Just as the remaining Dispatch Rider was about to fall asleep waiting, a few figures finally appeared on the distant road.
When he saw five people cycling slowly back, the Dispatch Rider reacted as if he had seen a long-lost relative.
He excitedly leaped up three feet from the ground, then quickly ran to Morin, who was leading, and relayed the Army Group Command Post’s order again.
Morin looked at the Dispatch Rider, who was so excited he was nearly crying, and was momentarily stunned.
One reason was that he didn’t expect the First Army Group Command Post to specifically summon him, an ‘outsider’ temporarily seconded from the Second Army Group, for a pre-battle meeting.
The other reason was that the man’s appearance seemed unusual.
“Why does he look familiar, and that mustache… Holy cow, Adolf…” Morin suddenly realized this Dispatch Rider might be a very important person.
However, he didn’t give away his surprise, instead accepting the order with apparent calmness.
In the span of an afternoon, he and Manstein had thoroughly scouted the general structure of the Amiens North City’s outer defense line.
He had also successfully marked numerous main Heavy Machine Gun positions and suspected observation posts.
This was the perfect time to go to the Command Post and report this fresh intelligence.
Everyone quickly boarded the Military Trucks, and the journey back to the base was smooth.
The Britannian Expeditionary Force cavalry patrols did not seem to dare venture far from their city and perimeter positions, so no incidents occurred during this close-range reconnaissance mission.
Upon returning to the base with his men, Morin had no time to rest. He immediately changed horses and galloped off with the relieved ‘acquaintance’ Dispatch Rider toward the Army Group Command Post.
The sky was gradually darkening. Horse hooves struck the dirt road, kicking up faint dust.
As visibility decreased, Morin and the Dispatch Rider did not dare ride too fast. After slowing down, Morin deliberately positioned his horse next to the Dispatch Rider’s.
He secretly observed the other man’s profile, using the last bit of light from the setting sun.
He looks like him, very much so. Morin muttered to himself.
The more he looked, the more the man resembled the famous man with the mustache in his memory—although the mustache wasn’t the iconic ‘small mustache’ but a traditional Saxon chevron mustache.
The other man seemed to notice Morin watching him, and his face showed some confusion.
“Captain, is something the matter?” the Dispatch Rider asked politely, with a hint of awkwardness.
Morin shook his head, offering a casual excuse: “Nothing, I just thought you looked like an old acquaintance of mine, so I took a second look.”
The Dispatch Rider simply said, “Oh,” and remained silent, clearly not talkative.
Seeing the man was like a clam, Morin took the initiative and asked: “Soldier, where are you from?”
The question seemed to surprise the Dispatch Rider. He hadn’t expected the officer to care about his origins.
After a brief hesitation, the Dispatch Rider replied: “Reporting, Captain, I was born in Austria, but I came to Saxon when I was very young.”
Morin’s heart skipped a beat.
Born in Austria—that also matched.
Damn it, it couldn’t be him, could it? But the person in Morin’s memory should be serving as a volunteer in a Bavarian reserve regiment at this time. How did he end up as a Dispatch Rider at the First Army Group Command Post?
The timeline and location don’t match up. “Maybe they just look alike?” Morin thought.
After all, the world is big, and many people look alike. The Dispatch Rider saw Morin wasn’t speaking anymore and wisely kept quiet, focusing on riding. Judging by his slightly tense posture, he clearly wasn’t good at interacting with people.
The two rode in silence and soon reached the location of the First Army Group Command Post.
The Command Post was set up in an open area concealed by woods, heavily guarded. Patrols of ‘Plate Armor Supermen’ and set-up Machine Gun positions were everywhere. The air was thick with a tense, murderous atmosphere.
The Dispatch Rider led Morin to the largest military tent in the camp. He expertly dismounted, saluted Morin, then took his horse and walked away.
Two tall guards stood at the tent entrance. After meticulously verifying Morin’s identity and command document, they lifted the heavy curtain, signaling him to enter.
Morin took a deep breath and stepped inside the tent.
In that very instant, he clearly heard someone outside shout: “Adolf [—]! Come over here quickly!”
Morin involuntarily flinched upon hearing the name, then fully entered the tent.
A thick aroma, a mix of cigar smoke, sweat, and leather, immediately hit him.
The tent was brightly lit. A massive operational map hung at the far end. A large group of high-ranking officers in crisp uniforms sat on field stools around it. Morin quickly scanned the room, seeing nothing but Generals and Colonels. It appeared the Division and Corps Commanders of the First Army Group were all present.
He was the last to arrive, so his appearance immediately drew all eyes.
Over twenty pairs of sharp eyes fixed on him, making Morin feel as if he were being targeted by a pack of wolves.
He forced himself to advance to the back of the group, snapped his heels together, stood at attention, and reported loudly:
“Imperial Guards First Instruction Assault Battalion Commander, Captain Friedrich Morin, reporting as ordered for the meeting!”
A slight commotion and whispering broke out in the tent.
“He is Morin?”
“The Butcher of Charleroi? He looks so young.”
“I thought he’d have scars on his face. He’s quite clean-cut, isn’t he?”
Most of the officers were seeing Morin in person for the first time, and their eyes were filled with curiosity and scrutiny. They found it hard to connect this young man, who looked barely twenty, with the legendary figure whose exploits were so sensational on the battlefield.
Standing in front of the map, General Mackensen, whose hair was graying, looked up at Morin.
No emotion was discernible in his bright, hawk-like eyes. He simply nodded faintly.
“Captain Morin, we have heard about your ‘close-range reconnaissance’ this afternoon. You have considerable nerve.” General Mackensen’s tone was neither pleased nor angry: “Find a place to sit for now. We will hear your findings shortly.”
“Yes, General!” Morin answered and quickly scanned the room, finding an empty field stool in the furthest corner of the tent.
He hurried over and sat down, trying to minimize his presence. This is ridiculous. The lowest rank in this room is a Colonel Staff Officer. The pressure of a mere Captain sitting here is immense.
General Mackensen saw Morin was seated, ignored him, and turned back to the previous topic, as if Morin’s arrival were just a minor interlude.
“Gentlemen, let us continue.” General Mackensen’s voice echoed in the tent, pulling everyone’s attention back. The atmosphere in the tent grew serious again.
He picked up a long wooden pointer and aimed it at the area on the map representing Amiens City.
“Based on all the intelligence we possess, we can confirm with 100% certainty that John French and his Britannian Expeditionary Force have completely entrenched themselves in Amiens.”
“The reason they chose this location as their defensive stronghold is also simple.” Mackensen’s pointer traced a river on the map, and he continued: “The Somme River is arguably the last natural barrier in front of the Gallic capital, Paris. If they abandon even this, they are effectively opening the gates of Paris to us.”
“At the same time, Amiens is a critical railway hub, with multiple lines leading directly to Paris. By holding out here, they can receive the fastest replenishment of supplies and subsequent reinforcements.”
The Generals in the tent nodded. They understood these basic campaign analyses.
General Mackensen’s gaze swept over everyone present, and his tone suddenly became extremely serious and sharp.
“Therefore, our mission is not to defeat them, nor to drive them out of Amiens.”
He rapped the pointer heavily on the map of Amiens City.
“Our goal is annihilation! It is to completely wipe this Britannian Expeditionary Force off the face of the earth, from commander to the last soldier!”
Hiss— A collective gasp of breath sounded in the tent.
Annihilating a hundred-thousand-man, well-equipped, well-trained professional army? This objective was undeniably grand, perhaps even insane.
After a moment of shock, the Generals’ faces universally lit up with excitement and fervor.
“This will absolutely be a decisive battle!”
“If we destroy this Expeditionary Force, the Western Front campaign is decided!”
“The Gauls will lose their strongest foreign support; Paris will be ours for the taking!”
The Generals started murmuring amongst themselves, all eager for action, as if an unprecedented, massive military honor lay before them. The First Army Group had advanced rapidly and triumphantly since the war began, which had allowed a sense of pride and overconfidence to subtly grow in the hearts of many of the Generals.
They and Morin all knew why General Mackensen specifically emphasized annihilation rather than just defeat. Because only by annihilating the Expeditionary Force could they avoid the trouble of the enemy regrouping when the First Army Group later advanced on Paris.
“Silence!” General Mackensen issued a cold command, and the tent immediately fell silent.
He looked at his Generals, who were overly excited, without a hint of a smile. His face looked like it was covered in frost.
“Do not let past victories cloud your judgment!”
“I remind you, what we are about to face are not the Flanders soldiers or the Gauls, but the professional soldiers of the Holy Britannian Empire! Their most elite Expeditionary Force! Their fighting will and tactical proficiency far exceed our imagination!”
“More importantly,” Mackensen’s tone grew heavier, “this Expeditionary Force will definitely have Spellcasters—and likely high-level Spellcasters!”
The moment the word ‘Spellcaster’ left his mouth, the previously warm atmosphere in the tent suddenly cooled.
The Generals present had all, more or less, heard of or personally witnessed the terrifying power of a high-level Spellcaster on the battlefield. That kind of power, capable of moving mountains and summoning storms, transcended the scope of conventional warfare.
“The Britannians’ mastery of spells and the training of Spellcasters is, we must admit, absolutely world-class—a standard we find difficult to match.”
General Mackensen continued: “A high-level Evocation Spellcaster, if given the opportunity to unleash a large-area attack spell on our assaulting column, could render an entire infantry regiment of over three thousand men completely combat-ineffective in minutes!”
“That would not be combat; that would be a slaughter! And we would be the ones being slaughtered!”
The Generals’ faces all turned grim, and cold sweat even appeared on their foreheads. They finally realized that the battle ahead would be far more difficult and dangerous than they had anticipated.
Seeing the shift in everyone’s expressions, Mackensen knew his words had sunk in.
He softened his tone and continued: “Of course, we are not entirely unprepared. I have already coordinated with the Second Army Group. The L29 Armored Airship that was temporarily lent to them will immediately return to our order of battle.”
“At the same time, I have sent an urgent request to the General Staff, asking for another Armored Airship to be dispatched for support.”
“Two Armored Airships!” This news lifted the Generals’ spirits. With two airships in the sky, they could at least establish effective deterrence and suppression over the enemy.
“But, do not place all your hopes on the airships.” Mackensen once again dampened the mood. “The Second Army Group’s battle at the Namur Fortress Cluster showed us that Armored Airships are not invincible. They can also be shot down!”
“Ultimately, the deciding factor in victory or defeat will still be us—relying on the rifles and cannons in our hands, and the courage and blood of our soldiers!”
The atmosphere in the tent shifted from initial fervor to seriousness, and finally settled into a complex emotion mixed with excitement and determination. Everyone understood that this would be a tough battle and an unprecedentedly brutal fight. But at the same time, this was a glorious campaign that could secure the victory and secure their place in history.
General Mackensen looked at everyone and nodded in satisfaction. He wanted precisely this effect—the confidence to win, yet a healthy respect for the enemy.
He replaced the pointer on the map and pointed to Amiens.
“Now, let us discuss the specific operational deployment.” General Mackensen cleared his throat. All the Generals in the tent held their breath, focusing their gaze on the massive map.
“The precise time of the assault will be distributed to the various combat units later.”
His pointer first tapped the north side of Amiens City.
“The Third Corps, Fourth Corps, and the four divisions of the ‘Assault Battle Group’ will form our main frontal assault force.”
Mackensen’s gaze fell on the two Corps Commanders and Linsingen and Ludendorff, the commanders of the temporary Battle Group.
“Your mission is to breach the Britannian outer defense line at all costs, pinning them firmly inside Amiens City, creating opportunity and time for our main force to execute the flanking maneuver and encirclement!”
The four Generals who were named simultaneously stood at attention and replied solemnly: “Yes, General!”