Chapter 333: Impervious Lieutenant Colonel Morin

The tranquility that began on the night of December 24th, like something only found in fairy tales, was completely shattered in the afternoon of Christmas Day.

As the last Saxon soldier reluctantly jumped back into his own trench, a few minutes later, the Britannian artillery positions in the distance took the lead in letting out brief roars.

Immediately following, the Krupp cannons on the Saxon side also roared unwillingly to show weakness.

The dirt was overturned again, and the craters that had just been filled were deepened by new explosions.

Those men who had exchanged cigarettes and shared chocolate with each other yesterday now had to shrink their heads back into the foxholes, praying that the shells fired by the other side wouldn’t land on their heads.

This is war; it wouldn’t change its ferocious face because of a day or two of warmth.

It could even be said that the section of the defense line where Morin was located was already a special case on the entire Western Front battlefield.

In the Gallic theater further south, the Gallic Republic soldiers and Saxon Empire soldiers facing off against each other certainly didn’t have so many heartwarming moments.

Having slaughtered each other for many days, and both sides having invaded each other’s territory, the warring parties had no thought of a ceasefire even on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

As long as anyone dared to show their head during the day, what greeted them was definitely not a football, but a precise rifle bullet.

On the afternoon of December 25th, in the underground command post of the instruction unit in the second trench.

The artillery bombardment of both sides had basically ended. Only the Saxon artillery, which had a more sufficient supply of ammunition, would occasionally continue to attack some suspicious targets, from time to time shaking the dust on the ceiling so it fell down rustling.

The oil lamp flickered.

Manstein was leaning over a table pieced together from wooden boards, carefully carving something.

“Erich, are you sure this will work?”

Kleist sat on an ammunition box aside, holding a handful of shell casings in his hand: “Are you sure you want to use this thing as a birthday gift for the commander? What good things hasn’t the Lieutenant Colonel seen? Those things sent by Madam Falkenstein—”

“This is the only thing available right now.”

Manstein didn’t even lift his head, his hand movements very steady: “It’s mainly just to show our feelings…”

“True.” Kleist sighed, just preparing to say something, when he heard a sudden noisy sound of footsteps and passwords coming from outside.

Immediately after, the thick canvas serving as a door curtain was violently lifted.

A gust of cold wind mixed with the smell of gunpowder smoke poured in, blowing the oil lamp flame into a frantic dance.

Several military police wearing deep black uniforms and conspicuous metal half-moon breastplates walked in expressionlessly.

These military police had a terrifying nickname in the army—”Chain Dogs.”

People targeted by them usually didn’t have a good end.

The military police held their rifles in front of them. Although the muzzles were pointing down, their fingers were resting near the trigger guards.

Among this group of military police was an acquaintance that both Manstein and Kleist had met—the liaison officer of the Army Group Headquarters, Captain Hoffman.

“Captain Hoffman?!”

Manstein immediately stood up, not even having time to put down the carving knife in his hand: “What does this mean?”

Captain Hoffman’s expression was very complex, mainly carrying a bit of embarrassment.

He avoided Manstein’s questioning gaze, his line of sight sweeping around the dim underground command post, and finally landed on Morin, who had just sat up from the camp bed.

“Sorry, Lieutenant Colonel Morin.”

Hoffman took off his gloves, his tone dry: “By order of General Mackensen, please come with us.”

“Come with you?”

Kleist stood up abruptly, kicking over the ammunition box under his butt: “Go where? On what grounds? The military police need a reason to arrest people too!”

The commotion here was very loud. The several instruction unit soldiers originally guarding the door immediately rushed in.

Seeing their commander surrounded by “Chain Dogs,” this group of young men who were just relishing the morning’s football match instantly bristled, completely unthinking about the consequences of clashing with the military police.

“What are you doing! Put the guns down!”

“Who dares to touch the Lieutenant Colonel!”

With a clattering sound, more than a dozen dark muzzles were directly shoved into the faces of the military police.

The air in the tent instantly froze, as if dropping even a single matchstick on the ground could detonate the entire powder keg.

Those military police obviously hadn’t seen this kind of formation either, and they also hadn’t expected that the soldiers of the instruction unit could actually go this far for their commander…

It should be known that when they conducted similar operations before, they wouldn’t be hindered by any soldiers.

Two of the military police felt their legs go a little soft right now, because the eyes of this group of instruction unit soldiers truly carried killing intent; those were eyes that had truly seen blood and killed people.

A layer of cold sweat seeped out on Captain Hoffman’s forehead. He subconsciously looked at Morin.

Seeing this scene, Morin immediately stood up, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, then raised his hands high and said loudly to everyone in the instruction unit: “Everyone put the guns down! Look at what this looks like!”

Morin’s tone was relatively flat, completely without the panic or anger of an arrestee.

“Sir!” Kleist was anxious, the veins on his neck bulging: “They are trying to—”

“I said, put them down.”

Morin turned around, his gaze sweeping over those agitated soldiers.

Without any harsh scolding, just a look, those soldiers who were originally going to rush forward froze.

They gritted their teeth, looking unwilling, but still slowly lowered their muzzles.

Morin walked up to Hoffman, his face even hanging that iconic polite smile: “Let’s go, Captain Hoffman. Don’t keep General Mackensen waiting…”

Hoffman let out a long breath and looked at Morin gratefully: “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant Colonel.”

And Morin glanced at those military police, also cooperatively extending his hands, bringing his wrists together.

“Captain, do I need to put these on?”

He raised his chin and pointed to the shackles at the military police’s waist.

“No! Of course not!”

Hoffman was startled and hurriedly waved his hand.

“The General only said to bring you back for questioning, he didn’t say to treat you as a criminal… Please, the car is just outside the third trench.”

Morin nodded, then followed Captain Hoffman striding out of the underground command post, finally coming to the rear and getting into the vehicle parked on the muddy ground.

The wheels rolled over the potholed ground, and the car body bumped violently.

No one spoke inside the carriage either; there was only the whistling wind and the muffled roar of the engine.

Captain Hoffman sat in the passenger seat, observing Morin in the back seat through the rearview mirror from time to time.

This young Lieutenant Colonel was leaning against the back of the chair, staring blankly at the surrounding scenery, completely showing no tension of facing an impending trial on his face.

“Um—Lieutenant Colonel Morin.”

Hoffman finally couldn’t help breaking the silence: “Actually, everyone knows the situation on the front line… Regarding the ceasefire, many people actually think privately that what you did wasn’t wrong.”

Morin withdrew his gaze and smiled: “But there’s no ‘think it wasn’t wrong’ clause in military law, right?”

Hoffman was speechless and could only nod awkwardly: “The General was very angry. As you know, General Mackensen is a traditional Saxon soldier, he values discipline the most.”

“Of course I know~”

Morin adjusted to a more comfortable sitting posture and looked at the other party: “That’s why I didn’t resist. If a conflict really broke out just now, that would truly be smearing mud on the General’s face.”

The sedan soon drove into the location of the Army Group Headquarters.

When Morin walked into the semi-underground bunker under the “escort” of the military police, the originally busy operations hall instantly fell silent.

The staff officers stopped their pens, the signalmen took off their headphones, and everyone’s eyes focused on Morin.

These gazes were very complex.

There was regret, worry, and also a bit of admiration.

On the one hand, Morin had a good relationship with everyone in the Army Group Headquarters, and he himself was an officer of “some fame,” with a deep relationship with the Army Group Commander, General Mackensen.

But now, this Lieutenant Colonel Morin had pulled off a big stunt of “privately contacting the enemy and reaching a ceasefire agreement” on the front line.

Upon learning this, General Mackensen was so angry that he personally ordered the military police to bring him back.

So the current situation was that no one would make things difficult or kick him while he was down, but no one dared to touch the bad luck either.

Morin looked straight ahead, walked steadily through the hall, and came directly to the wooden door at the innermost part.

“Knock, knock, knock.”

Hoffman knocked on the door, his voice trembling slightly: “Report! Lieutenant Colonel Morin brought to you.”

“Tell him to roll in here!”

An angry roar came from inside the door, shaking the dust on the door frame to dance.

Hoffman shrank his neck, gave Morin a “good luck” look, then pushed the door open, signaling Morin to go in, and quickly closed the door and slipped away himself.

The room was filled with smoke.

General Mackensen stood with his hands behind his back in front of the map board. Army Group Chief of Staff Seeckt sat on the sofa, holding a cup of coffee, looking at Morin coming in, shaking his head somewhat helplessly.

“Report to Your Excellency General, Army Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Morin reporting as ordered.”

Morin stood at attention and saluted, his movements so standard they could be printed directly in a textbook.

Mackensen turned around abruptly.

This old general in his sixties rushed up to Morin in a few steps, those sharp eagle eyes staring fixedly at Morin’s face, the heavy breathing from his nose simply able to blow Morin’s service cap away.

“You kid still know you’re an Army Lieutenant Colonel?!”

Mackensen’s voice was low and full of oppression, his finger almost poking Morin’s nose: “Privately contacting enemy commanders! Reaching a ceasefire agreement without authorization! Even taking soldiers to play football with the enemy!”

“Friedrich, is your head filled with paste? Or do you feel this uniform is too comfortable and want to try a prison uniform?!”

Spittle sprayed all over Morin’s face.

Morin didn’t even blink an eye, maintaining his attention posture: “Report General, my head is very clear.”

“Clear?”

Mackensen laughed out of extreme anger. He grabbed a report submitted by the Army Group’s review department from the table and smashed it fiercely onto the floor!

“A clear-headed person would act like brothers with Britannians in No Man’s Land?! And play football?!”

“Do you know what politicians and newspapers will write if this gets back home? Collaborating with the enemy! Treason! They will nail you to the pillar of shame!”

Seeckt coughed beside him, trying to ease the atmosphere: “General, Friedrich is young after all—”

“Youth is not an excuse!” Mackensen interrupted Seeckt’s words, still staring fixedly at Morin: “Give me a reason. Don’t tell me some nonsense about Christmas, I don’t believe in that.”

The room fell into a brief dead silence.

Morin looked at this furious old man in front of him. He could see that Mackensen was truly angry.

But behind this anger, there was more of an anxiety of hating iron for not becoming steel.

This old general was trying to find a way to protect him, so he needed a reasonable explanation, a reason that could gag the mouths of the masses.

But Morin didn’t want to lie, nor did he want to make excuses.

“No reason, General.”

Morin’s voice was very calm, appearing exceptionally clear in this room full of gunpowder smell: “From the perspective of military regulations, I did wrong, outrageously wrong… I violated battlefield discipline and contacted the enemy privately. Whatever punishment you give me, even execution, I will accept it.”

Mackensen was stunned.

He had anticipated Morin would quibble, would beg for mercy with a playful smile, and would even bring out “backers” like His Royal Highness the Crown Prince and Madam Falkenstein.

But he solely never expected Morin would admit his guilt so readily.

“But…”

Morin changed the subject and looked directly into Mackensen’s eyes: “I do not regret it.”

“What did you say?” Mackensen narrowed his eyes.

“I do not regret it, General.”

Morin puffed out his chest and continued: “At that moment, standing opposite me were not enemies, but living, breathing people just like me… They also have parents, have children, and will smile because of a piece of chocolate!”

“Before this damn war completely turns us into beasts, I wanted—at least to retain the last bit of dignity as a human being.”

“Even if only for a day, even if only for a few hours.”

“If this bit of humanity is also a sin, then I have nothing more to say.”

After Morin finished speaking, he saluted again, then lowered his hand, quietly waiting for the storm to arrive.

Mackensen stared at Morin for a full half-minute.

That gaze gradually changed from initial fury to complexity, and finally turned into a profound helplessness.

He turned around, walked back to the table, looking at the oil lamp used for illumination on the table, his shoulders seeming to slump a bit.

“Humanity—”

General Mackensen repeated this word in a low voice, his tone carrying a trace of imperceptible fatigue: “Talking about humanity on the battlefield is the most luxurious thing, Friedrich…”

“I know, General.”

“You fucking don’t know!”

Mackensen whipped his head around. Although he was still yelling, the aggressive momentum had largely dissipated: “Who do you think you are? The Savior?! You are just a mere Lieutenant Colonel! Once this kind of thing spirals out of control, do you know how serious the consequences are?!”

He took a deep breath, seemingly to calm his mood, then waved his hand fiercely.

“Guards!”

The door was pushed open, and two fully armed soldiers of the General’s Guard walked in.

“Take Lieutenant Colonel Morin down!”

Mackensen pointed at the door and shouted loudly: “Solitary confinement! Without my order, no one is allowed to see him! Let him reflect carefully on what a soldier’s duty is!”

Morin did not resist. He saluted Mackensen and Seeckt again, then turned and followed the guards out.

Until the sound of footsteps completely disappeared at the end of the corridor, the room restored its silence.

Mackensen, like an old lion locked in a cage, paced back and forth on the carpet with his hands behind his back, his leather boots making dull sounds on the floorboards.

“Bastard! This kid is simply impervious!”

The old general suddenly stopped, pointing toward the door, his beard trembling with anger: “Did you hear what he just said? ‘I do not regret it’?! What a ‘I do not regret it’!”

“What does he think military law is? What does he think the Army Group Headquarters is? Does he also want me to award him a ‘Humanitarian Peace Medal’ to hang on his chest?”

Seeckt sat on the sofa, holding that cup of coffee that no longer steamed, looking at his furious superior, and not only didn’t persuade him but actually chuckled softly.

This laugh was like a fuse, making Mackensen whip his head around, those falcon-like eyes glaring over: “Hans, what the hell are you laughing at?! Do you also think this kid did a beautiful job?”