Chapter 8 Heading Out

When the assembly whistle pierced the night sky, Morin’s mind was blank for a moment.

It was like an all-nighter, eyelids drooping person who had just touched their head to the pillow, only to be told that the company had suddenly decided on mandatory overtime, and even breakfast had to be eaten on the way. That feeling of powerlessness mixed with forced resignation… Morin instantly adapted.

He rubbed his throbbing temples and looked up at Klaus, who had poked his head into the tent. “Is the whole company moving out?”

“I asked the messenger; it seems the entire battalion is moving out,” Klaus replied.

“Got it.”

Since there was no time to sleep, Morin stopped struggling. He swung himself up from the folding bed—which only the Platoon Leader was issued—and the military expertise belonging to the original body automatically began to function in his brain.

“Klaus, hurry the platoon along. Dismantle the tents immediately, and all non-marching gear is to be sent to the Company’s Baggage Train team.” The most important duty of the two heavy, horse-drawn baggage wagons in the Company Command was to carry the canvas tents and other sundry items for the entire company of over two hundred and fifty men (including the dozen or so in Company Command) during the march.

“Yes, sir!” Klaus acknowledged the order and quickly disappeared outside the tent.

Morin’s young orderly quickly fetched the gear left by the previous Platoon Leader—a gleaming, well-maintained rifle, a somewhat heavy pistol with its matching leather holster, and a very Saxon Empire-style leather spiked helmet. Since he had been captured, the Britannians had thoroughly stripped him of everything except the uniform he was wearing, and even his officer ID card needed to be reissued by the rear. So, for now, he could only take the equipment left behind.

Morin immediately recognized the long, heavy rifle as the classic and accurate Gew.98 rifle. The pistol issued to the officer was the P08 pistol, highly coveted by weapons collectors in his previous life. This meant that while the historical and technological development of this world was different from the one he knew, many things were still ‘common’. This was, of course, good news for Morin, as it lowered the learning curve for adapting to this world and understanding relevant knowledge.

However, Morin was not in the mood to tinker with these weapons. He silently hung the pistol and cartridge pouch onto his equipment belt, put the spiked helmet on his head, and adjusted the chin strap’s tension. A strange familiarity washed over him as the cold leather and metal touched his skin. He picked up the Gew.98 rifle, worked the bolt, and the crisp “clack” echoed in the small tent, chasing away the last vestiges of sleepiness.

After fully dressing, Morin stepped out of the tent. The orderly immediately signaled two soldiers, and in no time, they disassembled the Platoon Leader’s individual tent and carried it away along with the cot.

The scene before him energized Morin. The previously scattered campsite had completely changed. The tents for each squad were gone, leaving only faint marks on the ground. Aside from a small number of soldiers sending bundled tents and gear to the company rear, the rest of the men were already assembled under the command of their respective squad leaders, loaded with backpacks and rifles. On the nearby open ground, the 3rd Company’s other two platoons also stood in neat formations in the dark, with the constant, orderly commands of officers and NCOs rising and falling.

Morin cast his gaze further out in the moonlight. The entire 1st Battalion’s encampment had sprung to life. Countless flickering oil lamps merged into a single field of light, like some gigantic beast roused from slumber, slowly stretching its muscles and letting out a low growl.

This serious and efficient atmosphere made Morin acutely aware that he was one step closer to the cruel stage known as war.

…

Meanwhile, at the headquarters of the 16th Infantry Brigade in the rear.

The central command tent was brightly lit, and the atmosphere was, predictably, filled with the unique tension and anxiety of a pre-war situation.

Lieutenant General Mackensen stood before an unfolded operations map. Though still injured, his straight posture was like a spear. He was surrounded by the Brigade’s staff officers, all focused on the city of Seville marked on the map.

After being rescued, the old general’s first instinct was immediate counterattack, to strike the Britannians hard before they could react. However, under the staff officers’ strenuous persuasion, he restrained himself and agreed to send a telegram to the General Staff at home. Besides detailing the attack on the Military Observation Group, the most important request was for authorization to launch a retaliatory offensive. Although there was a railway line stretching from Saxon to Aragon, the telegram exchange would take at least three or four hours. With the authorization yet to arrive, Mackensen and his staff could only anxiously await the final decision from Potsdam while working out various offensive plans.

“Seville previously had no fortifications, but it appears the Royal Army has begun constructing temporary defensive positions after their initial occupation.” A Major staff officer analyzed, pointing at the map. “According to the intelligence we have, the Royal Army has deployed their 24th Infantry Division here, and the Britannians’ Northumberland Fusilier Regiment has at least two battalions cooperating. We believe their cavalry forces will also be considerable.”

“In terms of conventional strength, the enemy already has a numerical advantage, and they are the defenders. They are likely on high alert for our attack, so if we launch a direct assault, casualties could be high.”

Hearing the staff officer’s assessment, Mackensen shook his head, then pointed to the markers on the operations map flanking the 16th Brigade. “We are not without allies. The National Army and the International Brigades each have a brigade on our flanks. Together with our 16th Infantry Brigade, we theoretically do not have a numerical disadvantage.”

The old general glanced at the enemy markers on the map—the Royal Army units—and let out a cold laugh. “Moreover, the Royal Army’s equipment and fighting spirit are not strong enough. If they face our troops head-on—or even those of the National Army and the International Brigades—they will have virtually no chance of victory!”

“But we must pay special attention to the Britannians.” Another staff officer suddenly interjected. “According to some of the current intelligence, besides the two battalions of the Northumberland Fusilier Regiment, a task force consisting of the Highland Mage Corps and the Order of Garter Knights may have also arrived in Seville.”

This statement, especially the mention of the Highland Mage Corps and the Order of Garter Knights, brought silence to the room. Even Mackensen immediately sobered up when he thought of the Grand Mages in the Highland Mage Corps.

Mackensen had always been fully confident in the fighting capacity of the Saxon Empire Army. A large number of high-quality junior officers and NCOs, coupled with the long-term, rigorous training of the soldiers, were the foundation for the Saxon Empire Army to maintain its combat effectiveness and participate in the power struggle on this continent surrounded by formidable rivals. Moreover, having been the first to undergo the process of industrialization, the Saxon Empire had made rapid advances in military technology. They had begun the large-scale popularization of mass-producible heavy artillery of various types, and even the Armored Knights—which were previously exclusive to the Britannians and the Galls—had been developed into modified versions by the Imperial Academy of Sciences that significantly reduced Magitek requirements.

But even so, Lieutenant General Mackensen knew that the Britannians’ Mage Corps and Knight Orders were absolutely not to be underestimated. The Empire had suffered heavy losses multiple times in colonial battles due to the enemy’s accompanying Grand Mages. These were individuals who, in the truest sense, could change the course of a battle with just a few people.

Not to mention the Order of Garter Knights, which was comprised of elite Armored Knights—these true Iron Cans could also be worth a hundred or even a thousand men on the battlefield.

Mackensen’s thoughts drifted uncontrollably to the scorching lands of North Africa many years ago. It had been a colonial conflict. Initially, the fighting was unbelievably smooth. His North African Corps and the Saxon Colonial Forces, collaborating with loyal local indigenous auxiliary troops, advanced triumphantly, uprooting Britannian outposts and strongholds one after another. Victory reports flew back home like snowflakes; everyone believed the rich territory was about to change hands.

Until the Britannian reinforcements arrived: a small detachment of the Order of Garter Knights and only three Grand Mages from the Highland Mage Corps.

Mackensen would never forget the sight of that day. He led his troops in a head-on encounter with the main force of the Britannian Expeditionary Force. Everyone knew this battle would decide the course of the North African campaign. The fight did not begin with the roar of artillery. The Evocation Grand Mage, whom the Britannians hailed as a ‘legend,’ stood behind the lines, staff held high to the sky. The color of the heavens instantly changed, the clouds were torn apart, and countless flaming meteors, dragging long trails of fire, screamed down onto the positions of the Saxon North African Corps.

Immediately following the meteor strikes, all-consuming firestorms erupted. Giant walls of flame rolled forward, devouring the soldiers’ flesh and blood, and warping the steel of rifle barrels. A full infantry regiment, decorated and battle-hardened, simply vanished in those few minutes; not a single complete body could be found.

Next, the Armored Knights of the Order of Garter Knights charged, their single assault shattering the formations of two other infantry regiments. That scene became an enduring nightmare in Mackensen’s mind.

Had it not been for the Teutonic Knights fighting desperately to contain the opponent’s pure Magitek Armored Knights with a numerical advantage… Had it not been for Ernst August, Duke of Brunswick, personally leading the Brunswick Death Hussars in three desperate charges against the Highland Mage Corps’ position, forcing the three Grand Mages to interrupt their spellcasting to defend and retreat with their very lives… The entire North African Corps might have been completely wiped out there.

“General?” A staff officer’s quiet call pulled Mackensen back from his painful memories.

He took a deep breath. The smell of kerosene and tobacco smoke in the tent brought him back to reality. After a period of silence, Mackensen spoke again. “Teutonic Knights’ Armored Knights—where are they?”

“They are still on the military train, but they should arrive and assemble at the station behind us before dawn at the earliest.”

Mackensen: “Understood. Once they arrive, they are to proceed directly to Seville and engage in battle. The 16th Brigade units and the attached Cavalry Regiment are to continue to the attack assembly areas as planned. The Brigade Artillery Regiment can also move into firing positions.”

As soon as he gave the order, the staff officers in the tent exchanged glances, and the one closest to him cautiously looked at the General. “But General, the General Staff’s orders haven’t come down yet…”

“That is only a matter of time.” Mackensen waved his hand and continued, “Neither His Majesty, nor the General Staff, nor the Imperial Parliament can tolerate the Britannians extending their reach to our doorstep. So, this battle will inevitably be fought!”

He glanced at the somewhat nervous staff officers around him. Most of these relatively young staff officers had no experience fighting in the overseas colonies. For them, the upcoming battle would be their baptism of fire. Thinking of this, Lieutenant General Mackensen couldn’t help but sigh. As the old comrades who had truly experienced war moved to higher positions or retired to the reserves, ‘youthification’ had become an unstoppable trend in the Saxon Empire’s military. While the new generation of young staff officers, who had entered pre-military academies in middle school and grown up studying various military theories, surpassed their predecessors in many aspects, the most crucial ‘combat experience’ could not be taught in military school or during routine training.

Hopefully, this localized conflict will cultivate a new batch of experienced officers for the Empire. The thought flashed through Mackensen’s mind, and then he looked at the commander of the 16th Brigade beside him.

“The subsequent detailed battle deployment is your responsibility, as that is your duty. I will return to the Expeditionary Force Command once the order from the General Staff in the homeland is returned.”

“Yes, General!”

After saying this, Mackensen sat down in a corner of the tent, quietly waiting for the final order from home. As the commander of the entire Expeditionary Force in the Kingdom of Aragon, he should have been at the more distant Expeditionary Force Command, closer to Saxon, overseeing the whole situation. In his mind, the full map of the Kingdom of Aragon slowly unfolded, showing the troop deployments of the Saxon Expeditionary Force, the National Army, and the International Brigades. He closed his eyes, considering troop movements in other sectors, knowing that once the battle for Seville began, fighting would quickly erupt all along the front line.

The other officers in the tent began planning for the battle that was about to break out. Agile messengers ran in and out of the tent, and military orders were passed to various units through their relays. The orders on paper were transformed into the soldiers’ marching pace, and into the tracks left by the towed artillery.

After nearly three hours passed, an officer lifted the door flap and quickly walked up to Mackensen, who was smoking his pipe.

“General! The reply telegram from the General Staff!”

(End of Chapter 8)