Chapter 310: Old Partner

On October 2, 1914, the sky over Koblenz was gloomy, as if it was about to collapse at any moment.

Morin jumped off the truck, his boots stepping on the solid mud of the garrison, and took a deep breath of the long-lost air of the station.

Although the days spent at the Teutonic Knights forward base weren’t long, and there was the blonde, curvy Grand Master to feast his eyes on, big robots to look at, and various novel technologies to discuss…

It could truly be called “so happy he forgot about home.”

But for Morin, at the Teutonic Knights, he was ultimately an outsider. Only at his own unit’s garrison would he feel a sense of belonging.

“Finally back.”

He stretched lazily, his joints making crackling sounds.

The camp was orderly, with sounds of uniform commands and dull footsteps coming from the distance.

Obviously, during his absence, Manstein and Kleist hadn’t slacked off at all. That group of “real gold” who chose to stay had probably been severely forged again.

Morin was in a great mood and walked briskly towards the building where the Regimental Headquarters was located.

However, the moment he pushed open the office door, his originally decent mood vanished instantly.

There was no enthusiastic welcome as expected, nor a tidy desk.

What came into view was a mountain of documents—literally “a mountain.”

The originally large desk was completely submerged by white paper, revealing only a small patch of wood color at the edge.

Kleist was burying his head in a pile of forms. Hearing the door open, he looked up abruptly. His originally sharp eyes were now full of red blood vessels, eye sockets sunken, looking exactly like a vampire who had just crawled out of a grave.

And the always appearance-conscious Manstein had two buttons on his collar undone at this moment, his hair slightly messy. He was frantically ticking off items on a list with a fountain pen, muttering something in his mouth.

“Sir?”

Seeing Morin come in, Kleist looked as if he had seen the Savior. The fountain pen in his hand fell onto the table with a “clatter,” and he almost collapsed in his chair.

“You’re finally back—if you didn’t come back, we would have had to go to the Teutonic Knights to ask you back.”

The corner of Morin’s mouth twitched, pointing at the precarious paper tower on the table: “This—what the hell is all this?”

“These are all ‘hellish things’ that require your personal signature, review, and final decision.”

Manstein put down the pen, rubbed his aching temples, and said with a bitter smile: “Sir, you probably forgot, we are not a battalion now… but a reinforced regiment-level unit with more than 4,500 people.”

“And it’s an instruction unit with independent logistics, independent organization, and an independent training syllabus.”

Morin walked over and casually picked up the top document.

“Explanation on the Situation of Additional Ammunition Replenishment for the Instruction Unit”

“Financial Report on the September Payroll of the Instruction Unit”

“Supplementary Explanation on the Issuance of Pensions for Killed and Disabled Personnel of the Instruction Unit”

The next one.

“Application List for Winter Radiant Crystal Fuel Supplement and Special Reserve for the Instruction Unit”

Further down.

“Veterinary Quarantine Report on the Scrapping of the First Batch of War-Damaged Mules and Horses and the Purchase of New Draft Horses”

After seeing these texts, Morin felt his head starting to buzz.

He suddenly realized that there were no computers in this world, so these things all needed to be registered manually.

This was also why the Regimental Headquarters was equipped with two heavy-duty carriages specifically for transporting paper documents…

“Wait—I have to manage these trivial matters too?” Morin threw the document back on the table, looking incredulous, “Where is our quartermaster? Where is the Logistics Department?”

“They don’t have the authority to decide on such large expenditures.”

Kleist explained weakly: “Although the Army Department approved the budget for these excess expenses, every sum must be signed and confirmed by the commanding officer, otherwise finance won’t release the funds at all.”

Morin slumped onto the sofa, looking at the ceiling and sighing deeply.

He suddenly missed the days on the battlefield.

How simple it was back then. See the enemy, pull the trigger, done.

Unlike now, having to consider whether the fodder consumption of the regiment’s livestock is too fast, and whether the ammunition consumption for daily live-fire training is appropriate.

“This is called ‘one doesn’t know the cost of fuel and rice until one manages the household’—”

Morin mumbled, walked resignedly behind the desk, and sat down next to Kleist.

“Alright, give me a quick classification. Which ones need to be signed urgently, and which ones can wait…”

For the next few hours, only the rustling of turning pages and the scratching of fountain pens on paper remained in the Regimental Headquarters office.

Morin’s wrist ached from signing. Looking at those boring numbers, he felt more tired than running a five-kilometer cross-country.

Not until the sky outside the window turned completely dark and the orderly brought dinner did this “paperwork campaign” come to an end.

And not just him and the two regimental adjutants Kleist and Manstein… two regimental medical officers, one regimental veterinary officer, and one regimental paymaster, plus five clerks from the headquarters, all joined in this “campaign.”

According to the officers and clerks of the headquarters, in combat status, they could reduce a lot of paperwork due to the intensity of the battle.

But in non-combat status, there was actually more paperwork to be done. Morin, stuffing sausage into his mouth, said indistinctly: “This can’t go on. The manpower of the headquarters needs to be expanded. We are a reinforced regiment after all; this few people is really not enough…”

“Expand headquarters manpower?” Manstein stopped the fork in his hand, “But the establishment is already full, sir…”

“Of course I know the establishment is full, so we can only find a few guys from our own unit who are organized in doing things, preferably with a bit of OCD…”

The image of that figure who always buttoned up to the top button and was meticulous at all times instantly appeared in Morin’s mind.

Friedrich Wilhelm Paulus.

He was simply a genius born to handle such complicated affairs.

“Transfer that Paulus to the headquarters…”

Morin swallowed the food in his mouth, thinking constantly.

“Starting tomorrow, let him assist the headquarters in handling these tasks, and at the same time, he can also participate in combat planning… I’ve seen his file; he was a good hand at this in his original unit.”

Manstein and Kleist looked at each other, seeing the relief of “saved” in each other’s eyes.

After solving the urgent problem, Morin led the topic to business.

“How was the unit training during my absence?”

“Everything normal, sir.”

Manstein returned to a serious expression and continued: “Basic physical fitness and individual tactics have basically taken shape. Now those new officers and soldiers have adapted to the current training, and at least it looks decent, but—”

“But what?”

“But the cooperation between units is still a mess, mainly concentrated on the replenishment soldiers…”

Kleist took over the conversation.

“We had each battalion organize small-scale tactical exercises. As a result, the infantry didn’t know how to cooperate with machine gun teams, the artillery didn’t know when to extend fire, and messengers often couldn’t find company commanders at critical moments—simply a group of wild ducks fighting on their own.”

Morin nodded; this was within his expectations.

Individual quality was easy to train; just being willing to put in the effort and training people to death would do.

But cooperative combat between units was an art that required countless run-ins and combat experience.

Even those veterans of the instruction unit cooperated in a mess at the beginning and grew up slowly in actual battles.

“Since that’s the case, let’s just do a ‘big assessment’.”

Morin put down the cutlery, wiped his mouth, and found a calendar on the table that was already densely marked.

“Right at the end of this month, October 31st.”

His finger tapped heavily on that date.

“We’ll hold a phased full-regiment joint exercise to see what they have trained into in this month or so.”

Manstein frowned slightly: “Sir, isn’t it too rushed? Many people haven’t fully grasped platoon-level tactics yet. Going directly to regiment-level joint practice might turn into a mess of porridge.”

“Messy is good.”

Morin grinned, revealing white teeth.

“If these problems are not exposed as soon as possible, people will die on the battlefield… Moreover, since basic skills have been mastered well enough, it is indeed possible to conduct cooperative training in advance.”

“And what I want is for them to be in a mess on the exercise field so they know exactly where their problems lie!”

“Only when they know the pain will they use their brains to think about how to fight wars.”

Speaking of this, Morin suddenly remembered something, and the smile on his face became somewhat mysterious.

“Moreover, for this joint practice, I also prepared a ‘big gift’ for them.”

“Big gift?” Kleist asked curiously.

“Exactly, you’ll know in a few days~”

One morning a few days later, the garrison of the instruction unit boiled over again.

This time not because of payday, nor because some high-ranking general came to inspect.

But because of that huge convoy slowly driving into the camp area.

Morin stood at the camp gate, watching the yellow dust rolled up in the distance, the corners of his mouth also raising slightly.

That was not an ordinary transport convoy.

Leading was a field gray Radiant Crystal Sedan, with three people who looked like officers sitting in it besides the driver.

But what truly attracted everyone’s eyes were those three behemoths following behind the sedan.

Those were three heavy tractors of colossal size.

Their overall volume and the Radiant Crystal Internal Combustion Engine at the front were obviously much higher than ordinary tractors. Stout exhaust pipes stood behind the cab, spewing black smoke, and huge moving gears ground deep ruts into the ground.

And on a very wide flatbed carriage towed behind the tractor lay a steel body half-hidden by canvas quietly.

Although mostly covered, those iconic huge metal feet and various humanoid structures exposed from under the canvas all announced their identity.

Armored Knights.

“My God—”

Manstein standing behind Morin couldn’t help sucking in a breath of cold air, eyes wide round, “Actually pulled over by tractors?”

For the vast majority of frontline officers, the Armored Knights they saw on ordinary days were either charging majestically on the battlefield or… waiting for a majestic charge at the starting position.

Seeing them tied to a flatbed like dead giants like this was the first time.

The convoy slowly stopped in the open space. The door of the field gray sedan at the very front opened, and a polished military boot stepped out first.

Immediately after, Ludwig, in a Knight Order uniform, jumped out of the car, tidied his collar, took off his white gloves, and strode towards Morin.

Compared to the paleness in the field hospital, Ludwig at this moment had a ruddy complexion and was full of spirit.

Several newly issued medals on his chest shone in the sunlight.

“Lieutenant Colonel Morin!”

Ludwig stood at attention, gave a standard military salute, with that brilliant smile of reuniting with an old friend on his face.

“Teutonic Knights Squadron Leader, Lieutenant Colonel Ludwig von Seeckt, ordered to lead the 22nd Armored Knight Squad to report for duty!”

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