Chapter 7 The Other-World Military Cadet Joins His Unit, Be Like

While Albert II was discussing the situation with his two high officials in the Sanssouci Palace, Morin, after greeting Schmidt and the sentries, entered the encampment of the 1st Battalion, 33rd Infantry Regiment.

This temporary camp for combat troops was noticeably noisier and more chaotic than the Regimental Command area. The air was filled with a mix of damp earth, sweat, and cheap tobacco. Wind-proof oil lamps flickered in the night wind, stretching the soldiers’ shadows long and short. It was filled with the familiar WWI-era atmosphere of ruggedness and simplicity that Morin recognized.

Although it was late at night, the unit was clearly still on standby and had not retired for the night en masse. Soldiers wearing the classic spiked helmet gathered in small groups inside and outside the tents according to their unit, some cleaning their rifles, others conversing in low voices. But more often, they just sat silently, staring blankly at the dancing flames.

Clearly, not everyone could understand why they had come to fight in a foreign land, unlike the messenger Schmidt. Most were just obeying orders as soldiers.

Schmidt led Morin through the temporary camp. His usual vivacity seemed subdued by the dull atmosphere, and he spoke less. Soon, the two stopped in front of a slightly larger tent.

“Second Lieutenant, this is the Battalion Command tent. Major Thomas is inside.” Schmidt pointed to the tent, then lifted the heavy door flap and stepped inside first.

Morin took a deep breath, straightened his crumpled and stained military uniform, and followed him in.

Only one oil lamp was lit inside the tent; the lighting was dim, even yellowish. A burly middle-aged officer with a standard Saxon mustache stood before a field desk covered with a map, his brow tightly furrowed. Hearing the door flap lift, he raised his head, his gaze falling first on Schmidt, then shifting to Morin behind him.

When he clearly saw Morin’s bruised face and the bandage visible at his collar, the Major’s eyebrows involuntarily rose.

Schmidt stepped forward, handed over a document bag, and quickly summarized Morin’s ordeal. Morin was surprised; he hadn’t expected Lieutenant General Mackensen to allow anyone to conceal the incident.

“…That is the situation, Major! General Mackensen ordered me to bring Second Lieutenant Morin directly to you to report for duty.”

The Major, named Thomas, listened, then examined Morin again, his expression complex. “You certainly have nine lives…” He opened the document bag, scanned the order letter inside, and nodded. “I understand. You are dismissed; report back.”

“Yes, sir!” Schmidt saluted crisply, turned, and quickly left the tent.

Major Thomas casually put the order letter aside, pointed to a nearby ammunition box, and spoke in a much milder tone. “Sit down, Second Lieutenant. Your experience… is quite a legend.”

Morin didn’t know how to respond to Major Thomas’s comment, so he just offered a simple, slightly awkward smile and sat down.

The Major, after quickly scanning the documents brought by the messenger, sighed. “Morin, given your recent experience and current condition, I should let you rest properly first… but the situation has changed, and the unit is likely to move soon.”

“I’m fine, sir!” Morin knew that as a newcomer, he needed to make a good impression on his superior officer, and in a straightforward unit like the army, the approach was simple. “Please give me my orders!”

“Good! 3rd Company has been waiting for you, their platoon leader, for a long time. I’ll send someone to take you there now.” Thomas was clearly satisfied with Morin’s attitude. He shouted outside the tent, and an orderly immediately stepped inside. “Take Second Lieutenant Morin to 3rd Company. Report to Captain Hauser.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leaving Major Thomas’s tent, Morin, led by the orderly, quickly found the 3rd Company’s station. The atmosphere here was more lively than at the Battalion Command. A sharp, capable-looking Captain was assigning tasks to his NCOs.

Seeing Morin brought in by the orderly, the Captain’s eyes lit up, and he immediately strode over to greet him. “You must be Second Lieutenant Morin? Thank goodness you’re finally here!” The Captain enthusiastically shook Morin’s hand with a grip so strong it made him wince. “I’m Karl Hauser, Commander of 3rd Company.”

“Sir!” Morin instantly snapped a salute to his direct superior, following the body’s muscle memory.

“No need for formalities!” Captain Hauser clapped him on the shoulder, his face filled with unconcealed joy. “Do you know that our original platoon leader suddenly fell ill on the train ride to Aragon and died instantly! My 3rd Platoon has been without a platoon leader for almost a month, and the Platoon Sergeant has been acting commander—it’s been driving him crazy!” Morin suddenly realized that he had been brought in to fill a vacancy.

Captain Hauser was clearly a man of action. After a brief greeting, he called over the Company Command personnel and other officers. “Everyone, let me introduce you! This is Second Lieutenant Morin, the new Platoon Leader of our 3rd Platoon! Everyone, get acquainted!”

Hearing Captain Hauser’s words, everyone gathered around, offering friendly greetings to Morin. Morin took this opportunity to quickly familiarize himself with the organizational structure of a basic unit in the Saxon Empire Army.

A standard infantry company, besides the commanding officers, had quite a few personnel in the Company Command: one Company First Sergeant, one Quartermaster Sergeant, two Clerks, four Medics, a six-man Signals Section, and an eight-man Baggage Train team. The venerable Holy Horse-Mule Empire.

While getting acquainted with everyone, many of the skills the body had learned at the Lichterfelde Central Military Academy began to resurface, and his ‘Cheat Code’ continuously popped up notifications for new information updates. Morin realized that as someone with obsessive-compulsive disorder, he would soon have a major ‘battle’ of clearing red dots.

After the others dispersed, the other two Platoon Leaders—a quiet Lieutenant and a cheerful-looking Second Lieutenant—also came over to greet Morin. The relatively friendly atmosphere in the company allowed Morin’s strained nerves to relax considerably.

Ending the brief small talk, a stern-faced middle-aged Sergeant, wearing senior NCO insignia, walked up to Morin. “Second Lieutenant, I am the Platoon Sergeant for 3rd Platoon, Klaus.”

“Hello, Sergeant Klaus.” Morin nodded and offered to shake his hand. “Please assemble the men. I’d like to meet everyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Soon, the soldiers of the 3rd Platoon were assembled on the open ground in front of the tent. The entire platoon, including the Platoon Leader, the Platoon Sergeant, four NCOs, and two messengers, totaled 80 men in this ‘Extra-Large’ infantry platoon. The most crucial men, besides the Platoon Leader, were the Platoon Sergeant and the four NCOs. Sergeant Klaus, with over 16 years of service, was an absolute ‘family heirloom.’

The assembled soldiers stood in neat lines. Under the cold moonlight, the young and weathered faces all turned toward their new commander. The rigid hierarchy in the Saxon Empire’s army ensured their absolute silence.

Morin cleared his throat and said, “I know what you’re looking at.” He pointed to his face. “Go ahead and laugh. Don’t hold it in.”

A brief silence followed his words, then a burst of uncontrollable laughter erupted from the ranks. Morin smiled along. When the laughter subsided, he continued: “Starting today, I am your Platoon Leader. My demands are simple: Obey orders, trust your comrades, and never flinch in combat! Any violation, by anyone in this platoon—including myself—will be met with strict military justice! Is that clear?!”

“YES, SIR!”

After saying a few more words about discipline and combat, Morin dismissed the troops. He knew very well that the laughter had only bridged the surface distance; to truly earn their allegiance, he had a long way to go.

He then found the Platoon Sergeant and the four Corporals to check on the platoon’s current status and get better acquainted. They introduced themselves, and Morin realized that the high number of seasoned NCOs was characteristic of the Saxon Empire before major conflicts.

One of the Corporals asked Morin where he was from. Morin retrieved the memory from his mind and answered without hesitation: “I am a Dresden native.”

“Ah?! So you’re from the capital!”

“No wonder your demeanor is different. You must come from a prominent family…”

Morin was momentarily stunned, realizing that the capital of this ‘Saxon Empire’ was indeed Dresden, making the House of Wettin the true ruling family in this world line.

After confirming the platoon’s basic combat capability was sound, Platoon Sergeant Klaus led Morin to the Platoon Leader’s personal tent.

“Second Lieutenant, please rest. I’ll get you some hot water.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Klaus.”

Soon after, his duty orderly entered with a cup of hot water and a few pieces of hard, dry bread. Morin ate quickly, his mind reeling from the day’s events, and his eyelids began to droop. Just as he was about to lie down fully clothed for a rest, an urgent whistle suddenly blew outside.

The tent flap was lifted, and Platoon Sergeant Klaus’s head popped in.

“Sir! Orders from Company Command have arrived! All hands assemble, we depart in two hours!”

“Huh?”

(End of Chapter 7)