Trench Bolts and Magic

Chapter 213 The Stubborn Messenger
Manstein pondered for a moment, then answered somewhat uncertainly, "Is it because we have more advanced weapons and more rigorous tactical training?"

"You're right, but only half right."

Morin shook his head and patiently explained:

"The other half of the reason we were able to successfully break through the enemy's position, and the most crucial reason, is that we did more reconnaissance work than anyone else before launching the attack."

"Think about it, if we don't know where the enemy has hidden their heavy machine guns, or the distribution of their firing positions, and we just let our soldiers rush in like a swarm, how are we any different from the Gauls?"

"No matter how powerful our submachine guns are, they can't withstand the enemy's heavy machine guns firing at us."

"Therefore, in order to fully leverage our weaponry and the training advantages of our soldiers, we must conduct precise reconnaissance of enemy positions and firing points before the attack, make detailed assignments of attack missions and conduct pre-battle simulations, and even coordinate with artillery. All of these aspects are indispensable!"

"Why do I always go to the artillery separately to check our watches? It's so that when we advance with the help of artillery fire, we won't be too early or too late."

"If an attack is launched rashly without sufficient reconnaissance, the soldiers will be left to fight on their own, relying on instinct and luck once they reach the enemy's position. This will greatly reduce their combat effectiveness and increase casualties significantly."

Seeing that Manstein was listening very attentively, Morin decided to say a few more words:
"Moreover, this time we are facing a well-trained Britannian expeditionary force, not those demoralized Gauls."

"Take a closer look at their positions through the binoculars. Although they were hastily constructed, the fact that they are well-organized indicates that they are retreating in an orderly manner, not in a rout!"

"Moreover, the fact that they established such a strong defensive line around Amiens in advance shows that they are determined to fight a tough battle with us here."

As Morin spoke softly, he would occasionally put down his binoculars and quickly sketch out a rough map of the position in his notebook.

He then marked the firing points and observation posts he discovered with simple symbols, and then corrected and supplemented them based on the system map in his mind.

Manstein listened with rapt attention, feeling that what he had learned today was practical experience that he could not learn at military academies or the General Staff.

He quickly took out his notebook and carefully recorded every word Morin said.

Just as Morin and Manstein were engrossed in their reconnaissance work, about eight kilometers behind them, two messengers, who had ridden from the First Army headquarters, entered the temporary camp of the training assault battalion.

One of the messengers handed the reins to his companion, dismounted, and hurriedly found Kleist, who was arranging the camp's defenses.

"Excuse me, is Captain Friedrich Morin here?"

The messenger saluted and asked breathlessly:
"The First Army Command is holding an emergency pre-battle meeting, and the command requires Captain Morin to attend as well."

Upon hearing this news, Kleist paused in confusion for a moment, then told the messenger with some difficulty:

"The battalion commander isn't here. He's taken his men to conduct reconnaissance up close."

"What? They went to scout?" The messenger was stunned, his face full of surprise.

This legendary commander, who has recently become a sensation throughout the Western Front and is known as the "Butcher of Charleroi," is not in command at this critical moment, but instead has personally gone to the front lines to conduct reconnaissance.

"Yes, they went to scout."

Kleist nodded affirmatively; he was already used to his battalion commander's behavior.

Anyway, I never take him with me.
The messenger's mouth opened slightly, unsure of what to say.

As a messenger directly under the First Army Group Headquarters, he was actually filled with curiosity and excitement as he came to relay orders to the Training Assault Battalion.

After all, the title "Butcher of Charleroi" has recently been circulating widely among the soldiers of the First Army, with various versions of the legend existing.

Some say he was incredibly strong, able to tear apart Gallic heavy cavalry with his bare hands; others say he was a brilliant strategist, annihilating an entire Gallic division with just one battalion.

The most outrageous one was the rumor that he could eat two hundred roasted pork knuckles in one sitting.
This version is the most widely circulated and the most talked about.

The messenger and his comrades had discussed it many times in private, and they all felt that Captain Morin must be a burly man who was two meters tall, broad-shouldered, and had a face full of fierceness.

Now, instead of seeing him, he heard an even more outrageous piece of news—this tough commander actually led a team to the front lines for reconnaissance.

Isn't this the kind of work that the reconnaissance platoon or staff officers should be doing?
How could a battalion commander go and do such a dangerous thing?
"Then how far did he go?"

The messenger snapped out of his daze and asked somewhat anxiously.

The army group meeting will definitely start on time; he can't afford to take responsibility if it's delayed.

Kleist thought for a moment and answered uncertainly:
"I estimate it's at least six or seven kilometers away, but I don't know the exact location. However, if you're in a hurry to find the battalion commander, you can follow the tire tracks over there; they drove there in trucks."

Upon hearing the number 'six or seven kilometers,' the messenger felt his vision go black.

If we go another six or seven kilometers from here, we'll be right under the noses of the Brittanyans.

He was increasingly convinced that this legendary military commander had a rather eccentric style of doing things.

But military orders are absolute, and he couldn't care less about anything else now. He could only grit his teeth and continue chasing forward with his comrades.

"Hey! Wait a minute. Do you need us to send someone to escort you there?"

Kleist looked at the two of them and kindly offered a reminder:
"It's not safe to go any further."

"No need, thank you!" The messenger shook his head, politely declining Kleist's offer.

He thought to himself that he and his companions were cavalry, highly mobile, and even if they encountered a small group of enemies, they could escape if they couldn't win.

Besides, it's just about finding someone; there shouldn't be any problems.

So the two messengers mounted their horses again and, following the direction Clyster had indicated, continued their pursuit along the clear truck tracks. Hooves flew, dust billowed.

When the lead messenger felt he had run nearly six kilometers, he discovered that the tire tracks on the ground showed no sign of stopping and continued to stretch steadily toward Amiens.

He began to feel that something was not right.

"Have we gone too far?"

The companions following behind also sensed something was wrong, pulled on the reins, and asked somewhat uneasily:
"It's so quiet here, and there's not a soul in sight."

The lead messenger reined in his horse and raised his binoculars to look around.

The surrounding area was a deathly silent field; apart from the rustling sound of the wind blowing through the stubble, there was no other sound.

The silhouette of Amiens in the distance was faintly visible in the thin mist, giving people a strange sense of oppression.

He began to feel a little regretful, regretting why he hadn't accepted the training commando battalion's offer to send a team to escort him.

But now that they've already come all this way, what else can they do? They can't just go back like this, can they?
"It should be just ahead. Let's keep looking."

The lead messenger gritted his teeth and encouraged himself and his comrades:
Let's keep going!

And so, the two poor messengers had no choice but to grit their teeth, ride their horses along the damned wheel tracks, and continue their anxious search.

Eventually, they discovered that the tire tracks disappeared at the edge of a small grove of trees.

"It should be right here!"

The messenger was overjoyed, thinking he had finally found the place.

However, just as they were about to urge their horses into the woods, two soldiers dressed in Saxon uniforms suddenly appeared out of nowhere, standing up from the bushes at the edge of the woods with their guns at the ready.

Without hesitation, he pointed the dark muzzle of his gun at them.

"Halt! Who goes there!" one of the soldiers shouted sternly.

This sudden turn of events startled the messenger and his companion so much that they nearly fell off their horses.

"We're on the same side! We're on the same side!"

The two messengers quickly raised their hands to indicate that there was no danger, and simultaneously said:
"We are messengers from the First Army Headquarters, here to see Captain Morin!"

The two soldiers from the training assault battalion exchanged a glance, but did not let their guard down.

One of them was still pointing a gun at them, while the other stepped forward and carefully checked their identification and the stamps on their summons documents.

After confirming that everything was correct, the soldier lowered his gun, but his tone remained wary: "What are you doing here?"

The messenger quickly repeated what he had told Kleist earlier.

As a result, he received news from the soldier that almost made him collapse on the spot.

"Our battalion commander? He's not here."

The soldier pointed in Amiens' direction, a strange smile on his face:

"He led his men and continued forward."

"Did you move forward again?"

The two messengers who had come from afar felt their minds go blank.

The straight-line distance from here to Amiens is at most two or three kilometers. If we go any further, wouldn't we be walking straight into the Britannian lines?
Is Captain Morin on a reconnaissance mission or is he going to defect to the enemy?

By this time, the poor messenger was at a loss for words.

He had only one thought in his mind: he had to find this elusive captain no matter what.

He immediately prepared to mount his horse and grit his teeth to continue chasing forward.

"Hey, wait!"

Upon witnessing this, platoon leader Kahn, who was responsible for leading the team left behind in the woods, quickly stopped him:
You can't go any further!

"why?"

The messenger was getting anxious; they were only about to reach the last stretch of the road.

“If we go any further, we might run into Britannian cavalry! Riding your horse so arrogantly like that, aren’t you just making yourself a target? You’re just causing trouble for our battalion commander and the others!” Kahn said irritably.

Upon hearing this, the two messengers realized the seriousness of the situation, but they were now in a dilemma and could only stand there helplessly.

After some discussion, it was decided that one of them should return to the army group headquarters first to report back and explain the situation.

The remaining person stayed behind, waiting for Morin and the others to return.

As a result, they waited from noon until the sun was about to set.

(End of this chapter)