Before the thin and elongated line of infantry, Lieutenant Lefebvre wiped the sweat from his palms on the hem of his uniform as he watched the swarms of Albanian mercenaries in their earthy yellow short robes slowly approach like ants in the distance, his nerves on edge.
The second platoon commander whispered beside him, "Lieutenant, there appear to be three to four thousand of them..."
"I see them," Lefebvre replied with a calm face, already beginning to regret his actions. He had indeed managed to get behind the enemy lines, but his side only had 220 men.
Behind him, there was a gap of 1.5 meters between each infantryman, where normally it should only be 0.5 to 0.7 meters. There were only two ranks in front and behind. If the enemy launched a fierce attack, it would easily break through their line.
"Steady!" he glanced behind him and called out loudly to boost morale, "Grip your rifles. The enemy is nothing to be scared of!" In truth, his forehead was covered in cold sweat.
