Dresden, Saxon Empire, Army Department Building.
Outside the window, leaves fell on Unter den Linden, and the chill of early autumn had descended on the heart of the Empire.
Inside the Operations Conference Room with a huge map hanging on the wall within the Army Department building, the temperature was so high that participants couldn’t help but unbutton the collars of their uniforms.
Brand-new reports were placed one by one on the table in front of the participants.
There was no “Top Secret” stamp on the cover of this report, just simply written “Summary of the First Full-Personnel, Full-Equipment Motorized Maneuver and Combined Exercise of the Imperial Guard Instruction Assault Unit”.
If one only looked at the first half of the report, it was simply a “Self-Condemnation Edict”..
Exceeding the scheduled assembly time by nearly an hour, 15% of vehicles failing to arrive on time, a company getting lost during the march, as well as car accidents, soldiers fainting in vehicles, and other situations—
If it were in the past, the commander of this unit would have long been ordered to suspend duty for reflection, or even kicked out of the army.
But at this moment, the brains of the Imperial Army sitting around the table—including Moltke the Younger, who rushed back from Koblenz to attend the regular meeting of the Supreme Command, and General Falkenhayn, the controller of the Army Department, not only had no anger on their faces but wore a fanaticism like discovering a new continent.
“Five and a half hours…”
General Falkenhayn’s finger tapped heavily on a line of data in the report, his head shaking slightly uncontrollably.
“Gentlemen, please put aside that damn breakdown rate and the idiots who got lost for a moment, and look at this number—five and a half hours! One hundred and twenty kilometers!”
He raised his head, looking around at his colleagues, his voice appearing very excited: “What is this concept? This means if we have two such divisions, we can scoop out their guts from the flank before the enemy reacts!”
While he was speaking, Chief of General Staff Moltke the Younger stood with his hands behind his back in front of the huge Western Front situation map.
He stared at the long battle line on the map, seemingly simulating the advance trajectory of this brand-new unit in his mind.
If the instruction unit could only be considered a tactical unit before, the mobility they demonstrated at this moment had allowed them to touch the threshold of strategic power.
In this era, the standard daily marching distance of an infantry division was 25 to 30 kilometers.
If it were a forced march, it might reach 40 kilometers, but that meant soldiers arriving at the battlefield would be exhausted and almost lose combat effectiveness.
Although cavalry was fast, they lacked fortification-storming firepower and continuous combat capability—and they also didn’t run as fast as the four wheels of a truck.
Moltke the Younger turned around and continued Falkenhayn’s words with a steady tone: “Lieutenant Colonel Morin proved with facts that as long as infantry are equipped with wheels, their strategic value will grow geometrically.”
“But General, this loss rate—”
A senior officer responsible for logistics in the Army Department wiped the sweat from his forehead, “According to the data in the report, a maneuver of this intensity consumes astronomical figures of vehicles and materials…”
“Is there a war that doesn’t cost money? Are we spending less military budget now?”
Falkenhayn waved his hand impatiently: “Compared to campaign victory, what are a few trucks and Radiant Crystal Fuel? Lieutenant Colonel Morin made it very clear in the report that most of these failures stem from manufacturing processes and improper operation, which can be improved.”
“This Lieutenant Colonel scolded himself and his subordinate instruction unit bloody in the report, but I see… this is precisely his smartest point.”
Another senior staff officer obviously also expressed his view in agreement: “He put all problems on the table to tell us—motorized troops are not perfect, but as long as these problems are solved, its value will be magnified infinitely.”
Moltke the Younger nodded, walked back to the table, and picked up the report.
“Approve all subsequent improvement plans of the instruction unit. In addition, regarding the ‘Individual Physical Fitness and Tactical Movement Intensive Training Syllabus’ submitted by Morin—”
“It has been distributed, and various military districts are responding actively.”
“Very good. Just give us a little more time, and the combat effectiveness of grassroots units will be greatly improved!”
Just as the army high command said at the meeting, the physical and tactical training syllabus of the instruction unit was actually slowly being promoted to the whole army.
However, since the first batch of personnel from various units trained in the instruction unit hadn’t left yet, what truly landed first were the reserve training camps of major military districts.
Bavaria, 4th Reserve Training Camp.
The sky was gloomy like an overturned black pot. Cold autumn rain mixed with the smell of mud beat mercilessly on the training ground.
“Quick! Quick! Quick! You unweaned soft eggs!”
“Don’t wiggle in the mud pit like women! Move!”
Rough roars pierced the rain curtain, accompanied by sharp whistles, echoing on the empty ground.
Reserve soldier Müller felt his lungs were about to explode.
Muddy water flowed down the edge of his helmet into his neck, bitingly cold, but he couldn’t care less about wiping it.
His vision was blurred, full of swaying figures and splashing mud.
In front of Müller was a two-meter-high wooden wall.
This was part of that damn 400-meter obstacle course said to be invented by some “genius” officer.
“Go! Müller! Don’t block the way!”
A comrade behind pushed him. Müller gritted his teeth, used his last bit of strength, jumped fiercely, and dug his hands firmly into the edge of the slippery wooden board.
His feet kicked wildly on the muddy board wall. He managed to hang his heavy body up with great difficulty, then flipped over the wall like a dead fish, falling heavily into the mud pit on the other side.
“Cough cough cough—”
Müller coughed violently, his mouth full of the taste of muddy water.
Before he could catch his breath, a foot wearing a black tall leather boot kicked his butt.
“Lying there waiting to die? Get up! Keep running!”
The Master Sergeant responsible for training, the guy privately called “Black-Faced Butcher” by all reserve soldiers, was glaring at him condescendingly.
There was no mercy in those eyes, only ferocity.
Müller dared not retort. He crawled up from the mud pit using both hands and feet, stumbling towards the next obstacle—the low crawl net.
And for him, all this was simply hell…
Since this new training syllabus was issued, life in the entire training camp had become unbearable.
Previous training was just marching in formation, practicing bayonet fighting and shooting, and then some long-distance marches and basic physical training.
What about now?
Unshakable ten-kilometer armed cross-country every morning, repeated torture on this damn 400-meter obstacle course in the afternoon, interspersed with various tactical movement exercises.
It was said that this training method originated from some instruction unit…
While crawling under the water-logged barbed wire, Müller fiercely greeted the bastard who invented this stuff in his heart.
If he knew who came up with this torturous thing, he swore he would spit in that person’s coffee!
Finally enduring until this round of training ended, Müller collapsed on the grass in the rest area like a puddle of mud.
Surrounding him were reserve soldiers as wretched as him. Everyone was pale, soaked through, and didn’t even have the strength to curse.
“Hey, Müller, still alive?”
Comrade Hans next to him leaned over. This guy used to be a dock porter, physically stronger than Müller, but at this moment, he was also panting like a broken bellows.
Müller nodded… then shook his head violently, wiping a handful of mud from his face: “Damn it—I feel like my lungs are burning. This isn’t training at all; this is murder.”
“Tell me about it.” Hans shook his head with a bitter smile, “I heard two guys in the next company ran until they broke down yesterday and were sent directly to the infirmary.”
“I just don’t understand.”
Müller punched the ground indignantly and complained: “I came to be a soldier to fight wars, to go to the front line and drive those Britannian guys back into the sea to feed fish! Not to be an acrobat in this rear area!”
“Drilling through barbed wire and climbing walls every day, can this kill enemies? Are we going to laugh the enemy to death by climbing walls?”
His voice was a bit loud, drawing resonance from many reserve soldiers around.
“Exactly! Crawling in mud every day!”
“I was a hunter before joining the army. My marksmanship is more accurate than the instructor. Why do I have to suffer this?”
Complaints rose one after another. Everyone seemed to find a vent, venting their dissatisfaction one after another.
Just then, a shadow loomed over.
The crowd that was still chattering instantly fell silent, like ducks choked by the neck.
The Master Sergeant stood behind them at some point, holding that terrifying whip in his hand, a creepy sneer on his face.
“Speak, why not continue speaking?”
The Master Sergeant gently tapped his palm with the whip, his gaze sweeping across every reserve soldier’s face, finally fixing on Müller.
“Private Müller, you just said these trainings can’t kill enemies?”
Müller swallowed, braced himself to stand up, and stood at attention.
“Report Master Sergeant! I—I think we need more live-fire shooting training, not wasting physical strength here!”
Although scared to death in his heart, that youthful stubbornness made him speak his mind.
“Wasting physical strength?”
The Master Sergeant sneered and suddenly kicked Müller fiercely on the shin.
“Ugh!”
Müller groaned in pain, almost kneeling, but he forced himself not to fall.
“Listen, you bunch of rookies.”
“What do you think the battlefield is? Huh?”
The Master Sergeant bent down, his face almost touching Müller’s nose.
“Do you think the battlefield is everyone lining up, listening to military music, and shooting at each other? You idiot!”
The Master Sergeant pointed to the obstacle course behind him and continued to roar loudly at Müller: “That low crawl net is the enemy’s machine gun blockade line! If you crawl one second slower, your head will explode like a pumpkin! That board wall is the collapsed trench and ruins! If you can’t climb over, the enemy’s bayonet will stab into your ass!”
“And that 20-kilometer cross-country!”
The Master Sergeant straightened up and roared at all reserve soldiers: “You think that’s to torture you? That’s so that when you run out of bullets and have no reinforcements, you still have the strength to run faster than the enemy! Or when pursuing, you can bite onto those damn deserters!”
The rain fell harder and harder, but the Master Sergeant’s voice drowned out the rain.
He was a veteran who participated in the Battle of Amiens, a veteran who truly charged through machine gun fire nets and fought bayonets with Britannians.
Because of irreversible damage to his back left during combat, he was transferred to the rear training camp as an instructor.
As a former member of the First Army Group, Morin’s name was thunderous to him.
“The inventor of this training plan crawled out from a pile of dead people! While he was fighting bayonets with Britannians in Amiens with us, you were still eating bread at home!”
The Master Sergeant grabbed Müller’s collar and lifted him up.
“Kid, you hate him now, hate me, hate this damn mud… it doesn’t matter, go ahead and hate!”
The Master Sergeant patted the muddy water on Müller’s chest for him, although it got dirtier the more he patted.
“Wait for one day, when you lie in a pile of dead people, bullets without eyes flying constantly over your head, and you can only survive by crawling ten more meters relying on this physical fitness trained… you will kneel down and thank every drop of sweat shed today.”
Müller was stunned.
He looked at the Master Sergeant’s bloodshot eyes. There was no teasing inside, only a seriousness that saw through life and death.
“Now, Private Müller.”
The Master Sergeant let go and pointed to the starting line.
“Because of your stupid question, the whole platoon gets one extra lap… You, two laps. Execute immediately!”
“Yes! Sir!”
Müller roared, turned around, and rushed into the rain curtain.
This time, when he threw himself into that cold mud pit again, the impulse to complain seemed to dissipate a little.
Replacing it was something inexplicably heavy.