Reincarnated as Napoleon II-Chapter 184: First Shot

Brescia–Verona Corridor, Lombardy.

January 1836.

A thin layer of frost still clung to the ground, breaking under boots as the forward elements of the French army moved into position along a low ridge overlooking the plain. Visibility was good. No fog. No obstruction. The land stretched out in front of them in open fields broken only by narrow roads, scattered farm structures, and a few lines of trees marking property boundaries.

Perfect ground for observation.

A captain lay prone near the crest, a field glass pressed to his eye. Beside him, a signal operator worked with a compact field radio set mounted on a reinforced frame, its antenna extended upward and secured with tension lines. The unit hummed faintly, steady and consistent.

"Contact," the captain said.

The operator did not look up.

"Confirmed?" he asked.

The captain adjusted the glass slightly.

"Column movement. Multiple formations. Infantry and artillery. Distance approximately four kilometers."

The operator turned a dial, then pressed the transmitter.

"Forward observation to command," he said, voice controlled. "Enemy sighted. Grid reference—"

He paused as the captain spoke again.

"Two main lines. Still forming. Artillery limbered behind."

The operator continued without hesitation.

"—enemy forces in deployment phase. Repeat, deployment phase. Awaiting further instruction."

The transmission ended.

A second line, wired through a field telegraph system running along the rear, carried the same message back through relay stations toward the command post. Redundancy. No delay.

The captain lowered the glass.

"They’re not hiding it," he said.

"No," the operator replied. "They’re not."

Below them, the French forward line remained still.

Infantry units were already in position, but not exposed. They held behind the ridge, spread out in controlled intervals rather than tight formation. Rifles rested ready, but no one fired. No one moved without instruction.

Machine gun teams had been placed at key points along the line, their weapons mounted and aligned but not yet active. Ammunition belts were already laid out beside them, covered to prevent frost from affecting the feed.

Further back, the artillery batteries were in position.

Rows of heavy guns sat angled toward the plain, their barrels elevated slightly as crews moved around them, making final adjustments. Shells were stacked nearby, arranged by type and range, each one marked and accounted for.

***

Across the plain, the Austrian army was still forming.

Their lines were visible from a distance.

Long rows of infantry moved into position, aligning themselves in extended formations that stretched across the field. Officers moved along the front, correcting spacing, adjusting alignment, ensuring the lines held straight.

The formation was familiar.

Too familiar.

A French lieutenant watching through his own glass lowered it slowly.

"They’re forming lines," he said.

Another officer beside him nodded.

"They’re treating it like the old wars."

"They have needle guns," the lieutenant said. "They know what those can do."

"And they still stand like that."

Below them, the Austrian artillery began to unlimber.

Teams of horses pulled away as crews moved the guns into position, aligning them behind the infantry lines. The movement was efficient, but slower than the French had already achieved. Orders had to move through layers. Adjustments took time.

***

At the French Headquarters in Paris.

Berthier read the up-to-date maps based on the reports of the forward observation posts as they came in.

Markers shifted every few minutes. Not by guesswork or by delayed courier reports, but by information arriving in sequence—radio transmissions from the ridge, telegraph confirmations relayed through secured lines, each one stamped with time and position.

Berthier stood over it, one hand resting near the Brescia sector, his eyes following the movement as it was updated in real time.

"They still hold their lines," he said.

His aide-de-camp, standing across from him, glanced down at the latest report in his hand.

"Yes, Marshal. Two separate observers confirm it. Their ranks remain close."

Berthier gave a faint breath.

"Very well, now that they are completely exposed, let’s fire at them. Order the artillery crew to fire on the enemy positions."

The aide-de-camp inclined his head at once.

"Yes, Marshal."

He turned and passed the order to the signal officers without raising his voice. The instruction moved through the room in a practiced sequence—written, confirmed, then transmitted along both lines.

From Paris to the forward command.

From the forward command to the batteries already waiting.

At the ridge, the captain heard it before anything appeared in view.

A deep report rolled across the plain, heavy and drawn out, not the sharp crack of small arms but something larger. Then another followed. And another. Within seconds, the sound built into a continuous pattern—each discharge from the 155mm batteries.

The ground beneath him carried the vibration.

He raised the field glass.

"Guns have opened," he said.

The operator beside him adjusted the receiver, listening for confirmation through the line.

High above the Austrian formation, the first shells came in.

They were not visible at first—only the descending whistle, low and rising fast.

Then impact.

The first round struck short of the line. The explosion lifted a wide section of frozen earth into the air, breaking the surface and throwing soil, frost, and debris outward in a heavy arc.

"Short," the captain said. "Bring it forward."

The second shell came down closer.

This time, the blast struck just ahead of the first rank. The concussion rolled through the front line, men flinching back from the shock even where the shell had not struck directly.

The third landed inside the formation.

It did not break a single point.

It opened a section.

The detonation tore through the packed ranks, the force of the 155mm charge throwing men off their feet and cutting a gap several meters wide. Bodies dropped where they stood. Others fell behind them.

The line bent at that point.

Men from the rear stepped forward, trying to close it.

"Adjust forward," the captain said.

The operator transmitted at once.

Behind the ridge, the artillery crews corrected their guns.

Elevation shifted by degrees. Traversing gears turned slowly, aligning the barrels with the new range.

Then the next volley came.

The shells fell deeper into the formation.

Each impact struck among men standing shoulder to shoulder. The blast radius of each round reached across multiple files, tearing through tight ranks that had no space to absorb the force.

Where one shell landed, a section collapsed.

Where two landed close together, the line broke open entirely.

Fragments cut through men beyond the center of the blast. Shockwaves knocked others down even without direct hits. The formation no longer held its shape in those sections—it folded inward, then tried to reform.

Austrian officers moved along the front.

Some waved their swords, shouting orders. Others pushed men forward, forcing them back into position. Gaps were filled almost as soon as they appeared.

But each correction brought more men into the same space.

Each attempt to restore order made the next impact worse.

Another volley landed.

The ground shook again.

The line wavered under it.

Still, it did not collapse.

"They’re still holding," the captain said.

The operator glanced at him briefly, then back to the receiver.

"They’re standing where the fire is falling," he said.

Another shell came down inside the same section.

The break widened.