A middle-aged man wearing a well-tailored black overcoat, looking like the person in charge of the convoy, jumped down from the lead vehicle.
He walked straight to Morin. Even on the muddy front line, his movements remained elegant and proper.
“Young Master Morin.”
The middle-aged man bowed slightly, his tone respectful.
“Madam heard that the supply situation on the front line is not ideal, and specially asked me to deliver some ‘small gifts,’ hoping to let you and your soldiers have a slightly more decent Christmas.”
As he spoke, he turned sideways and waved to the convoy behind him.
The canvas was lifted, revealing mountains of supply boxes inside.
“Here are cigarettes purchased domestically—Madam almost bought all the high-grade cigarettes circulating in the Dresden market.”
“The rest are high-calorie chocolates, malted milk extract, gin… all adjustments needed by frontline soldiers.”
“In addition, there is a batch of newly launched small Radiant Crystal Heaters.”
The butler finished speaking in one breath like reporting a menu, then added with a smile: “Of course, several carloads of fresh meat have been delivered to the Army Group Logistics Department to add dishes for everyone.”
Hearing this middle-aged man’s words, Morin also had a deeper understanding of Cecilia’s “superpower of money.”
“In addition…”
The middle-aged man didn’t finish his words. He turned around and pointed to several boxes placed separately on a small truck.
“Young Master Morin, these are your private goods.”
“I understand, thank you… uh, may I ask how to address you?”
“Just call me Guerrero, Young Master Morin~”
“Okay, thank you, Mr. Guerrero!”
The two exchanged a few simple words. Morin also asked others to distribute part of the delivered “adjustments,” and send the rest to the trenches ahead.
And he himself called several soldiers to help move the “private goods” into the command tent.
“Alright, let me see what good things I received this time…”
The oil lamp light in the command tent was dim, pulling Morin’s shadow very long.
Kleist, who was called to help, stood aside holding an iron pry bar just grabbed from the logistics vehicle, gesturing at those two seemingly ordinary crates.
With a crisp “crack,” the wooden boards groaned agonizingly, and the cover boards were pried open forcibly, revealing the true appearance inside.
Morin and Kleist looked inside curiously. The former was just about to say something, but his mouth opened halfway without making a sound.
The box was lined with thick hay, and that reassuring smell of gun oil drilled out along the gaps.
Under that layer of hay, ten brand-new rifles lay quietly in the sawdust, the blued metal parts glowing with a cold luster under the light.
Both crates were quickly opened. Inside were a total of twenty brand-new rifles and matching tools.
Morin reached out and picked up one of them.
The heavy weight, the warm feel of the wooden stock, and that gas-operating mechanism that didn’t belong to any active rifle of this era.
He skillfully pulled the bolt.
“Click.”
The sound was crisp, the rebound powerful.
Although there was a strong Saxon industrial style in the details—even some compromising modifications made to adapt to the processing level of this world.
But the overall structure of this thing was exactly that murderous weapon known as the G43 Semi-Automatic Rifle in another timeline.
“Is this… a rifle?”
Kleist leaned over, frowning curiously.
“Why is there no bolt-action mechanism? This looks like… some kind of automatic weapon?”
“Exactly, this is the latest masterpiece of the ‘Valkyries’ and the semi-automatic rifle I hope to popularize to every infantry squad.”
“Simply put, you don’t need to pull the bolt every time you fire a shot. As long as you keep pulling the trigger, you can keep firing. These twenty guns can easily produce the fire density of a platoon.”
Kleist’s eyes lit up instantly. That was the eager gaze only a veteran would have when seeing a peerless divine weapon.
As Morin spoke, he felt out a letter from the corner of the box, then walked to the side and opened it.
There was a bit of machine oil on the envelope, and the handwriting inside was still that kind of scribble and sharpness unique to engineering students.
Unfolding the letter paper, the voice of that girl with a proud figure who always hid herself behind the workbench seemed to ring in his ears.
In the letter, Helga first hoped her “boss” was well on the front line, and at the same time stated that these ten semi-automatic rifles were handmade prototype guns sent to the front line in advance for Morin to test.
At the same time, she also expressed in a guessing tone that she didn’t know when these weapons would arrive at the front line, but she estimated it should be around Christmas.
If Morin really received them during this time, it was her “Christmas gift” to Morin.
Morin smiled, the scene of Helga writing furiously in the studio seemingly flashing before his eyes.
Looking at the letter paper, the corners of his mouth couldn’t help turning up.
He could almost imagine the scene of Helga biting her pen cap, drawing on blueprints with dark circles under her eyes, mumbling complaints that the boss only knew how to talk.
Next, Morin turned his gaze to the remaining black metal box that was protected the tightest and looked like it exuded an aura of “I’m very expensive, don’t touch me.”
The lock here was obviously much more exquisite, clearly having certain confidential functions.
Morin took out the key Guerrero gave him, inserted it into the keyhole with a slight force, and after twisting it according to the instructions above the keyhole, the box lid automatically popped open amidst a slight hum of gears engaging.
The inside of the box was lined with thick velvet. In the center lay a backpack-sized main unit, surrounded by four palm-sized metal plates—looking like some kind of handset.
All parts were engraved with intricate Magitech Circuits. Several high-purity magic crystals were inlaid in the core positions, emitting a faint blue light.
A fragrant letter paper was pressed under the main unit.
Patricia’s handwriting was elegant and gorgeous. Every turn revealed aristocratic reserve, completely different from Helga’s wild cursive.
[To Friedrich Morin:
Hope that elm head of yours is still intact.
This ‘Portable Magitech Communication Prototype’ is the product I came up with during this period according to your requirements.
It has a main unit and four sub-units, with a theoretical communication distance of five kilometers—of course, provided there is no strong magical interference on your side.
I must remind you, this thing is a semi-finished product.
Its energy conversion rate is outrageously low. Even using the best charged magic crystals, it can only last for fifteen minutes.
Moreover, besides you, a spellcaster, I don’t think any of those grunts under you can drive this thing.
So, if you distribute the sub-units, they can only listen, not speak.
PS: Don’t break it.
PPS: It doesn’t matter if you break it. Regarding the R&D expenses, Madam Falkenstein has already put them on your tab~]
The entire letter was full of Patricia’s style. Morin couldn’t help smiling after reading it, and the voice of that blonde tsundere seemed to ring in his ears.
Soon, Morin focused his attention on the machine itself.
On the chaotic battlefield, if the commander’s voice could directly reach the battalion level, even if only one-way transmission, it could already provide tremendous help to the instruction unit.
Although before other soldiers with “magical affinity” appeared, this thing could only serve as a “megaphone” for Morin to issue orders, and not for two-way communication.
But anyway, it could be considered giving the instruction unit the ability of real-time communication between the Regimental Headquarters and various battalions.
Moreover, under the situation where Morin and the Regimental Headquarters were the main commanders, the “megaphone” function was actually enough.
Finally, among these “private parcels,” there was also a letter sent by Cecilia to Morin.
This woman who had an intimate relationship with Morin condensed all her feelings of missing him into the most important sentence—Friedrich, I will wait for you to come back, forever…
Time quickly reached December 24th.
According to the order of the First Army Group Headquarters, the First Battalion of the instruction unit, as the vanguard, entered the second defense line, ready at any time to respond to sneak attacks the Britannians might launch on Christmas Eve.
When Morin led other soldiers stepping on the creaking wooden boards into the trench, he found the atmosphere here was so peaceful it simply didn’t look like a battlefield. The smell of gunpowder smoke and putrefaction that shrouded the position all day long seemed to be diluted by another smell—that was the fresh scent of pine branches.
On the earth walls on both sides of the trench, where grenades and ammunition were originally placed, sections of green pine branches were now inserted.
Those brass casings that should originally be symbols of mutual slaughter were wiped shiny by the soldiers and hung on the branches with thin strings, clinking when the wind blew.
Some dexterous soldiers even cut out star shapes from tin cans and hung them at the highest points.
In addition, some collected white candles were fixed everywhere in the trench, just waiting to be lit tonight.
Some soldiers with carpentry backgrounds used surplus wood to make long tables and placed them all the way along the firing trench.
Morin walked all the way along the communication trench. Every soldier he passed would stop what they were doing, salute him, with that long-lost, heartfelt smile on their faces.
“Sir, Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, sir!”
Looking at this scene, Morin felt a bit dazed because this scene reminded him of the world before his transmigration.
Every Spring Festival, watching on TV how even in the hardest border outposts, comrades would find ways to paste Spring Festival couplets and make dumplings.
That desire for “home” and “reunion” is an instinct carved into human bones, no matter which world, no matter in which trench.
“Sir…”
Kleist, following behind Morin, reminded in a low voice: “I just communicated with the commander of this defense line. According to the observation post’s report, the opposite side is also very quiet today.”
Morin nodded, tightened his overcoat, and walked towards the very front stepping on the slippery duckboards.
The sky gradually darkened.
The originally grayish-white sky turned deep ink blue. Fine snowflakes were still flying, falling on the face feeling cool.
When Morin walked into the first firing trench, he happened to see several soldiers carefully fixing white candles onto those makeshift Christmas trees.
The sound of striking matches seemed exceptionally clear in the silent night.
“Sizzle—”
A small orange flame jumped up, lighting the candle, and also lighting up the mud-covered but expectant faces of the soldiers.
Followed by the second, the third…
Like some silent transmission, scattered candlelight began to spread in the winding trenches.
At that moment, this gap full of death and slaughter actually became somewhat warm.