away.
The summer night wind blew across his face, carrying away the heat of the day, but it could not cool the boiling fervor in Captain Léo's heart. He could feel that he, like the soldiers under him, was overcome with an uncontrollable excitement for the impending first battle. This was the first battle to take revenge on the Saxons!
He took a deep breath, attempting to calm his excited emotions. As a commander, he had to remain composed. He strictly controlled the marching speed during the first hour after departure, allowing the horses' muscles and joints a 'warm-up' period. This was a golden rule in the cavalry operational manual, which effectively prevented injuries to the horses during a long march.
In a night march, all tasks became more challenging. Léo and his Aide-de-Camp rode back and forth in the squadron's column, meticulously checking every soldier and their mount. He didn't want any of his men to fall behind due to equipment issues and miss this significant battle.
"Lieutenant, go to the rear and check if anyone has a problem with their horseshoe or if the saddlery is rubbing too hard," Léo instructed his Aide-de-Camp.
"Yes, Captain!"
The night deepened. Only the flickering light of the horse lanterns illuminated the uneven rural dirt road beneath their feet. The dull sound of thousands of iron hooves hitting the ground traveled far and wide in the quiet countryside.
The first hour of marching quickly passed, and the unit stopped for its first brief rest. The cavalrymen dismounted, allowing their warhorses a brief moment to catch their breath. Using the dim light of the horse lanterns, they checked and adjusted the tightness of the girths again, organizing equipment that had been jostled out of place. Aside from the horses' heavy breathing, there was barely any other noise in the entire unit; everyone maintained a pre-battle silence.
"How are you feeling, men?" Léo rode slowly past the column, asking in a lowered voice.
"Very good, Captain!" A few equally lowered responses came from the ranks, carrying an irrepressible eagerness. Léo nodded, feeling satisfied. His Second Squadron was composed of experienced veterans, maintaining high discipline even during such a rapid night march.
The ten-minute rest time flew by. As the uniform order from the regimental headquarters arrived, Léo again urged his squadron members to move out. He reached out, turning the knob on his horse lantern counter-clockwise to extend the wick to its longest setting, making the light brighter to better see the road ahead.
The marching that followed became tedious and long. Besides the monotonous sound of hooves, there was only the occasional clatter of equipment colliding. The cavalrymen bobbed rhythmically in the saddle with their horses' strides, their eyes vigilantly scanning the darkness on both sides of the road.
Three hours later, the entire division simultaneously entered a long rest period. This time, everyone dismounted, and the first thing Léo and his soldiers did was remove the heavy saddles to allow the horses' backs to air out and cool down. Long periods of saddle pressure, combined with sweat, could easily cause saddle sores, which could result in a 'non-combat casualty' for a warhorse.
After removing the saddles, they did not immediately let the horses stand still but led them to walk slowly in place for ten minutes. This helped the warhorses' muscles recover from the prolonged tension and prevented stiffness. Only after completing all this were these precious companions allowed to rest fully.
The soldiers took oats from their horses' feed bags, giving them small, frequent feedings. Meanwhile, the following Supply Train brought out canvas folding troughs and filled them with water. Only when the horses began to drink and eat quietly did Léo and the cavalrymen attend to themselves. They took out their water bottles and dry rations, swallowing small bites while standing next to their companions.
Captain Léo finished his food in a few quick bites, then half-crouched to carefully inspect his mount's hooves and horseshoes. This was the most crucial task during the entire rest period. A loose horseshoe or a small stone lodged in the hoof could immediately take a valuable warhorse out of combat status. The other cavalrymen around them also began doing the same thing one after another. This task was much more difficult than during the day, with only the faint illumination provided by the horse lanterns and the small number of Magic Guided Lamps allocated to the regiment.
But for the elite cavalrymen of the Third Cavalry Division, they were already accustomed to all this from countless night training drills. The Gallic Republic Army General Staff Training Department had consistently aimed to forge them into a sharp dagger that could rapidly pierce the enemy's vital points. To this end, they had formulated numerous operational plans for long-distance night dashes and surprise dawn assaults on enemy camps, which they practiced repeatedly.
"Say… are the Saxons in Charleroi truly just a handful of men, as those Grand Duchy of Flanders soldiers claimed?" the Aide-de-Camp leaned in again and asked in a low voice.
"Who knows," Léo replied without looking up, continuing to use a specialized small knife to clear the mud from the horse's hoof. "But no matter how many men they have, they have occupied our allied city and are at our border. We must drive them out."
"You're right!" the Aide-de-Camp nodded emphatically. "It's time to let those arrogant Saxon bastards taste the might of our Gallic cavalry!"
After an entire night of long-distance marching and several rests, the huge cavalry force finally crossed the border between Gaul and Flanders on the morning of August 9th. As the first ray of morning sun spilled across the land, the Third Cavalry Division had arrived at a location just two kilometers from Charleroi's South City.
An atmosphere of tension finally began to permeate the air. Everyone knew that battle could break out at any moment. The division headquarters of the Third Cavalry Division quickly sent an order for all units to conceal themselves on the spot and await further reconnaissance results. Captain Léo also received orders to lead his Dragoon Squadron and two other squadrons, forming a forward reconnaissance unit, to conduct a probing reconnaissance toward Charleroi.
"Cavalrymen! Advance!" Léo mounted his horse, looking toward the outline of the city vaguely visible in the morning light. The Dragoons let out a low cheer, spurred their horses, and followed their commander toward the unknown city.
The three Dragoon Squadrons did not take the main road but chose to cut through fields and woods, using the terrain to cover their movements, cautiously approaching the suburbs of Charleroi. The unit finally stopped in a dense cornfield, the tall corn stalks providing an excellent natural barrier.
"Everyone dismount! Conceal your position! Send out Outriders to secure the perimeter!" Léo ordered, then dismounted himself. He and the other two Squadron Commanders led their respective Aide-de-Camps on foot through the cornfield to a slightly higher earthen slope at the edge. They lay prone on the ground, raised their binoculars, and meticulously observed the distant city.
Charleroi appeared abnormally quiet, even eerily silent. The streets in the suburbs were completely empty. No pedestrians or vehicles could be seen, and the doors and windows of the houses were tightly closed, as if it were a ghost town.
"Something doesn't feel right," Captain Marchand of the First Squadron said, lowering his binoculars with a deep frown. "It's too quiet. There's not even a shadow of a soul. Even if the Saxons were foolish, they wouldn't leave a single perimeter sentry, would they?"
"Maybe they've already withdrawn?" Captain Lafontaine of the Third Squadron speculated. "Perhaps they just made a feint, snatched some supplies, and ran off."
"Impossible." Léo shook his head, immediately dismissing his idea: "The distance from Liège to here is about ninety kilometers. Why would they go to so much trouble just to grab some things? Their target is definitely the bridges over the Sambre River. Once they control the bridges, their main force can drive straight through."
"Then where are they?" Captain Marchand spread his hands. "They can't all be hiding in the city sleeping, can they?"
"Hard to say. They are Saxon barbarians, after all. What can't they do?"
(End of this Chapter)