When Morin uttered the sentence “The Britannians will strike before we do,” a momentary silence fell over the conference room.
Moltke the Younger and the generals quickly exchanged glances. Those looks contained obvious surprise, but Morin wasn’t sure what they were surprised about.
After all, in his view, this shift in the situation wasn’t hard to deduce. The intentions of the Britannians should be obvious to everyone.
“The Britannians will strike first…”
Major Nicolai of the General Staff’s Department III also appeared somewhat surprised, exchanging a look with Chief of the General Staff Moltke the Younger.
Morin was actually quite curious whether this Major Nicolai had some kind of background.
After all, with only the rank of Major, he was already considered to be leading the intelligence work of the entire General Staff.
Furthermore, he could directly interface with the Chief of the General Staff and handle highly classified missions like the “Paris Underground Research Institute.” However, whether in the [Intelligence] or [Information] tabs, the background data regarding this major was pitifully scarce.
What Morin didn’t know was that in another timeline, it was indeed this Major Nicolai who headed most of the intelligence work for the Second Reich during WWI. After the end of WWI, he was temporarily replaced, only to be promoted to Colonel in 1935 and become the mustache man’s intelligence advisor. He subsequently oversaw the interrogation in the Jacob espionage case.
A journalist named Berthold Jacob published a pamphlet detailing the rearmament status of the German army. It included the German army’s organizational structure, personnel distribution, and internal situations of various military districts.
It even listed the names and resumes of 168 commanders. At the time, this information constituted a severe leak of German military secrets. Through interrogation, Nicolai learned that all the information Jacob obtained came from German newspapers… his “weapons for gathering intelligence” were merely cardboard, scissors, and paste.
This inspired Nicolai and led him to establish a dedicated team within his department, focusing on gathering intelligence from normal national publications. Of course, the absolute master of piecing together “intelligence” from newspaper content would have to be that legendary British spy…
Digressing, back to the main topic.
After receiving a signal from Moltke the Younger’s eyes, Nicolai, the intelligence major, continued to ask Morin:
“Lieutenant Colonel Morin, may I ask what your basis is?”
“The Britannians have already been pinned down by us with a massive amount of troops on the Western Front. How could they still have the spare capacity to open a second front in the Balkans?”
“Because they are a maritime power, Major.”
Morin answered without hesitation. He strode to the map and then traced an arc over the Mediterranean region with his finger.
“For Britannia, which possesses absolute command of the sea, force projection is never a matter of distance, but a matter of resolve.”
“Moreover, precisely because the Western Front is stalemated, they more urgently need to find a breakthrough point.”
Following Morin’s words, his finger crossed the Balkan Peninsula and poked heavily at the underbelly of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
“Winston Churchill, that Britannian First Lord of the… ahem, I have studied his past speeches and behavioral style in my spare time.” Before everyone, Morin maintained his composure and began his “logical performance.”
He knew very well this was a rare opportunity to showcase himself in front of the military high echelon.
All along, the military high echelon, including Chief of the Army General Staff Moltke the Younger, had considered Morin a “fierce general” adept at frontline command and combat. Now it was also time to continue elevating his own value.
“In my view, Winston Churchill is a gambler, a strategic adventurer who likes unconventional approaches.”
“In his eyes, the trench warfare on the Western Front is foolish attrition. So after the Austro-Hungarian Empire exposes its problems, he is highly likely to advocate attacking the ‘soft underbelly’ of the Central Powers.”
Morin’s voice echoed in the conference room. Originally adept at talking eloquently in front of others, after transmigrating to this world, he had perfectly integrated the eloquence of this body.
At this moment, his voice carried a convincing penetrative power.
“If I were a Britannian, what would I do?”
“I would utilize naval superiority to organize a massive expeditionary force, unite with countries like Greece, and land directly on the Balkan Peninsula—for example, the Dardanelles Strait, or perhaps Salonika in Greece.”
“Once the landing is successful, they can sever the connection between the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the Ottoman Empire, and even directly threaten the rear of Vienna.”
“Not to mention, if they pull the Ottoman Empire into the Entente camp as well, then the pressure on us from the Balkan Peninsula will become unprecedentedly immense…”
“If the Austro-Hungarian Empire falls, not only will there be no one to help defend the Eastern Front, but even the Empire’s southern flank will be completely exposed.”
“We will have to divert dozens of divisions to fill this massive gap in the defense line… that would be disastrous.”
Morin finished in one breath, then quietly looked at the big shots present.
He knew very well the weight of his words. This was not just strategic analysis, but spoiling history—albeit a magically modified version. In this world, although the Ottoman Empire and the Balkan nations had not completely taken sides…
Although the specific names of the battles might be different, geopolitical logic would not change.
Churchill’s strategic thinking of wanting to stab from the flank would also not change.
And the Dardanelles Strait and the Greek port of Salonika he just mentioned were indeed the landing locations chosen by the Entente in another world.
Especially landing from the latter, they could rush to aid Serbia and strike directly at the border of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in a short time.
The silence lasted for a full minute.
Moltke the Younger remained silent, staring fixedly at Morin, as if trying to see through exactly how much was stored in this young Lieutenant Colonel’s brain.
“Clap, clap, clap.”
Finally, slow and powerful applause broke the silence.
Chief of the Army General Staff Moltke the Younger clapped gently, the seriousness on his face gradually melting away, replaced by unconcealed admiration.
“Brilliant, simply brilliant.”
Moltke the Younger pulled out a thin piece of telegraph paper from a folder marked “Top Secret” on his desk.
“Gentlemen, I think we no longer need to doubt Lieutenant Colonel Morin’s judgment.”
He waved the telegraph paper in his hand.
“This is a secret telegram from the Britannian Admiralty that our intelligence personnel just intercepted and deciphered the day before yesterday.”
Moltke the Younger handed the telegraph paper to a general beside him, signaling for it to be passed around.
“Although it’s only fragments, it mentions a few key pieces of information: the Britannians are indeed planning a large-scale military operation, and it’s highly likely to be in North Africa or the Mediterranean region.”
Hearing these words, the officers present gasped.
It was confirmed.
This was no longer just speculation, but reality already happening.
Friedrich Morin, this young Army Lieutenant Colonel, had actually accurately predicted the enemy’s strategic intentions relying merely on an analysis of the situation?
This could no longer be simply described as “talented”; it was practically monstrous.
“It seems His Highness the Crown Prince was right.”
Moltke the Younger looked at Morin with complex eyes.
“You are indeed a born strategist, Lieutenant Colonel Morin.”
Morin lowered his head modestly, saying nothing more.
And Chief of the General Staff Moltke the Younger’s expression became serious again. He looked around at everyone in the conference room and spoke:
“Since we have learned that the Britannians are about to act, and there is a possibility they will project forces into the Balkan Peninsula region, we must be prepared.”
“We cannot sit by and watch the Austro-Hungarian Empire collapse, let alone let the Britannians’ scheme succeed… Now it seems our plan to launch an offensive in the Balkans not only cannot be delayed any longer, but will highly likely have to be moved up…”
Listening to Moltke the Younger’s words, everyone present nodded. Several officers also began to discuss the issue of which army group to transfer from the Western Front.
Meanwhile, Morin was rapidly recalling all the “bizarre operations” the Great Brit had pulled off throughout the 20th century in another world, seeing if it could give him any inspiration.
After all, the Gallic Republic in this world surrendered without holding on for long, and this was obviously completely different from the normal WWI timeline.
“Gallic Republic surrenders…”
“Gaul… France…”
“France surrenders…”
Human thought possesses a leaping nature, so Morin quickly thought of the situation where France was speedrun by the Third Reich in WWII in another world.
So before and after France was speedrun, besides Dunkirk, what other “highlight moments” did the Great Brit have?
They did, bro, they did.
After quickly organizing his words in his mind, Morin met Moltke the Younger’s gaze and asked:
“Your Excellency the Chief, may I ask, regarding the Gallic Republic reaching a ceasefire negotiation with us… or more bluntly, after the Gauls surrender, how will their naval vessels be handled?”
Moltke the Younger was stunned for a moment, obviously not expecting Morin to suddenly jump to the Navy.
However, after thinking for a moment, he roughly told Morin the situation he knew.
“According to the previous draft plans from the Supreme Command, the Gallic Navy’s warships need to be handed over to the Saxon Navy…” Moltke the Younger paused, seemingly recalling some details.
“But the Gauls currently do not agree to this plan. They only agree to keep their warships in port, or dock them in neutral country ports…”
Morin: “Then is there a possibility that the Britannians, in order to prevent the Gallic Navy’s warships from falling into our hands, will find a way to destroy these warships?”
“Hmm?”
The door to the conference room closed again, isolating the noisy footsteps in the corridor outside.
The other attendees had already left. At this moment, only Moltke the Younger and Morin were left in this conference room.
The Chief of the Army General Staff walked to the window and pushed it open a crack, letting the slightly chilly early spring breeze dispel the smell of tobacco in the room.
He turned around, not immediately sitting back in that seat symbolizing power, but leaned against the windowsill, breaking the silence with a tone similar to casual chatting.
“Lieutenant Colonel Morin, there were too many people just now, some things I didn’t ask in detail…”
Moltke the Younger pulled out an exquisite silver cigarette case from his pocket, flipped open the lid, and offered it to Morin.
“Regarding the view you mentioned—that the Britannian Royal Navy would preemptively attack the Gallic Fleet… This is very interesting, to be honest… In current wargames, no one has dared to think in this direction yet.”
“That’s because you set their bottom line too high…” This thought flashed through Morin’s mind.
In the eyes of traditional Saxon military men of this era, allies are allies.
Even if they are allies who are ostensibly allied but actually divided in heart, stabbing in the back like this was still somewhat breaking the moral bottom line.
“Tell me, why are you so certain?” Moltke the Younger asked with great interest. “Merely because of interest analysis?”
Morin stepped forward, politely declined Moltke the Younger’s cigarette, and continued:
“Your Excellency the Chief, between nations, there are only eternal interests.”
“Moreover, you must not underestimate the Britannians’ bottom line in this regard—or rather, they simply have no bottom line.”
“As long as they can maintain the absolute superiority of the Royal Navy, let alone bombing and sinking their ally’s fleet, even if you asked them to sell their own mothers, they would bargain first, and then complain that the price offered by the buyer isn’t fair enough…”
“Hahahaha!”
Moltke the Younger couldn’t help but laugh out loud. The laughter was hearty, making the window frames tremble slightly.
“Good! Well said! ‘Sell their own mothers and still complain the price isn’t fair enough’… This is simply the most accurate portrayal of those island politicians!”
His Excellency the Chief of the General Staff laughed so hard tears almost came out. While wiping the corners of his eyes, he walked up to Morin and patted his shoulder heavily.
“It seems His Highness Georg’s evaluation of you was indeed not exaggerated.”
After laughing, Moltke the Younger’s expression became slightly more serious, but the admiration in his eyes grew even stronger.
“Lieutenant Colonel Morin, don’t be in a hurry to go back today.”
Moltke the Younger took out his gold pocket watch and glanced at it.
“Minister Falkenhayn has arranged a dinner party at the ‘Golden Lion Restaurant,’ saying it’s to celebrate the stabilization of the situation on the Western Front.”
“Besides Minister of War Falkenhayn, there will also be the Minister of the Navy, the creator of the High Seas Fleet, Grand Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, and that Minister of the Air Force who clamors all day about stealing all the Army’s funding.”
Speaking of this, Moltke the Younger smiled at Morin, like a kindly elder looking at a junior.
“Come with us tonight, perfect opportunity to introduce you to Grand Admiral Tirpitz. I believe His Excellency the Grand Admiral will be very interested in your speculation about the Britannians attacking their ally’s warships.”
Morin was stunned.
Falkenhayn, Tirpitz… and the Minister of the Air Force.
Any of these people stomping their feet would make the entire military high echelon of the Saxon Empire tremble three times.
Especially Tirpitz, that is a true legendary figure, single-handedly creating the High Seas Fleet that attempted to challenge the Royal Navy, known as the “Eternal Tirpitz.”
Although he himself was currently considered “somewhat famous,” compared to these great deities, whether in military rank or position, the gap was too great.
“Your Excellency, is this… appropriate?” Morin hesitated rarely, “A dinner party of this level, I, a lieutenant colonel…”
“What’s inappropriate?”
Moltke the Younger waved his hand, cutting off Morin’s concerns.
“The Empire is currently in need of talent. Whether it’s the Army or the Navy, we are short of young people like you with flexible minds who dare to think and act… Don’t belittle yourself here either.”
He leaned in closer and lowered his voice:
“Moreover, the Minister of the Air Force has always wanted to get in touch with you. Your tactic of using armored airships for an assault at the Liège Fortress really suits his taste… If I don’t bring you, next time we meet he’ll complain to me again that the Army is hiding talent.”
Since words had reached this point, Morin naturally couldn’t be hypocritical anymore.
“Yes! Chief, I will follow all your arrangements!”
“That’s right.”
Moltke the Younger nodded in satisfaction, then changed the subject, walking back to that massive map.
His eyes skipped over that meandering scar-like battle line on the Western Front and landed directly on that topographically complex peninsula to the southeast.
“We’ll talk about the dinner party tonight. Now let’s get down to business.”
Moltke the Younger’s voice returned to the rigor and cold hardness of when he was working.
“Just as you analyzed, we must make a move in the Balkan direction, not only to support the Austro-Hungarian Empire but also to open up the situation.”
“The Supreme Command has approved this plan in principle. We will transfer approximately one army group’s worth of troops from the Western Front and head south to assist our ally.”
Speaking of this, Moltke the Younger turned around, staring at Morin with eyes blazing like torches.
“As for the general commander of this expeditionary force… His Majesty and I both favor one person—His Highness Crown Prince Georg.”
Morin raised his eyebrows slightly, but didn’t show much surprise.
“His Highness’s performance during the Gallic campaign is obvious to all.”
Moltke the Younger continued, a trace of affirmation in his tone.
“Especially in the direction of the Ardennes Forest, he withstood the pressure, prevented the Gauls’ counterattack from succeeding, and laid the foundation for overall victory.”
“Now, the overall situation on the Gallic side is settled. What remains is some mop-up work and diplomatic wrangling. It’s not very meaningful for His Highness the Crown Prince to continue staying there.”
“On the contrary, the Balkans…”
Moltke the Younger’s finger tapped lightly on the map.
“The opponents there, whether it’s the Serbians, or the various countries on the Balkan Peninsula that might join the war… Although somewhat troublesome, in terms of overall military strength, even if they formed a coalition army, they are completely not on the same level as the Gallic Army.”
“So this is also a… relatively more certain battle.”
Hearing this, Morin instantly understood Moltke the Younger’s meaning.
To put it bluntly, it was letting His Highness the Crown Prince go “farm stats” (pad his resume).
The current standoff positions with the Britannians on the Western Front were meat grinders; whoever went there would have a headache, and they could only let an experienced veteran general like Mackensen hold the fort.
And over in the Balkans, although the terrain was complex, as long as tactics were proper and cooperating with the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s army, fighting a few beautiful battles wouldn’t be a problem.
For a future Emperor, there was no crown more dazzling than the title of “Conqueror of the Peninsula.”
Obviously, Moltke the Younger’s arrangement was paving the way for the Crown Prince, and also showing loyalty to the royal family.
This Chief of the General Staff, including his predecessor Count Schlieffen, General Mackensen, and this batch of old-school Junker officers, could all be considered “royalists” among the Junker nobles.
Each of them was a battle-tested “Imperialist warrior,” opposing democratic republics and defending absolute monarchy.
So they needed a powerful monarch with military merit to maintain the glory of this Empire.
And dispatching himself and the relatively ferocious “Imperial Guard Assault Instruction Unit” over, the intention couldn’t be more obvious.
It was to be nannies and enforcers, to ensure His Highness the Crown Prince’s “stat-farming tour” was absolutely foolproof and won beautifully.
Having figured out this layer, Morin didn’t have any hesitation.
“Smack!”
He stood up violently, brought his heels together, and said in a tone that made Moltke the Younger very reassured:
“Please rest assured, Your Excellency the Chief of the General Staff! The instruction unit will be the sharpest sword in His Highness the Crown Prince’s hand!”
“Whether it’s on the snowy peaks of the Alps, or in the river valleys of the Balkans, as long as His Highness’s sword points, the instruction unit will surely sweep away all obstacles for the Empire!”
“We will use victory to add the most dazzling jewel to His Highness’s crown!”
Moltke the Younger’s eyes instantly lit up.
Wow… this young man… this level of awareness.
He didn’t even need to explain, and he had already comprehended the meaning behind it.
If all the young nobles in the Empire were like Morin, why worry about not becoming the true hegemon of the Europa continent?
Of course, he didn’t know that Morin was actually overjoyed in his heart as well, just frantically holding back laughter on the surface.
“Very good, Lieutenant Colonel Morin.”
Moltke the Younger stepped forward and personally helped Morin adjust the Blue Max medal at his collar.
“I have other meetings later. Find a place to rest in the General Staff building first, or wander around elsewhere… Tonight I will have my adjutant find you to go to the banquet with me.”
“Yes!”
After parting with Moltke the Younger, Morin found Manstein waiting in the lounge area of the corridor.
“Sir, is it over?” Manstein closed the document in his hand and stood up.
“Yeah, pretty much.” Morin loosened his collar, “There’s dinner with the Chief of the General Staff and the others tonight, but the afternoon is considered free time.”
“That’s perfect. I need to go to the Ministry of War to handle the material allocation procedures after the instruction unit’s expansion.”
Manstein waved the briefcase in his hand, his tone quite complaining.
“Those logistics bureaucrats, if you don’t keep an eye on them, they can drag this process out until next month.”
“Let’s go together.” Morin glanced at the time, “I have nowhere else to go anyway. Might as well go to the Ministry of War to see if there are any acquaintances, and get some fresh air while I’m at it.”
The two walked out of the General Staff building side-by-side and got into the dedicated car heading to the Ministry of War.
The atmosphere in the Ministry of War building was noisier than the General Staff.
Here, there were not only military personnel but also a large number of civilian staff, representatives of arms dealers, and various lobbyists running their legs off for budgets and orders.
Manstein was a resolute and vigorous person; upon arriving, he headed straight for the Logistics Department.
Morin strolled alone in the lobby of the Ministry of War.
He looked at those somewhat stiff recruitment posters on the wall, depicting a serious-looking soldier pointing forward, with a dry line of text below: “For the Emperor, for the Empire, enlist!”
“…This poster isn’t very good, the emotional appeal still isn’t quite enough.”
Morin shook his head, complaining inwardly.
Just then, several officers wearing army uniforms but with somewhat unique collar tab colors hurried past holding a pile of posters and documents.
One of the captains wearing glasses inadvertently caught a glimpse of Morin, his footsteps stopping violently.
Immediately after, his eyes widened, as if he saw something unbelievable.
“Wait!”
The captain stopped dead in his tracks, turned to look at Morin, his gaze fixed on that blue cross medal on his chest.
“Are you… Lieutenant Colonel Morin? Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich von Morin?!”
This shout attracted the gazes of the people around.
Morin was stunned for a moment, then nodded: “It’s me, is there something the matter?”
“Good God! It really is you!”
The captain was so excited his face turned red. He shoved the documents in his hand into the arms of a companion beside him, rushed in front of Morin in two steps, and snapped a salute.
“Ministry of War Propaganda Department, Captain Karl Mayr! Saluting you, Imperial Combat Hero!”
Thank goodness, it wasn’t the other Meyer (Hermann Göring’s famous quote: “If a single enemy bomber drops a bomb on Germany, my name is not Göring, you can call me Meyer”).
The other few officers also reacted, surrounding him with shining eyes.
The current Morin, in the eyes of the Imperial Army—especially the lower and middle-ranking officers and soldiers—was a living legend.
“Lieutenant Colonel Morin, we are doing propaganda planning for the comprehensive expansion of the ‘Stormtroopers’!”
Captain Mayr rubbed his hands excitedly, pointing at those poster sketches in his companion’s arms.
“But… to be honest, the effect is not very ideal. Especially we need to compile a stage play to be showcased in major theaters.”
“The superiors require us to reflect the elite and tough nature of the Stormtroopers, and also be able to attract young people to sign up enthusiastically, and also stimulate the public to purchase war bonds…”
“We designed several versions, but they were all rejected by our superiors, saying they lacked impact.”
Captain Mayr looked at Morin with a pleading gaze.
“You are the creator of the ‘Stormtroopers.’ No one understands this unit better than you! Can you… give us some suggestions? Even just a single idea would do!”
Morin looked at these expectant faces, and then at those killed sketches—nothing more than traditional tropes like soldiers charging and cannons roaring.
From this, it could be seen that the propaganda methods of this era were still at a relatively primitive stage.
Let alone a stage play to be put on major theaters, its plot would be even more clichéd.
Morin stroked his chin. As someone who, like everyone else before transmigrating, had been bombarded with massive amounts of information on the internet, his brain truly had a massive amount of material.
Currently in a fairly good mood, an “enlistment ad” quickly flashed through his mind, which in his view was simply a brainwashing masterpiece.
That inflammatory yet blood-boiling style, placed in the current Saxon Empire, couldn’t be more appropriate.
“I do have an idea…”
“You can first use the form of a stage play to show the beautiful life within the Empire. Attention… only show the good parts.”
“The voice-over can be matched like this: The Saxon Empire, our home…”