Manstein thought for a moment, then answered with a hint of uncertainty: “Is it because we have more advanced weapons and more rigorous tactical training?”
“You’re right, but only half right.” Morin shook his head, patiently explaining: “The other half, and the most crucial reason for our successful breakthrough of enemy positions… is the reconnaissance work we do before the assault, which is more thorough than anyone else’s.”
“Think about it: if we don’t know where the enemy hides their Heavy Machine Guns and where their fire points are distributed, and we just let our soldiers charge in haphazardly, how are we different from the Gauls?”
“No matter how formidable the submachine guns in our hands are, they can’t withstand an enemy mowing you down with a set-up Heavy Machine Gun.”
“Therefore, to ensure our weapon advantage and the soldiers’ training advantage are fully utilized, precise reconnaissance of enemy firing points, detailed task allocation, pre-battle simulations, and even coordination with artillery—none of these steps can be omitted!”
“Why do I always go to the artillery separately to coordinate time? It’s to ensure that when we advance under fire cover, we are neither too early nor too late.”
“If we launch an attack rashly without sufficient reconnaissance, the soldiers, once they reach the enemy position, can only rely on instinct and luck to fight individually. Their combat effectiveness will be severely diminished, and casualties will increase significantly.”
Seeing that Manstein was listening intently, Morin continued to speak further: “And this time, we are facing the well-trained Britannian Expeditionary Force, not the demoralized Gauls.”
“Take a longer look at their positions with your binoculars. Although hastily constructed, they are well-formed. This means they conducted an orderly retreat, not a rout!”
“Furthermore, establishing such a solid defense line on the outskirts of Amiens in advance shows they are determined to fight a tough battle with us here.”
Morin spoke softly while occasionally lowering his binoculars to quickly sketch the position’s outline in his notebook. He used brief symbols to mark every fire point and observation post he found, then corrected and supplemented the sketches using the system map in his mind.
Manstein listened raptly, feeling that the knowledge he was gaining today was real-world experience that couldn’t be learned in military school or the General Staff. He quickly pulled out his own small notebook, recording every word Morin said as if it were a treasure.
Just as Morin and Manstein were concentrating on their reconnaissance work, two Dispatch Riders from the First Army Group Command Post galloped into the Instruction Assault Battalion’s temporary camp, about eight kilometers behind them, covered in dust.
The lead Dispatch Rider handed his reins to his comrade, dismounted, and urgently found Kleist, who was organizing the camp’s defenses.
“Excuse me, is Captain Friedrich Morin present?” The Dispatch Rider saluted, asking breathlessly: “The First Army Group Command Post is holding an urgent pre-battle meeting, and the Command Post requires Captain Morin to attend.”
Kleist was surprised to hear this news, then reluctantly informed the Dispatch Rider: “The Battalion Commander is not here. He took some men to the front for close-range reconnaissance.”
“What? Reconnaissance?” The Dispatch Rider was stunned, his face a picture of surprise. The legendary unit commander, who was the subject of countless sensational rumors across the entire Western Front and known as the ‘Butcher of Charleroi,’ was not sitting in his headquarters commanding the troops at a time like this, but personally leading reconnaissance at the front line?
“Yes, he went to reconnoiter.” Kleist nodded affirming, long accustomed to his Battalion Commander’s behavior. And he never takes me.
The Dispatch Rider’s mouth hung slightly ajar. He didn’t know what to say. As a Dispatch Rider directly subordinate to the First Army Group Headquarters, he had come to the Instruction Assault Battalion with a mix of curiosity and excitement. After all, the name ‘Butcher of Charleroi’ had been widely circulated among First Army Group soldiers, with all sorts of legendary versions. Some claimed he possessed superhuman strength and could tear Gallic Heavy Cavalry with his bare hands, while others said he was a strategic genius who annihilated a Gallic division with one battalion. The most outrageous rumor, and the one most frequently discussed, was the one about him eating two hundred Roasted Pig Knuckles in one sitting.
The Dispatch Rider and his comrades had debated many times, concluding that Captain Morin must be a hulking brute, seven feet tall, with thick arms and a scarred face. Now, he hadn’t even met the man, but he heard an even more ridiculous piece of news—this fierce commander had personally gone to the front line to conduct reconnaissance. This… isn’t this the job of the reconnaissance platoon or staff officers? How could a Battalion Commander risk himself doing such a dangerous thing?
“Th-then how far did he go?” The Dispatch Rider regained his senses and asked anxiously. The Army Group meeting would definitely start on time, and he couldn’t afford to be responsible for any delays.
Kleist thought for a moment, then answered vaguely: “I estimate… at least six or seven kilometers. I’m not sure of the exact location. However, if you are in a hurry to find the Battalion Commander, you can follow the vehicle tracks over there; they went by Military Truck.”
Hearing the number ‘six or seven kilometers,’ the Dispatch Rider felt a chill run down his spine. Six or seven kilometers further meant he would be right under the Britannians’ noses! He now felt that the commanding style of this legendary commander was simply… eccentric. But military orders were absolute. He had no choice now but to continue the pursuit with his comrade.
“Hey! Wait… Should we send men to escort you?” Kleist looked at the two men and offered a kind warning: “It gets dangerous further ahead.”
“No need, thank you!” The Dispatch Rider shook his head, politely declining Kleist’s offer. He reasoned that he and his comrade were cavalry, highly mobile. Even if they encountered a small enemy force, they could escape if they couldn’t fight. Besides, they were just going to find someone; nothing could go wrong.
And so, the two Dispatch Riders mounted their horses again and followed the clear Military Truck tracks in the direction Kleist had pointed, continuing their anxious pursuit.
Hooves flying, dust swirling. When the leading Dispatch Rider felt he had run for almost six kilometers, he realized the vehicle tracks showed no sign of stopping and were still resolutely leading toward Amiens. He began to feel that the situation was very wrong.
“Did we go too far?” His comrade, also sensing the anomaly, reined in his horse and asked uneasily: “It’s too quiet here, and we can’t see anyone.”
The lead Dispatch Rider halted his horse and raised his binoculars to scan the surroundings. The area was a dead silent field, with no sound save for the rustling of the wind through the wheat stubble. The silhouette of Amiens City was faintly visible in the distance, exuding an ominous pressure. He began to regret not accepting the Instruction Assault Battalion’s offer of an escort. But what could he do now? He couldn’t just turn back.
“It must be just ahead. Let’s look a little further.” The lead Dispatch Rider gritted his teeth, encouraging himself and his comrade: “Let’s keep going!”
And so, the two poor Dispatch Riders were forced to grit their teeth, riding their horses with trepidation, following the damned vehicle tracks. They finally found the tracks disappeared near the outskirts of a small copse of trees.
“It must be here!” The Dispatch Rider was overjoyed, thinking he had finally found the place.
However, just as they spurred their horses toward the woods, two soldiers in Saxon uniforms suddenly emerged from the bushes beside the woods, as if they had sprung from the ground. Their dark muzzles were immediately aimed at them without hesitation.
“Halt! Who goes there!” one soldier shouted fiercely.
The sudden appearance of the soldiers scared the Dispatch Rider and his comrade, nearly throwing them from their saddles.
“Friendly forces! Friendly forces!” The two Dispatch Riders quickly raised their hands to signal no danger and rapidly explained: “We are Dispatch Riders from the First Army Group Headquarters, looking for Captain Morin!”
The two Instruction Assault Battalion soldiers exchanged glances but did not lower their guard. One continued to point his rifle at them while the other walked forward and carefully checked their identification and the seal on the official dispatch. Once confirmed, the soldier lowered his rifle, but his tone remained vigilant: “What are you doing here?”
The Dispatch Rider quickly repeated the explanation he had given Kleist earlier.
The soldier’s response, however, was a message that nearly made the Dispatch Rider collapse on the spot.
“Our Battalion Commander? He’s not here.” The soldier pointed toward Amiens, a strange smile on his face: “He took his men and went further ahead.”
“F-further ahead?” The two far-traveled Dispatch Riders felt their heads swim, their minds going blank. The straight-line distance to Amiens from here was only two or three kilometers. Any further ahead… didn’t that mean he was walking straight into the Britannian lines?!
Was this Captain Morin going out for reconnaissance, or was he defecting to the enemy? At this point, the poor Dispatch Rider didn’t know what to say. Only one thought remained in his mind: he had to find this elusive Captain, no matter what. He immediately prepared to mount his horse and continue the pursuit.
“Hey, wait!” Kahn, the 1st Platoon Leader in charge of the rearguard, saw this scene and quickly stopped him: “You can’t go any further!”
“Why?” The Dispatch Rider grew anxious. He was so close to the final leg of the journey.
“Any further ahead, and you’ll run into Britannian cavalry! Charging in so brazenly on horseback is practically offering yourselves as targets! You’ll only be causing trouble for our Battalion Commander and his men!” Kahn said impatiently.
Hearing this, the two Dispatch Riders realized the gravity of the situation, but now they were stuck between a rock and a hard place, forced to wait helplessly. After a quick discussion, they decided that one of them should immediately return to the Army Group Headquarters to report the situation. The other would stay behind, stubbornly waiting for Morin and his men to return.
And so, the wait began, lasting from noon until the sun was about to set.
(End of this Chapter)