Reincarnated as Napoleon

November 14th, 1804.

Friedland, a town poised on the brink of history, lay nestled amidst the rolling hills of Eastern Europe. Russian General Prince Bagration squinted through his dusty spyglass, beads of sweat trickling down his furrowed brow, as he peered northward. What he saw sent a chill down his spine.

The French Army, a relentless and imposing force, was converging on the horizon. Their troops, like ants scurrying to a feast, were amassing with a purpose that boded ill for the Russians.

"I warned the Russian High Command about this disastrous position," Bagration muttered, frustration evident in his voice. "If we face the full might of the French Army here, we will be crushed, and the consequences will be dire."

He lowered his spyglass, casting a concerned gaze to his aide-de-camp, who stood nearby, awaiting his orders.

"Send an urgent message to the Tsar," Bagration instructed, his voice urgent. "We must request permission to retreat before it's too—" 

Before he could complete his sentence, a shrill whistle pierced the air, making him crane his neck upward. A surreal orange glow streaked across the sky, descending upon them with menacing speed.

"French artillery! Take cover!" Bagration shouted, his heart pounding as the impending danger loomed large.

But time betrayed them. The artillery shells struck the earth with devastating force, shaking the ground beneath their feet. Bagration's head snapped upward, his eyes wide with alarm as he tried to discern the impact points.

To his left, chaos erupted as a colossal column of water surged into the air. The shells had found their target—the pontoon bridge! The vital lifeline connecting the Russian forces to safety now lay shattered and splintered, severed by French precision. 

Four more deafening explosions followed, their concussive force sending shockwaves through the tense battlefield. Plumes of water and shattered wood filled the air as each shell found its mark on the beleaguered pontoon bridges, rendering them impassable.

Bagration's heart sank. The lifelines of escape were obliterated, and a grim realization dawned upon him—their retreat was now impossible. The French knew the weakness of their position. What's more, to be able to hit accurately from a distance—it's just unfair!

"General! The French! They are charging!" Prince Bagration's aide-de-camps shouted as he pointed northward.

Fear gripped General Prince Bagration's heart like a vice as he turned to face the oncoming storm. The ground trembled beneath the thundering hooves of French cavalry, their sabers glinting menacingly in the pale sunlight. Bagration clenched his fists, his mind racing for a strategy, a way to turn the tide against this relentless adversary.

"Prepare the infantry! Hold the line at all costs!" Bagration bellowed.

Russian soldiers hurried to their positions, their faces etched with determination, despite the encroaching terror. 

But before others could get into the position, high-explosive shells struck Friedland. Twenty,  no, forty shells exploded in rapid succession over the town of Friedland. The deafening concussions sent shockwaves through the very earth, shattering buildings and bodies alike. The air was filled with the acrid stench of burning timber, dust, and the cries of the wounded and dying.

General Prince Bagration's heart sank further as the French bombardment rained down upon his beleaguered troops. Buildings crumbled into heaps of rubble, and the streets were transformed into a nightmarish landscape of destruction. Hundreds of soldiers and civilians lay sprawled amidst the debris, their lives cut short by the merciless barrage.

The first salvo had been devastating, but it was followed by a second, and then a third. The French artillery continued to rain death upon Friedland, unrelenting in their ferocity.

In the midst of the chaos, Bagration and his surviving officers struggled to maintain order and morale among their battered troops. The Russian infantry, who had been holding the line with unwavering determination, now faced the horror of a city under siege.

"Steady, men! Hold your ground!" Bagration shouted, his voice strained against the cacophony of destruction. But the situation grew increasingly dire with each passing moment.

The French fired the hundredth shot into the heart of Friedland, and in total, killed almost 20,000 Russian soldiers.

The Russian forces were reduced to 30,000 men, neutralized their defensive positions where the machine guns were set up, and their cannons destroyed.

The French bombardment stopped to give way to the advancing French cavalry and infantry that were about to crash on the Russian lines. 

The French cavalry led the charge, their sabers flashing in the pale light of the smoky battlefield. Behind them, the infantry followed with grim determination, their bayonets fixed, and their faces set in a mask of ruthless resolve.

General Prince Bagration, standing amidst the ruins of Friedland, knew that the moment of reckoning had arrived. The remnants of his once-mighty army, battered and bloodied, prepared to face the onslaught with the last of their strength.

"For Russia!" Bagration shouted, his voice hoarse from the smoke and dust that filled the air. The Russian soldiers, though greatly outnumbered, stood firm, their bolt-action rifles aimed at the approaching French forces.

The first clash between the two armies was brutal and chaotic. Russian and French soldiers locked in hand-to-hand combat, bayonets gleaming as they thrust and parried. The streets of Friedland ran red with blood as the battle raged on.

General Bagration fought alongside his men, his uniform torn and his face smeared with dirt and sweat. He swung his saber, striking down French soldiers who dared to approach. However the French numerical superiority was overwhelming, and the Russian lines began to falter.

The battle raged on for hours, the streets of Friedland becoming a nightmarish battleground. The Russian soldiers fought valiantly, but their strength waned with each passing minute. General Bagration, despite his fearless leadership, could not change the tide of the battle.

Three hours later, the Russian resistance finally crumbled. The French forces surged forward, overwhelming the beleaguered Russians. General Bagration, still defiant to the end, was shot down by a French infantryman in the midst of the chaos, his saber falling from his grasp.

Amidst the smoke and the carnage, another Russian officer, A. I. Gorchakov stood tall, rallying the few remaining men under his command. They were locked in a fierce back-and-forth shooting, French infantry armed with their bolt-action rifles versus Russian infantry.

The French bolt-action rifles were faster to cycle than the Russians. So at the rate of fire alone, the French held an advantage. Not only that, the entire forces of the French Army are now at Friedland, pushing the Russians deeper with their backs against the River Alle.

Some Russian soldiers who wanted to escape death swam across the River Alle. Not all Russians could swim, so others drowned in their desperate attempt to evade the encircling French forces. 

The French Army has 66,000 men, four thousand of them perished while the Russians only have 8,000 men, and they are perishing at an unprecedented rate. The morale was low, especially after Prince Bagration died on the battlefield. 

A. I. Gorchakov, his uniform stained with blood and his voice hoarse from shouting orders, found himself facing an impossible situation. The once-proud Russian army had been reduced to a mere shadow of its former self, and their situation was growing increasingly dire by the minute.

With the River Alle at their backs and the relentless advance of the French Army before them, surrender seemed to be the only option left. A. I. Gorchakov knew that continuing to fight would only result in more needless deaths.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" he shouted, waving a white handkerchief in a desperate plea for a truce.

The Russian soldiers, exhausted and demoralized, reluctantly lowered their weapons. The cacophony of battle slowly gave way to an eerie silence, broken only by the distant cries of the wounded and the victorious cheers of the French.