Chapter 18: Hans, Your Coffee is Truly Awful

After briefly explaining the mission to the others, Morin looked seriously at Sergeant Klaus beside him. Having this extremely seasoned veteran around gave Morin a measure of reassurance, even though he wouldn’t be directly commanding the troops. It was, in another sense, having a ‘treasure’ in the family.

“The platoon is in your hands while I’m gone, Sergeant Klaus! Keep a close watch, and be very careful of an enemy counter-attack.”

“Don’t worry, Second Lieutenant.” Sergeant Klaus nodded vigorously. After the morning’s battle, he no longer questioned any of Morin’s orders.

Having arranged everything, Morin turned and found Hans, his orderly, sitting nearby. His eyelids felt heavy, and his legs felt like they were weighted with lead. The constant tension and severe physical exertion since yesterday had nearly drained him. Morin felt that the physical conditioning of this body must be superhuman to have lasted this long.

“Hans.”

“Second Lieutenant?” The young orderly instantly stood up.

“Go to the kitchen car and get me a cup of coffee,” Morin rubbed his temples. “As strong as possible.”

“Yes, Second Lieutenant!” Hans acknowledged and immediately jogged away.

After the orderly left, Morin led Corporal Bowman and the four other handpicked, capable soldiers toward the rear of the village, where the Battalion Baggage Train was concealed.

The artillery preparation provided by the Field Artillery Battalion’s 77mm field guns before the morning’s assault had clearly caused significant damage to the village, even if Morin didn’t know the exact casualties inflicted on the Royal Army. Morin and his men walked through village roads littered with shell craters and rubble, soon finding the Baggage Train’s concealment area and temporary camp.

Over a dozen four-wheeled heavy transport wagons, along with a few of the trucks Morin had ridden in, were cleverly concealed at the edge of a small copse. The horses were unharnessed, leisurely grazing on fodder nearby. The Quartermaster of the 1st Battalion, 33rd Infantry Regiment, a middle-aged Captain with a Prussian-style handlebar mustache, was inventorying supplies with the Baggage Train soldiers.

Seeing the written order Morin presented, the Quartermaster first looked surprised, then his mustache twitched upward. “Second Lieutenant Morin?” the Quartermaster sized him up. “That brilliant flanking attack this morning, was that your doing?”

“Just good luck, sir,” Morin replied modestly.

“Luck is part of skill,” the Quartermaster said seriously, his gaze toward Morin changing. He readily took the order and waved a hand at a nearby soldier. “Go, pick out six of the best-conditioned bicycles for Second Lieutenant Morin and his men.”

He turned back and cautioned Morin: “Second Lieutenant, these country roads are rough, full of potholes. It puts a lot of strain on the bikes, so be extra careful when you ride.”

“Thank you for the warning, sir.”

While the soldiers went to fetch the bicycles, Morin’s gaze fell upon an area behind the Baggage Train camp that was sectioned off. Two massive figures were parked there. They looked like heavy plate armor knights magnified several times, standing over 3 meters tall, paused quietly in a kneeling position. Alongside them were weapons racks holding armed swords, kite shields, and enormous rifles (cannons), which gave Morin a wordless sense of oppression.

Relative to their massive, heavy torsos, their limbs seemed somewhat short, giving them a slightly odd proportion. They were an extremely abstract combination, as if inspired by ‘Onion Knight,’ ‘Sakura Wars,’ and ‘SYNDUALITY.’ Their entire bodies were covered in cowls bearing black and white cross emblems, with only thick metal tubing exposed through the seams. Exhaust pipes protruding from their backs indicated they were powered by some form of internal combustion engine.

“My God… are those the Armored Knights?” Corporal Bowman, following Morin, couldn’t help but gasp in awe. The other soldiers also craned their necks, their eyes filled with curiosity and shock. Like most Saxon soldiers, they had only seen blurry photographs of these steel creations in newspapers; this was their first time witnessing them in person. The visual impact of the cold, metallic texture and massive size—for people of this era—was far beyond what black-and-white newspaper photos could convey.

The Quartermaster followed their gaze, a knowing smile on his face. “Looks like this is your first time seeing these prized possessions of the Teutonic Knights.” He moved closer to Morin and lowered his voice. “The Brigade Command heard about our heavy casualties this morning and specifically sent these two ‘Siegfried’ Armored Knights and a squad of Knight Attendants to reinforce us.”

The Quartermaster seemed to have a favorable impression of the brave officer, adding a rare comment: “With these two big fellows, the next offensive will be much easier! If we run into an enemy machine gun emplacement again, they’ll go in to clear it out. That’s much better than asking our men to risk their lives or having you run such a dangerous flanking mission again.” Morin’s heart stirred. He knew how foolish and cruel it was to charge a machine gun emplacement with human lives; the morning’s battle was still vivid. A unit like this, which he understood as a ‘Mech,’ would undoubtedly be a blessing for the infantry if it could effectively tackle enemy strongpoints.

He was intensely curious about how these things operated on the battlefield. Could their armor withstand machine gun fire? Could they effectively defend against cannon fire? But he knew this was not the time for curiosity; the reconnaissance mission was urgent. “Thank you for the information, sir.” Morin retracted his gaze and thanked the Quartermaster again. “Go on, and good luck to you.”

The group left the Baggage Train camp, pushing the brand-new bicycles. They hadn’t gone far when Hans, the orderly, caught up to them, breathlessly carrying a steaming tin cup. “Second Lieutenant, your coffee!” Morin took the cup. A strange, bitter, and burnt smell assailed his nose. He took a sip. The taste was indescribable, like a medicinal brew made from burnt beans and some kind of herb, bitter and acrid, almost scraping his tongue.

He frowned and looked at his orderly, Hans. The name, combined with the coffee in his hand, made him feel a certain meme was right at the tip of his tongue, ready to burst out.

“Hans!”

“Yes, Second Lieutenant!”

“Your coffee is truly awful!”

“…”

With that, Morin tipped his head back and downed the poison-like stimulant in one gulp, shoved the empty cup back into Hans’s hand, swung his leg over the bicycle, and mounted it.

“Move out!”