Marseille Bridge, 1368
One person could say that the Crusade was not going well.
Four nobles of the Reich were involved in a trip through France to take Angers, please the Pope, and, most importantly, kill a lot of French people and rob them of a good troop production center. The first noble, Ehrhart Ruppel, in his haste had gone to Angers without any support, and was now in deep trouble from the various French armies swarming the Citadel.
The second and third, Welf von Luxemburg and Hugo de Cervole, had waited and decided to support each other, but as a result were pretty much keeping time with the English army also Crusading in the mainland. There was a chance of them being beaten.
That left the fourth, Herrmann Steffen. Striking from the south, he had decided to be slow and deliberate, milking the Crusade for its worth. He had marshalled a large amount of religious fanatics and remnants from Count Erlach's army, parked himself on the bridge to the west of Marseille, and waited to set out the next campaign season.
The only trouble was, he found himself facing a large and powerful French army that wanted his side of the river.
"Crap," he muttered, reading the composition of the army facing him. "Why do I always get stuck with the elite forces?"
He had consulted with his uncle Matthias, who knew more about bridge defense than certainly anyone alive, and probably anyone ever, in case this event was to happen. Just stand firm against whatever comes at you, Matthias had said, and make sure that you have enough missiles to make crossing that bridge a gauntlet.
Good advice.
Well, it was, at least until Herrmann stepped outside his tent and came face-to-face with the conditions of the day.
"Crap," he said, staring at the sky and getting a mouthful of rain. "They had to pick this weather to attack, didn't they?"
He spent the next fifteen minutes getting his soldiers and fanatics ready, prepared for battle. He repeated the same mantra over and over: "This is what real soldiering is about, boys. It's not always the glory of taking the city."
Frankly, Herrmann had done a bit too much of real soldiering in his career. To start it out, he had aided Edmund Becker in one of his endless defenses of Prague, expecting knighthood as a gratitude, and was denied. He then made his way down to Italy and promptly, somehow found himself leading two armies to combine against an elite French force around Milan. The next year, it was three armies against an even tougher Byzantine force that resulted in the bloodiest battle in the Reich's history, discounting Bern. Oh yes, there was the reconquest of Marseille in 1366, but that was a minor skirmish and an entirely mercenary force, save for Herrmann and his escort.
And now this, more of a "save what we've taken" operation than a glorious, Pope-approved push deep into enemy territory.
"Herrmann, my son!" Herrmann turned. Somehow, Father Leopold, one of the army's many priests, had found him in this torrential downpour. "What do you make of this? Apocalyp-"
*Crack! BOOM!!!*
"Apocalyptic weather on the day that we, in the name of the Lord, defend what is ours against the heretical enemy! I guess the question is: Is it meant for us or for them? I wonder, eh?"
"Shut it," Herrmann said. "If it's supposed to be bad for them then why on Earth are my missiles all but rendered useless?" he muttered to himself. Father Leopold, highly affronted, scurried off, no doubt muttering to himself as well, but Herrmann couldn't hear and decided not to, anyway. He had more important things to do.
"All infantry assemble at the start of the bridge!" he yelled. "Missiles to the sides! Cavalry fifty yards back!" He must of repeated that command twenty times over the course the next few minutes, telling several fanatics: "Yes, infantry, that's you! You're infantry! No, you're not cav- Everybody who does not ride a horse and doesn't carry a weapon to shoot the French with from afar is infantry!!!" and when everybody was finally assembled in their proper positions it was just in time and the French were preparing to cross.
Fifty yards back, Herrmann couldn't see a thing.
"Crap," he said yet again, "These have got to be the worse conditions in the history of warfare. A giant freaking thunderstorm during a bridge defense, and my missiles can't do anything!!!"
He paused, once again trying to see what was happening, without any luck.
"Silence," he said to his retinue and the regiment of Merchant Cavalry Militia nearby. "I need to hear how close the French are."
Doom - Doom - Doom - Doom -
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...
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DOOM doom doom doom DOOM doom doom doom DOOM doom doom doom DOOM doom doom doom
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...
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DOOM D-D-DOOM D-D-DOOM D-D-DOOM D-D-
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DOOMDOOMDOOMDOO DOOMDOOMDOODOODOOM
Eventually the sounds of the French marching and the sounds of the storm merged. It was all one giant entity, some of it intending to wreak havoc on the Imperial forces holding the east side of the river, some of it intending to just wreak havoc in general. To Herrmann, sitting soaking wet, feeling completely useless, it was all the same. He had no idea when the French had collided with his brave fanatics and the few men of Erlach's command.
He saw a few horsemen around him. Below him, a paved road. To its sides, grass, quickly turning into mud. But around everything was rain. He gripped his horse tightly, hoping to hold onto some semblence of familiarity.
He stayed like this for a few minutes, and then a flash of lightning illuminated the battle.
"Crap," he said yet again. This was not going well. The French had already put the bridge and the bottleneck behind them, rendering Herrmann's missiles even more useless. His men had achieved some kind of encirclement, but they were mostly religious fanatics, men who had no business being in this kind of fight. Especially not against some of the best and well-equipped soldiers France had to offer.
He spent the next minute and thirty-seven seconds in darkness, mulling. In the past, he had always beaten superior armies because he made sure that he had the numbers and position. He had position on this, but the French had quickly forced their way out of the trap. And as for numbers...
Well, as for numbers, they weren't in his favor, for the first time. And the French army's advantages in numbers and quality were showing.
Lightning flashed again, and the battle once again lit up. The French were continuing to push. The Imperial lines were thinning. Herrmann saw no sign of Erlach's few troops, the best infantry he had.
"Crap!" he yelled.
This battle was just not meant to go in his favor. There was just one thing left to do.
"Everybody pull back!" he yelled, and rode on alone towards the main engagement. "God help the infantry surviving this mess," he muttered.
"Pull back!" he screamed at the dwindling numbers of fanatics. "Get out of here! We make for Marseille!"
Herrmann repeated it three times, then turned and had his horse gallop to catch up with his escort, which was already leaving along with the rest of the cavalry. They seemed to be leaving in good order, keeping formation. Good, Herrmann thought. Maybe they would get something out of this.
Then he turned and looked back at the infantry. The Fanatics, already pushed to the limit by the professional French troops, fighting in terrible conditions and not doing anything that even remotely reminded them of the old Crusades they had read about, only needed Herrmann's word to turn and run for their lives. Some of them looked like they were running even before Herrmann got there, as a matter of fact.
Things seemed to be going well enough until the French cavalry emerged, bearing down on the Imperial infantry.
"Crap," he whispered, voice cracking. He was the one who had gotten them to volunteer, he was the one who had thrown them into this battle, expecting them to beat back France's best. And now, he was the one who was leaving them to die.
It took every single iota of Herrmann's cold, merciless logic, still working, to keep him moving east. If he looked back even once, he would turn around, try to help them, and then the French cavalry would get him too. Instead, cursing, he made it back to Marseille with the rest of his cavalry, and waited.
The few Fanatics that got out were a haggard mess, forever changed by what had been done to them.
Re: Battle reports thread - King of the Romans PBM
Originally Posted by TosaInu
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