Mackensen snatched the telegram and swiftly tore open the seal. Inside the tent, only the rustling of paper remained.
A moment later, an expression of disbelieving strangeness surfaced on Mackensen’s face—anger mixed with confusion, finally resolving into a cold sneer.
He walked before the group of staff officers and slapped the telegram onto the table.
“Take a look. This is the decision from our General Staff.”
The commander of the 16th Brigade carefully picked up the telegram. After just one glance, his complexion became as colorful as Mackensen’s.
“‘Authorizing expeditionary forces within the Kingdom of Aragon to immediately commence necessary military action,’ but requiring you to return home immediately for recuperation?”
This order stunned everyone present.
Have a general who had just suffered utter humiliation and was bent on revenge leave his post on the eve of battle?
What was this… changing commanders before the battle?
“General Prittwitz will assume your command…” The chief of staff laboriously read out the rest of the contents.
“Prittwitz…” Mackensen repeated the name, a trace of mockery hooking at the corner of his mouth. “That coward who only dares to fight defensive battles with superior numbers? And he’s to command the offensive?”
He looked around, his gaze finally landing on that offensive plan, a flicker of unwillingness passing through his eyes. But a moment later, he seemed to figure something out, letting out a cold snort.
“Since the authorization for combat has already been issued, then launch the offensive according to the plan you just formulated. Drive the Royal Army and the Britannians out of Sevilla for me!”
The old general’s voice was not loud, yet it carried an unquestionable resolve.
“Before that idiot Prittwitz arrives, I am still the expeditionary force commander! ‘Necessary military action,’ right? I’ll show them what ‘necessary’ truly means!”
——
While Mackensen and the others anxiously waited in the brigade headquarters tent, the 1st Battalion of the 33rd Infantry Regiment where Molin was stationed had also completed its departure.
Night was the best cover for large-scale infantry marches.
Three infantry companies, plus various units directly attached to the battalion headquarters and the baggage train, moved like a silent gray serpent along the country dirt road, advancing quietly.
The basic tactical unit of the Saxon Imperial Army was the battalion, and the organization of the marching column was also built around this core, orderly and disciplined.
Aside from the rustling of military boots treading on gravel, and the occasional clatter of hooves as dispatch riders galloped past, the nearly thousand-man formation emitted almost no extraneous noise. Discipline had permeated the very marrow of this army.
Molin led his infantry platoon within the marching column of 3rd Company.
The initial tension and unfamiliarity rapidly faded after stepping onto the marching route.
It was as if this body had been activated to its factory settings—how to regulate breathing, how to allocate physical strength, how to use his peripheral vision to observe the soldiers’ conditions…
These skills belonging to a qualified junior officer surfaced as naturally as instinct.
Coupled with the knowledge and experience he had gained as a “cadet” of Blue Star’s strongest army before transmigrating…
Molin didn’t even need to deliberately think to subconsciously judge whether the column’s pace was uniform, or whether the intervals between soldiers were too loose or too tight.
This feeling was marvelous—like an RTS veteran who had played for thousands of hours; even with a new account, that micro and game sense were already etched into his DNA.
At least on the physical level, he was already a true Saxon lieutenant.
Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the roadside tree branches, casting mottled specks of light on the soldiers’ spiked helmets.
The air was cool, carrying the scent of soil and fresh grass, mixed with a faint, barely perceptible odor of gunpowder smoke, as if the wind was bringing an ill omen from the direction of Sevilla.
Roughly two hours later, the column reached the predetermined assembly area.
This was a sparse wood near the highway, the terrain slightly undulating, convenient for concealment.
As Major Thomas’s orders were passed down level by level by the messengers, the 1st Battalion rapidly switched from marching status to combat readiness.
The entire formation dispersed by company and platoon units, skillfully seeking cover and hiding places.
The low buzz of officers’ conversations replaced the previous silence of the march, and an atmosphere of tension mixed with anticipation permeated the woods.
Just as Molin was directing his men to settle down in the woods, Platoon Sergeant Klaus walked up to his side and said in a lowered voice:
“Lieutenant, a messenger just came by. Battalion HQ wants you over there.”
“Understood.”
Molin nodded, handed his rifle to the orderly, straightened his uniform and belt, and headed toward several flickering oil lamps deeper in the woods.
That was 3rd Company’s temporary company command post. Captain Hauser and the other two platoon leaders were gathered around a map spread on the ground.
“Molin, you’re here. Perfect.”
Captain Hauser waved him over when he saw him, then pointed at the map.
“Bad news and good news. Which do you want to hear first?”
This familiar opening made the corner of Molin’s mouth twitch.
“Sir, when someone asks that, it usually means both pieces of news are pretty bad.”
Captain Hauser laughed at that, but quickly reined in his expression, his face turning serious.
“The bad news is, combat orders have been issued. Our 1st Battalion is the first echelon for the regiment’s attack. We’re to launch a frontal assault on that village ahead called San Isidro.”
He picked up a pencil and drew a thick arrow on the map, pointing straight at a village marker.
Molin’s heart sank. This was indeed bad news—extremely bad.
Frontal assault. First echelon.
These two terms put together basically equaled “heavy casualties.”
“Then what’s the good news?” he asked, holding on to a sliver of hope.
“The good news,” Captain Hauser’s tone lightened somewhat, “is that our 3rd Company is the battalion reserve. 1st and 2nd Companies go in first. We’ll be committed depending on the situation, or sent to plug gaps.”
Molin nodded, quietly letting out a breath of relief.
To be honest, although he was gradually taking on the appearance of a Saxon lieutenant, he had absolutely no intention of giving his life for this unfamiliar nation.
If he hadn’t known that being a deserter was not only shameful but also had severe consequences, Molin would have found a way to slip away long ago.
Though being the reserve of the first assault echelon wasn’t absolutely safe, at least he wouldn’t have to charge in the very first moment, using his flesh and blood to probe the enemy’s firepower layout.
“Stay alive a little longer, stay alive a little longer…”
Molin silently recited this, while thinking about his next steps.
However, when his gaze fell once more upon that spread-out operational map, more memories belonging to the military academy within this body were awakened.
More and more knowledge about the Saxon Imperial Army—or rather, about land warfare in this world—surfaced in his mind.
And caused Molin to realize that something was terribly wrong.
From the map, the assault arrows representing 1st and 2nd Companies had an extremely narrow attack front.
1st Company’s three infantry platoons deployed into three successive skirmish lines 150 meters wide, with soldiers spaced one to two meters apart, slowly advancing, using rifle volleys during the attack to suppress the enemy front line.
And roughly 100 meters behind 1st Company was 2nd Company, following in a dense company column, waiting only for 1st Company’s skirmish line to open a gap before launching a bayonet charge…
No flanking maneuvers, no infiltration, and certainly none of the later-era tactics that utilized squad-level units, alternating cover in dispersed penetration.
Some unpleasant memories began flashing through his mind.
He recalled what the original owner of this body had learned in the military academy—those tactical theories that instructors had spouted with flying spittle and taken pride in.
“Saxon Shock Tactics,” “The Courage of the Skirmish Line,” “The Devastating Power of Regimental Assault Groups”…
Scenes from lectures flew rapidly through his brain.
He remembered how that white-haired tactics instructor had praised, with an almost fanatical tone, the “magnificent sight” of soldiers forming skirmish lines like a gray tide, marching to the drumbeat, facing artillery fire, and resolutely advancing toward enemy positions.
At that time, the original owner of this body, like all his classmates, had listened with burning enthusiasm, believing this to be the ultimate embodiment of Saxon military glory.
But now Molin, possessing the soul of a 21st-century military academy student, only felt utterly terrible.
Ground warfare in this world, even with the existence of extraordinary forces like “magic-guided technology” and “armored knights,” in terms of the evolution of conventional infantry tactics, still remained at the level of European armies in the early stages of World War I in Molin’s memory.
They still blindly worshipped the courage and discipline of soldiers, still blindly worshipped the shock effect of dense formations.
It was over.
He had caught the swan song of dense-formation charges.