novelraw Chapter 342: Training and Logistics
Chapter 342: Training and Logistics
After the mercenary riders and the herd of steppe horses departed, Fridleif found himself with some free time and once again headed to the northern outskirts for an inspection.
Accompanied by the Royal Guard, he walked into the camp of an infantry regiment to observe their training. The primary focus was on marching and formation transitions. Officers occasionally barked out orders, prompting the soldiers to shift from a marching column into a pike phalanx, and then deploy into an offensive line formation.
After a long while, Fridleif proceeded to the next camp. Suddenly, he caught sight of many familiar faces—the militia from Luton.
"Your Highness?"
The gray-haired Lawrence stepped out of the ranks, greeting the Crown Prince with a face full of joy. Fridleif dismounted and asked the old knight about the status of their training.
Lawrence patted his chest in guarantee. "After the two training camps in 865 and 866, we racked up eighty days of training. Adding this current session, our total time will likely exceed four months. Everyone has been training bitterly hard; we absolutely won't embarrass you."
Subsequently, Lawrence commanded two companies composed of Luton militia as they drilled in formation changes, target thrusting, and spear charges.
Compared to the other companies, the Luton militia performed outstandingly. Fridleif felt a genuine sense of joy from the bottom of his heart. Having spent two years in Luton, he felt an inseparable bond with the area, somewhat akin to his father's connection with Tyne County.
"I really wish I were the one commanding this infantry regiment," he remarked.
The training lasted until five in the afternoon. On a whim, Fridleif decided to stay at the camp and share a meal with the Luton militia.Dinner consisted of hardtack and a herring stew. The men lined up holding square tin mess kits. The cook used a long-handled wooden spoon to scoop a piece of fish into each kit, followed by a ladle of broth.
Following his old habits, Fridleif broke the hardtack into small pieces and soaked them in the broth to soften. The fish soup was flavored with onion, turnips, and a splash of fish sauce, making the taste rather acceptable.
From his observations, the soldiers did not reject the flavor; they only occasionally grumbled that the cook gave them too little meat. Fridleif did not chime in on the subject. With the army being so massively scaled, providing half a pound of fish per person was already the absolute limit of the Cabinet's capabilities; they simply could not afford better rations.
In late July, the War Department organized another joint military exercise, which included three field divisions, a cavalry division, and eight garrison regiments, bringing the total number of personnel to forty thousand.
Fridleif and the Cabinet members headed to a nearby knoll to observe this grand-scale drill.
Looking out from a distance, a marching column steadily approached. They were flanked by numerous rangers and duck-and-drake formation squads, positioned to prevent harassment from scattered enemies.
Upon arriving at the designated location, the column deployed into multiple phalanxes of a thousand men each, resembling a multitude of moving black squares.
It took nearly an hour for the army to complete its realignment and begin a slow advance toward the straw bale targets several hundred meters away. As the distance shrank to a hundred meters, the army halted. The archers and crossbowmen moved to the front lines and unleashed a continuous barrage upon the target area.
After firing roughly a hundred thousand arrows, the ranged units retreated into the formation, allowing the spearmen to push forward. The heavy cavalry on both flanks launched a simultaneous charge, coordinating with the infantry to assault the simulated "Frankish" formation.
Subsequently, the army conducted a drill for an anti-cavalry square. Simulating a sudden ambush by a massive force of Frankish cavalry, each infantry regiment immediately shifted into a pike phalanx, while the Viking cavalry withdrew into the center of the formation to await the moment to counterattack.
Once the exercise concluded, the colossal military array reorganized back into a marching column and retraced its path back to the camp.
"It's finally over. None of this was easy," the Crown Prince remarked. Witnessing the spectacle, he and the Cabinet members breathed a collective sigh of relief.
With the training camp concluded, the Cabinet dispatched the troops in batches, having them march on foot to Southampton to board the ships, thereby shortening the maritime voyage.
Reading the sea-crossing plan submitted by the Admiralty, the Crown Prince's heart filled with anxiety. "Soldiers, warhorses, grain, and military equipment... It will take at least a month. I just hope there is still time."
At that exact moment, on the outskirts of Paris. The sky was crystal clear without a single dark cloud in sight. Generous sunlight blanketed both banks of the River Seine. On the grassy southern bank, a temporary tournament ground had been erected, its grandstands packed with the Frankish nobility.
Suddenly, the blare of a war horn cut through the clamor of the crowd. Two knights rode to the center of the field, bowed slightly to the king in the stands, and then returned to opposite ends of the arena.
They were clad in chainmail, worn beneath surcoats embroidered with their family crests. Beneath them, their warhorses pawed restlessly at the ground, snorting white plumes of breath from their nostrils.
The war horn sounded once more, and the two warhorses surged forward almost simultaneously. They started at a brisk trot before accelerating into two blurred shadows streaking low across the earth, charging straight at each other. As they reached top speed, the two knights leveled their blunted lances, aiming the tips squarely at their opponent's shield.
Crack!
The knight on the left took a direct hit. His entire upper body was violently jolted backward, and his heavy frame slammed into the grass with a muffled thud. He tumbled head over heels several times before finally coming to a stop, lying paralyzed on the ground, unable to move.
Amidst the cheering of the spectators, two squires rushed over. They carefully shifted the injured man's body onto wooden planks, using them as a makeshift stretcher to carry him off to the medical tent for treatment.
"The winner is Sir Berian of Ghenion!"
In the center of the stands, Charles the Bald maintained a cold, detached expression. He did not care about the victories or defeats of the competitors. Hosting the tournament was merely a way to bleed off the knights' excess energy so they wouldn't go out and harass the local villagers.
During the midday intermission, Charles asked his Prime Minister, "Including the reinforcements that arrived this morning, exactly how many men do we have?"
Lamberto provided a rough estimate. "About twenty-four thousand men. Based on the replies from various regions, reinforcements from Middle Francia and East Francia are still on their way. The total reinforcements are expected to exceed forty thousand."
'About twenty-four thousand men?'
Charles the Bald was greatly shocked. "Even now, you still don't know the exact number?"
Lamberto hurriedly explained, "You can't blame me for this. In order to claim extra supplies, some nobles deliberately exaggerate their troop counts. I lack enough administrators to properly verify the numbers."
After conversing for a brief moment, the two heard a clamor outside the tent. It sounded as if a large group of soldiers was causing a disturbance.
Charles the Bald walked over to the source of the commotion, only to see a crowd of nobles surrounding the quartermaster in charge of logistics, loudly complaining about errors in their supplies.
"I command five hundred archers! I asked you for feathered arrows a week ago, so why did I receive crossbow bolts yesterday? How are we supposed to use this garbage?"
"The oats you provided are mixed with sand and dead leaves! This is only fit for feeding pigs, not warhorses!"
As the atmosphere grew increasingly heated, Charles quickly stepped in to pacify the crowd. Once the mob dispersed, he demanded to see the recent account books. He discovered rampant waste in the logistics department, with vast quantities of supplies unaccounted for.
"Throw him in the dungeon and interrogate him thoroughly!"
Having dealt with the quartermaster, Charles the Bald lost all interest in attending the tournament. As his army swelled to thirty thousand men, he felt increasingly powerless, like a draft horse burdened with too much cargo, suffocating beneath the crushing weight.
After a few minutes of contemplation, he ordered his cabinet to draft a list of targets, including merchants, gentry, and the nearby monasteries. "Send men to their doors to 'borrow' grain. This war is expected to last until the end of the year, perhaps even into the next. The more grain we stockpile, the better."