“No, Your Excellency Commander, I laughed because the point of your anger seems to be misplaced.”
Seeckt put down his coffee cup and leaned forward slightly. His eyes, always hidden behind the monocle, flickered with a light that saw through everything: “You’re not truly angry because he violated military discipline. If it were any other officer who did this, your order right now should be ‘take him out and shoot him,’ not ‘solitary confinement.'”
Mackensen’s expression stiffened for a moment. Then he snorted coldly and turned his head toward the window: “Violating military discipline is violating military discipline. Solitary confinement is to make him learn his lesson!”
“Is that really the case?”
Seeckt stood up, walked to the map table, and tapped his fingers lightly on the red and blue lines representing the front line: “Friedrich has been too much in the limelight recently. The battle record of the instruction unit, plus the rumors of this ‘Christmas Truce’—”
“In the eyes of some people, he is no longer just a simple officer, but an unstable variable, even a stumbling block.”
At this point, Seeckt paused, his tone becoming meaningful: “Those keen-nosed hounds from the Army Review Department have been hovering around the instruction unit for several days since they arrived at the front line. If that kid Friedrich is still wandering outside at this time, or even gets caught with some leverage—”
“Then he’s courting death himself!”
Mackensen retorted stiffly, but the hand behind his back subconsciously clenched into a fist.
“You are protecting him.”
Seeckt ignored the old general’s stubbornness and directly pierced the paper window (exposed the truth): “You locking him up is to make him disappear from the storm for a few days. As long as he is under your ‘punishment,’ those people who want to make a fuss over a minor issue and stick a label on this ‘rising star of the army’ cannot bypass your wall to touch him.”
The room fell into a brief silence.
After quite a while, Mackensen finally turned around. The anger on his face had largely subsided, replaced by a deep weariness and solemnity.
“Hans…”
The old general did not directly answer his partner’s question but pointed to the winding battle line on the map.
“Both you and I know very well that this war has lost the possibility of a quick victory. It won’t end before Christmas, nor will it end next spring… This is a huge meat grinder that will devour all hot blood and passion.”
“In the current army, there are fanatic fools everywhere who dare to lead soldiers charging into machine gun muzzles shouting ‘For the Emperor’… Officers like Friedrich, who can still keep calm and treat the other side as human beings when their eyes are red with killing—there are too few of them.”
“Under these circumstances, compared to fanatic officers, the Empire actually needs calm officers like Friedrich more.”
Seeckt smiled and nodded: “It seems I thought right. You plan to cultivate him as a future rising star of the army.”
“Hmph, that depends on whether this piece of material can become something useful!”
Mackensen seemed to realize that the emotion he just showed was too “weak,” and immediately pulled a long face again, restoring the look of an iron-blooded commander: “Alright Hans, stop talking nonsense, go arrange it! Lock him up for 72 hours! During this period, except for the person delivering food, not even a fly is allowed to fly in! If I find out someone secretly passes messages to him, I’ll hold you responsible!”
“Yes, Your Excellency General.”
Seeckt saluted and turned to walk out.
Just as his hand rested on the door handle, the old general’s awkward voice came from behind again.
“Also—tell the person delivering food not to do a perfunctory job! If he gets skinny from hunger later, who knows what kind of telegrams will fly to my desk!”
With his back to Mackensen, the corners of Seeckt’s mouth curved into a helpless yet amused arc: “Understood, I will have the kitchen ‘strictly’ implement the standards.”
The news of Morin being put in solitary confinement spread quickly throughout the frontline headquarters like it had grown wings.
To most people, this seemed like a signal: that young Lieutenant Colonel who always created miracles had finally stumbled because of his reckless behavior.
Less than two hours after Morin was taken into a tent originally used to store maps deep in the Army Group Headquarters area, several officers wearing gray trench coats with Review Department badges pinned to their collars appeared at the door.
These people looked like vultures smelling rotting meat, their expressions revealing an uncomfortable excitement.
“Step aside.”
The leading Review Officer raised his chin and flashed the credentials in his hand at the two General’s Guard soldiers guarding the door: “We need to interrogate Lieutenant Colonel Morin. This is a special review warrant.”
However, those two “Plate Armor Supermen,” nearly two meters tall and wearing full armor, didn’t even bat an eyelid, like two granite statues.
The greatswords in their hands still rested on the ground, and the murderous aura rolling off them from mountains of corpses and seas of blood made those Army Review Officers subconsciously take a half-step back.
“Do you want to disobey orders?!”
The leading Review Officer became angry from embarrassment and shouted in a shrill voice: “This is a review involving suspicion of treason! If it’s delayed—”
“Step back!”
A low warning interrupted his clamor.
A guard turned his head slightly. Those emotionless gray eyes inside the fully enclosed helmet stared at the other party, his voice so low it seemed squeezed out from his chest: “General Mackensen’s order: No one is allowed to approach. Violators will be considered attacking the headquarters and killed on the spot.”
“You—”
The Review Officer’s face turned the color of pig liver. The finger he pointed at the guard was trembling, but in front of that greatsword that could easily cleave a person in half, he ultimately didn’t dare to take another step forward.
“Good! Very good! I will report what happened today truthfully!”
The several “vultures” left cursing, leaving behind only a string of figures displaying incompetent rage.
This scene happened to be seen by Kleist and the others who had hurried over to gather information.
Kleist, who was originally anxious like an ant on a hot pan, now froze in place.
Watching those usually arrogant Army Review Officers look deflated, the taut string in his mind suddenly loosened a bit.
“This—what is this situation?” Kleist scratched his head, looking bewildered.
Manstein, standing beside him, let out a long breath, his tightly knitted brows finally relaxing.
He patted his old partner’s shoulder, a smile of relief appearing at the corner of his mouth: “It seems our commander is fine. This isn’t solitary confinement; this is clearly General Mackensen finding him the safest ‘bunker’ in the world.”
“Ah?” Kleist still hadn’t reacted.
“Alright, don’t just stand there.”
Manstein turned and walked back, his steps becoming much brisker: “We have to go back and keep an eye on those boys. If the Lieutenant Colonel comes out and finds the instruction unit in a mess, then we’ll really get scolded.”
The environment in the confinement tent was not as harsh as Morin initially imagined.
He could even lie on a camp bed covered with thick blankets, his hands pillowed behind his head, staring blankly at the wood grain on the ceiling.
No sounds of artillery fire, no emergency assembly whistles, and no endless documents to process.
This sudden quietness actually made him somewhat unaccustomed.
“I wonder if Erich and the others can hold the fort—” Morin rolled over and muttered.
But he quickly laughed self-deprecatingly.
That guy Manstein had a better brain than he did. At this time, he would definitely be calmer than anyone else. He was just worrying blindly.
And Morin also fell into a deep sleep in this environment.
When he woke up again, it was already late at night.
He glanced at his pocket watch and found the time had passed 24:00; it was now December 26th.
Morin drank some water and was thinking whether to continue sleeping for a while when the tent’s door curtain was pulled open, and a waft of food aroma drifted in through the gap.
“Your Excellency Lieutenant Colonel, you finally woke up.”
A fat chef wearing a white apron pushed a small dining cart in—this was also a configuration only the field kitchen of the Army Group Headquarters had.
Morin sat up from the camp bed. He was just about to say just put it anywhere when his gaze suddenly froze on the dining cart.
It wasn’t black bread on it, nor was there that paste-like pea soup.
Replacing them was a huge, golden, and crispy roasted pork knuckle, accompanied by a full large plate of sauerkraut and mashed potatoes, and even an opened bottle of Riesling white wine.
“This—” Morin was stunned, pointing to that heavy dish: “This is a confinement meal?!”
The fat chef wiped the grease off his hands, his face full of a simple and honest smile: “The General specially instructed, saying today is a special day, and you cannot be left hungry.”
A special day?
Morin was taken aback for a moment, and then his memory was like a floodgate suddenly opened.
In another world, this day was the day he celebrated his birthday accompanied by family and friends;
And in this world, this day was also the only day he could receive a gift in the already blurry childhood of this body.
The memories of two space-times overlapped at this moment.
It was just that Morin didn’t expect the first birthday he experienced after coming to this world would be spent in solitary confinement.
He looked at that steaming roasted pork knuckle, his eye sockets suddenly feeling a bit hot.
That old man who was fierce and menacing to him on the surface, threatening to send him to the “very front line” at every turn, actually even remembered that he loved eating roasted pork knuckles.
“Thank—General Mackensen for me.”
Morin’s voice was somewhat hoarse.
“Will do. But I think, Lieutenant Colonel, you should wait until your confinement is over and thank the General personally~”
The fat chef smiled and backed out, lowering the door curtain again.
The tent restored its quietness again.
Morin walked to the table, sat down, and picked up the knife and fork.
The crispy pork skin made a crisp “crack” sound under the blade, and tender meat juice flowed out along the cut.
He cut a large piece of meat and stuffed it into his mouth. The familiar salty and savory taste exploded on the tip of his tongue, instantly driving away all the fatigue and gloom that had accumulated in the bottom of his heart these past few days.
He ate in big mouthfuls, completely without image, like a starving child.
A bite of meat, a sip of wine.
In the gap of this cruel war, Morin felt unprecedented warmth and peace.
It wasn’t until only a bare bone was left of that huge pork knuckle that Morin put down the knife and fork with satisfaction and burped.
He picked up the wine glass, and towards the empty room, and also towards that old man who wasn’t here, raised it gently.
“Thank you, General…”
“Also, happy birthday, Prisoner Mo~”