Mackensen snatched the telegram and quickly tore open the seal; only the “shuffling” sound of paper rubbing filled the tent.
A moment later, an expression of unbelievable strangeness—a mix of anger and confusion—appeared on Mackensen’s face, which finally dissolved into a cold sneer.
He walked up to the group of staff officers and slapped the telegram paper onto the table. “Take a look. This is the decision of our General Staff.”
The commander of the 16th Brigade cautiously picked up the telegram. After one glance, his face became as colorful as Mackensen’s.
“‘Authorize the expeditionary forces in the Kingdom of Aragon to immediately launch “necessary military actions”… but require you to return home immediately to recuperate’?”
This order stunned everyone present. Relieving a general who had just suffered a terrible humiliation and was eager for revenge just before the fighting starts? What kind of move was this… changing commanders at the front line?
“General Prittwitz will be relieving you of your command…” the Chief of Staff struggled to read the rest of the message.
“Prittwitz.” Mackensen repeated the name, a trace of mockery on his lips. “That coward who only dares to fight defensively with a numerical advantage? They’re putting him in charge of an offensive?”
He looked around, his gaze finally resting on the offensive plan. A flash of reluctance crossed his eyes, but a moment later, he seemed to grasp the situation and let out a cold snort.
“Since the operational authorization has been issued, then proceed with your plan and launch the attack. Drive the Royal Army and the Britannians out of Seville!” The old general’s voice was low but carried an unquestionable finality.
“Until that fool Prittwitz arrives, I am still the Commander of the Expeditionary Force! ‘Necessary military actions,’ is it… I’ll show them what ‘necessary’ means!”
While Mackensen and the others were anxiously waiting in the Brigade Command tent, the 1st Battalion of the 33rd Infantry Regiment, where Morin was, had completed its mobilization.
The darkness of the night was the best cover for large-scale infantry movement. The three infantry companies, along with the various attached battalion units and the baggage train, moved quietly along the country roads like a silent gray serpent. The basic tactical unit of the Saxon Empire Army was the battalion, and the marching column was organized around this core, maintaining perfect order. Apart from the muffled crunch of military boots on gravel and the occasional clatter of a messenger’s horse galloping past, the nearly one thousand men made almost no unnecessary noise. Discipline had permeated the very bone marrow of this army.
Morin led his infantry platoon in the 3rd Company’s marching column. The initial tension and awkwardness quickly dissipated once they were on the road. The body seemed to have activated its factory settings; skills belonging to a competent junior officer—how to regulate breathing, allocate energy, and use peripheral vision to check the soldiers’ condition—emerged as if by natural instinct.
Coupled with the knowledge and experience gained as a ‘cadet’ of the Blue Star’s strongest army before his transmigration, Morin didn’t even have to think consciously to instinctively judge the column’s speed and spacing.
At least on a physical level, he was already a genuine Saxon Second Lieutenant.
The air was cool, carrying the smell of earth and grass, and a faint, elusive scent of gunpowder smoke, as if it were an ominous premonition carried by the wind from Seville.
After about two hours, the column arrived at the designated assembly area. The entire unit dispersed by company and platoon, expertly seeking cover and concealment. The low hum of officers’ quiet discussions replaced the silence of the march, and an atmosphere of tension mixed with anticipation permeated the woods.
Just as Morin finished settling his men in the woods, Platoon Sergeant Klaus walked up to him and spoke in a low voice. “Platoon Leader, the messenger just passed by. Company Command needs you to go over.”
“Got it.” Morin nodded, handed his rifle to the orderly, adjusted his uniform and belt, and walked toward the flickering oil lamps deep in the woods.
That was the 3rd Company’s temporary command post. Captain Hauser and the other two Platoon Leaders were gathered around a map spread on the ground.
“Morin, you’re here, perfect.” Captain Hauser waved him over, pointing at the map. “Bad news and good news. Which do you want first?”
This familiar opening made Morin twitch his mouth. “Sir, usually when you ask that, it means neither piece of news is good.”
Captain Hauser was amused and laughed, but quickly sobered up. “The bad news is, the order to attack has been issued. Our 1st Battalion is the first echelon of the entire regiment’s attack, and we are to assault the village called San Isidro head-on.”
Morin’s heart sank. Head-on assault, first echelon… The combination of those two terms was basically synonymous with ‘heavy casualties.’ “And the good news?” he asked, clinging to a thread of hope.
“The good news is,” Captain Hauser’s tone brightened, “our 3rd Company is the battalion reserve. 1st and 2nd Companies go first. We’ll commit to the fighting or plug gaps as needed.”
Morin nodded, secretly sighing in relief. While being the reserve was not entirely safe, at least he wouldn’t have to rush in immediately and use his own flesh and blood to test the enemy’s disposition of fire. “Live a little longer, live a little longer…” Morin muttered to himself.
However, when his gaze fell back on the unfolded operations map, a growing body of knowledge about the Saxon Empire Army surfaced in his mind. And it made Morin realize that something was terribly wrong.
The attack arrows representing the 1st and 2nd Companies were extremely narrow. The 1st Company’s three infantry platoons would deploy into three skirmish lines, 150 meters wide, advancing slowly with 1-2 meters between soldiers, suppressing the enemy’s forward positions with volleys of rifle fire. Trailing about 100 meters behind the 1st Company was the 2nd Company, following in a dense company column, ready to launch a bayonet charge once the 1st Company’s skirmish line breached the defense. There was no flanking, no deep penetration, and none of the modern squad-level tactics involving fire-and-maneuver or dispersed infiltration.
Unpleasant memories began to flash through his mind. He recalled the tactical theories he had learned in the military academy, which the instructors had proudly espoused: “Saxon Shock Tactics,” “Skirmish Line Courage,” “Regiment-level Attack Cluster’s Destructive Power.”
He remembered how the instructor had praised the ‘magnificent spectacle’ of soldiers marching like a gray tide, moving steadfastly toward the enemy positions. Back then, he had been stirred to fervor, believing this was the ultimate embodiment of Saxon military honor.
But now, Morin, with the soul of a 21st-century military cadet, felt utterly sickened.
Ground warfare in this world, even with the existence of Magitek and Armored Knights, was still at the level of early WWI European armies in terms of conventional infantry tactics. They still believed superstitiously in the courage and discipline of the soldiers, and the sheer impact force of dense formations.
It’s over. I’ve arrived just in time for the last performance of the massed formation charge!