Trenches, Guns, and Magic

Morin stood outside the temporary command post at the pass. The coffee in the military canteen in his hand had long since gone cold.

He had originally intended to use the low temperature and cold wind of the pass to cool down the coffee brought by the orderly. But after opening the system map, his attention was completely drawn away.

A few minutes ago, while routinely checking the frontline situation, he suddenly noticed an irregular change:

The unit cards representing the 3rd Battalion of the instruction unit had noticeably slowed down their movement speed.

It wasn't the kind of deceleration accompanied by a combat icon that happens when encountering an enemy, but a direct switch from the previous motorized march icon to the status of an infantry march on foot.

Morin frowned, subconsciously adjusting the display range of the system map, zooming in for a closer look.

With this zoom, he saw the problem.

The 3rd Battalion's vehicles and heavy equipment had indeed been left behind. They were stopped at a location about 12 kilometers from the river valley exit.

And not far ahead of their stopped position, a large gray block marked by the system as an [Impassable Area] lay across the makeshift road, cutting the entire road in two.

"The road is blocked..."

Morin set the cup on a nearby ammunition box, his mind racing.

Combining this with the fact that the 3rd Battalion had switched from a motorized march to a march on foot, the answer was almost obvious.

Steiner and his men had encountered a roadblock. But instead of waiting in place, they simply abandoned the vehicles and chose to continue pushing forward on two legs.

The instant this judgment formed in his mind, Morin was slightly stunned.

Then, an indescribable emotion welled up.

It wasn't worry, nor was it anxiety.

It was an indescribable excitement, along with a mysterious "proud father" smile.

As a citizen of a certain mysterious Eastern nation in his past life, he had heard too many cases of "forced marches" growing up.

From the day-and-night raid to capture Luding Bridge, to the rapid march record set during the penetration of southern Shandong, to the "iron feet" on the Korean battlefield... Any one of those battle examples of using footsteps to outrun time and outrun the enemy was worthy of being written into a light infantry textbook.

But the reason those miracles could happen wasn't because some genius general made a spur-of-the-moment decision. It relied on a unit that possessed sufficient combat will, physical reserves, and combat literacy from top to bottom.

And now, Steiner had made this decision. Although it was only a short 12 kilometers, being able to make this decision independently without outside interference showed that their "combat will" had begun to slowly mature.

Morin recalled the daily training subjects of the instruction unit from its formal establishment to the present.

Setting aside the "appetizer" of the 400-meter obstacle course, there were also 15-kilometer armed cross-country runs, 20-kilometer mountain marches with heavy loads, plus various new specialized physical training exercises...

The soldiers trained hard, but in the early stages of training, they complained a lot in private.

Several company commanders also reported to him in private, asking if the training intensity could be appropriately lowered so as not to affect the soldiers' enthusiasm for training.

Morin's answer at the time was very direct: "Enthusiasm can be rebuilt if it's gone, but if physical reserves are gone, it's a matter of life and death on the battlefield."

Looking at it now...

"It wasn't trained for nothing," Morin muttered to himself in a low voice. As he said it, he even smiled at himself.

In this era, no army would elevate infantry physical training to the near-perverse level of the instruction unit.

The physical training of most national armies still rested on ordinary long-distance running and long marches. Being able to do a five-kilometer armed cross-country run was considered mountain elite.

The instruction unit's training standards were formulated by Morin referencing the military academy physical assessment syllabus before his transmigration, and moderately adjusted based on the physical fitness of soldiers of this era.

This set of training methods was not uncommon in the spacetime before his transmigration; any infantry unit of a modern army would conduct similar physical training.

But placed in the early 20th century, when the nature of warfare was undergoing drastic changes, this stuff was truly a dimensional strike.

So Morin now had the feeling that he had genuinely "raised" an army capable of fighting well.

In the same era, if it were the armies of other nations, it was highly probable they couldn't achieve this.

After all, temporarily setting aside ideology, just the professional physical fitness and massive amount of specialized training, as well as ample food supply, were not things other national armies could manage.

You have to know, these soldiers of the instruction unit were merely soldiers who had undergone ordinary training, not "supermen" who had undergone physical modification or been injected with drugs.

After Morin transmigrated to this world, he considered himself a very pure soldier.

At least up until now, the vast majority of his energy was devoted to the construction of the instruction unit and the enhancement of his personal abilities.

The remaining energy was spent accompanying Cecilia and the others, enjoying some leisure time.

Morin had never initiated contact with other factions within the Saxon Empire. He also avoided the proactive approaches of certain "groups" by hiding in the military camp.

This was mainly because Morin felt the right time hadn't arrived yet. After all, as the old saying goes... the hidden dragon must not act prematurely (bide your time).

So a certain famous bald man's (Chiang Kai-shek's) famous quote was very suitable to describe the current Colonel Friedrich von Morin.

However, after being excited for just that brief moment, Morin quickly reined in his emotions.

The 3rd Battalion abandoning their vehicles to travel on foot indicated that the situation ahead had reached an extremely urgent stage.

Steiner was not someone who would easily abandon heavy equipment. That he could make this decision only showed he judged that time no longer permitted waiting.

Morin drained his coffee in one gulp, then walked briskly into the command post to see if any telegrams had been received from the front. He happened to see Kleist walking toward him holding a telegram paper.

"Commander, the telegram from the 3rd Battalion just arrived."

Kleist handed the telegram over.

Morin took it and scanned it. The content of the telegram was basically identical to what he had deduced from the system map—the enemy detonated the mountain to create a landslide, completely blocking the road, making vehicles and heavy equipment impassable.

The 3rd Battalion had left a small number of personnel to guard the vehicles, while the main force advanced rapidly on foot toward the river valley exit with light gear.

The last sentence of the telegram was a request from Steiner: Without heavy equipment and with limited ammunition, we hope the Kampfgruppe can provide support as soon as possible.

Morin pondered for a moment. Currently, neither the information received by the Kampfgruppe nor the information on the system map allowed him to promptly judge the specific situation on the battlefield.

This was also a "minor drawback" of the system map Morin had recently discovered.

That is, the system map mostly provided detailed information on the combat units of both sides, but its display of environmental and geographical changes was more like a "dynamic marching map" and wasn't comprehensive.

If the system map could become a display effect similar to a real-time satellite map, that would definitely be the best...

Of course, Morin also knew he was being a bit too reliant on the "system," so he quickly shook off the thought.

He placed the telegram on the table, pondering for a few seconds.

The biggest problem right now wasn't actually whether the 3rd Battalion could reach the river valley exit—given the instruction unit's physical reserves, a twelve-kilometer mountain road was arduous but not impossible to complete.

The real problem was that the 3rd Battalion was traveling light.

If they reached the river valley exit and had to face the Romanians' attack with only submachine guns and light machine guns, that would also be a difficult battle.

In that instant, some unpleasant memories of Charleroi surged into Morin's mind.

And Kleist, who also remembered those unpleasant memories, looked at Morin and said: "Commander, I have already ordered the communications company to notify the units in the rear to begin clearing the road immediately upon arrival, to support the 3rd Battalion as soon as possible."

"The command post here is also temporarily unclear about the exact situation ahead. How badly the road is blocked and whether it can be cleared in a short time are all unknowns..."

Manstein also came over and said:

"If the road truly cannot be restored to traffic in a short time... I'm afraid we can only have the follow-up instruction unit troops also abandon their vehicles and rush to the river valley exit on foot to support the 3rd Battalion."

Morin gave his suggestion without hesitation.

"Leave the physical labor of clearing the road to the Guard units behind."

After Manstein and Kleist indicated they understood, Morin asked again: "Then what is the current status of those three reconnaissance aircraft?"

Kleist looked down and flipped through the communication logs in his hand.

"According to the latest communication with the field airfield, the 'Taube' that executed the earliest reconnaissance mission this morning and returned has taken off again. It should currently be en route to conduct deep reconnaissance in the river valley... The other two, based on the flight plan calculations, should be returning to base right now."

"Have the field airfield prepare."

Morin raised his hand and pointed south. "Once those two reconnaissance aircraft land, refuel and rearm them immediately and have them take off directly. Send them toward the river valley exit to provide aerial fire support for the 3rd Battalion."

"Understood!"

Kleist and Manstein took their orders and left one after the other.

Not long after they left, a communications officer jogged in.

"Report, Commander! A message from the L15 armored airship: the Kampfgruppe's supplies are basically loaded, and they are currently recovering the field takeoff and landing platform... Once completed, they will fly immediately to the pass to transport the Kampfgruppe command post."

Morin: "Inform Lieutenant Colonel Andreas of the situation and tell him to be as fast as possible. We don't have much time..."

After the communications officer left, Morin walked outside the command post and looked up at the sky.

The mountain wind was still blowing, and the clouds hung very low, but there were no signs of rain for now.

This could be considered one of the few pieces of good news today.

Rear of the Morin Kampfgruppe, Field Airfield.

As the high-frequency buzzing unique to aviation-grade radiant crystal engines grew closer from afar, two small black dots emerged from behind the mountain peaks to the south, wobbling as they flew toward the runway.

The ground crew had long since roughly determined the return time based on the flight plan. Everyone was in position, anxiously awaiting the landing of these two reconnaissance aircraft.

The first "Taube" touched down first. The wheels bounced twice on the makeshift runway before finally completing a three-point touchdown, then slowly decelerating and taxiing.

The second one followed closely, landing from the other side of the runway.

However, what surprised Manfred was that after the aircraft decelerated and the ground crew swarmed over, they didn't follow standard procedure and tow the aircraft to the side of the runway. Instead, they all pitched in to turn the reconnaissance aircraft around right on the runway, and began maintenance right there.

Some dragged the hose to replenish radiant crystal fuel to the tank opening, some opened the engine cowling to check various connecting parts, and others brought ladders and began carrying ammunition boxes to place on the nose.

Manfred climbed out of the cockpit. The moment his feet touched the ground, a ground crew NCO led him to a camp chair beside the runway.

"Make the most of the time to get a good rest!"

A canteen and a black bread wrapped in oil paper were also shoved into his arms.

The black bread was split open, containing two slices of bacon and a piece of cheese.

Although the presentation was very average, for Manfred, who hadn't eaten much early in the morning before flying in the sky for nearly three hours, even a piece of dry tree bark would be chewed with relish right now.

"What's going on?" Manfred asked indistinctly while stuffing bread into his mouth. "The flight plan for this morning wasn't scheduled like this."

The ground crew NCO squatted in front of him and quickly explained the situation.

An urgent order from the Kampfgruppe command: the vanguard troops ahead had to abandon their vehicles and all heavy weapons because the road was destroyed by the enemy, and they are rushing toward the river valley exit on two legs.

The command post needs the reconnaissance aircraft to fly over as quickly as possible, even if it's just to provide a little bit of aerial fire support.

Hearing this, Manfred almost swallowed the bread in his mouth without chewing.

Abandoning vehicles and heavy weapons... a forced march on foot...

Although he was a pilot, he had "jumped ship" from the cavalry, so he knew very well what this meant.

The pilot of the other reconnaissance aircraft was also brought nearby. After hearing the same situation briefing, the two exchanged a glance, said no more, and lowered their heads to furiously chug water and devour food.

Clearly, the two had already gathered all their strength to go and properly assist the friendly ground forces.

A while later, Manfred's ground crew NCO ran back again, this time with a look of curiosity and expectation on his face.

"You ran too fast just now. How was the effect of the cluster grenades you took up this morning?"

Manfred broke into a wide grin upon hearing this topic.

"Hey! Almost forgot to tell you about that!"

He stuffed the remaining bread into his mouth in two or three bites, chewing while gesturing exaggeratedly with his hands.

"They worked great! Much better than I expected! And I don't know if I blew up an ammunition dump or what, but the explosion was huge. Those Romanians below went crazy; they had no idea what fell from the sky..."

The ground crew NCO's eyes sparkled as he listened. He and Manfred had made those cluster grenades together, and he had offered quite a few suggestions for improvement.

This design was even mocked by another ground crew member at the time, saying it looked like throwing bundles of firewood from the sky to the ground.

"Do you have any more stick grenades?" Manfred wiped his mouth. "Make me two more bundles. They'll be perfect for the next mission."

"Yes! There are still quite a few in the ammunition tent!" The ground crew NCO turned and ran without a word.

The other pilot nearby had listened to this entire conversation.

During the morning mission, he had seen with his own eyes the effect when Manfred dropped the "bundles of firewood" from the cockpit.

Amidst the massive fireball of the explosion, the soldiers below fled in all directions; the scene was quite spectacular.

"Hey!" he shouted at the back of the ground crew NCO, who had already run a dozen paces away. "Prepare two bundles for me too!"

The ground crew NCO didn't turn his head, merely raising a hand and waving.

Because the propeller aircraft of this era had simple structures, and there wasn't any high-intensity aerial dogfighting at this time, the airframe and engine hadn't sustained any damage, so the maintenance work actually wasn't complicated.

It mainly involved replenishing radiant crystal fuel, checking the tension of the control cables, restocking ammunition for the front machine guns, and checking the landing gear and tail surfaces to see if they bumped into anything during landing.

About thirty minutes later, both "Taubes" completed all maintenance.

Two bundles of stick grenades neatly tied with canvas strips were added to each cockpit, simply placed where the pilots could easily reach them.

Five grenades per bundle, two bundles making ten stick grenades, plus the ammunition for the two 7.92mm machine guns up front—this was all the "ground attack firepower" the two reconnaissance aircraft could carry.

Although it was a bit shabby, having it was better than not.

Manfred climbed back into the cockpit, fastened his safety harness, and put on his goggles.

He looked back at the ground crew NCO on the runway, who gave him a thumbs-up.

"Start the engine!"

The radiant crystal engine roared to life again. The propeller spun rapidly, the resulting airflow blowing the scree and dead leaves on the runway everywhere.

The two "Taubes" taxied, accelerated, and took off one after the other.

Under the watchful eyes of the ground crew, they quickly climbed to an altitude of a few hundred meters, adjusted their heading, and flew towards the Prahova River Valley to the south.

While Morin's Kampfgruppe was urgently mobilizing various resources, trying every means to support the instruction unit's 3rd Battalion, their opponents were also hurrying over from another direction.

The vanguard regiment of the Kingdom of Romania Army's 3rd Reserve Infantry Division had been running on the makeshift road for nearly two and a half hours.

"Faster! Faster! Everyone, run!"

The regimental commander riding a brown military horse was an old colonel in his early fifties. His voice was so loud the entire column could hear it.

He galloped back and forth along the flank of the marching column in his very personal style, constantly urging the soldiers who were already panting exhaustedly.

"Behind you is the territory of the Kingdom! Your families and the hometowns you live in!"

The soldiers remained silent.

The reserve infantry division of the Romanian Army sounded nice on paper, but in reality, most were reservists and over-age veterans conscripted from various places.

Their weapons and equipment were old cast-offs replaced by regular units. Even their uniforms were a mix of old and new, completely unstandardized.

But then again, not everyone among them was just there to make up the numbers.

Many of the over-age veterans had participated in the two Balkan Wars of 1912 and 1913. They had fought with real swords and guns; their hands had seen blood.

In the Balkans during this era, a veteran who had been on a battlefield—even if his physical fitness was a bit poor and his equipment a bit shabby—wasn't so easy to deal with in a real fight.

In fact, this unit had already entered a state of emergency assembly after news of the battle at the pass arrived last night.

When they received the urgent telegram from the Army General Staff at dawn, the vanguard regiment of this reserve infantry division, which was at 75% strength, immediately set out from Brașov.

Two and a half hours, fifteen kilometers.

For a reserve infantry division, this marching speed greatly exceeded normal levels.

The price was that physically exhausted soldiers constantly fell behind and collapsed along the way, making the tail of the marching column drag longer and longer.

But the main force of the vanguard regiment, about two thousand five hundred men, gritted their teeth and kept up.

At this moment, the old colonel on horseback raised his binoculars and looked ahead.

The valley exit squeezed between the mountains on both sides in the distance was faintly visible.

"How much further?" he turned and asked the adjutant also riding beside him.

"Commander, about six to seven kilometers left..."

The old colonel muttered this number on horseback, then looked back at the marching column stretching for several hundred meters behind him.

The soldiers were in very poor condition. Many ran while leaning on their rifles and panting; others simply collapsed on the ground mid-run.

But once these men caught their breath, they would struggle up and continue shuffling forward.

"Hold on a little longer..."

The old colonel put away his binoculars and roared hoarsely to the officers around him.

"Tell the men in the back, just hold on a little longer and we're there! Once we reach the valley exit, we'll build fortifications on the spot and block those Saxon and Austro-Hungarian sons of bitches in the ravine!"

Then he turned to his adjutant again.

"Also, have the battalion commanders note: don't rush to deploy all forces upon reaching the valley exit. Have someone check the terrain first, to see which positions are suitable for blocking positions and which positions need reinforcement."

He paused, then added: "Also, tell the mountain guns the division reinforced us with in the rear to keep up... Although the 65mm caliber is a bit small, setting them up at the valley exit terrain is enough to give the enemy a hard time."

"Yes, sir!"

The chief of staff hurriedly jotted down the orders and galloped toward the rear of the column.

The old colonel watched the chief of staff's retreating back, muttering curses.

Although he was constantly urging the troops to speed up, his heart was actually drumming.

After all, according to the latest enemy situation briefing brought by the division headquarters messenger just now, the Saxons' vanguard troops should also be fiercely attacking toward the river valley exit.

So this had turned into a race; whoever reached the river valley exit first would hold the initiative.

If his troops could arrive first and build a defense line relying on the valley exit terrain, then even if the opponent was a Saxon elite, they would break their teeth trying to charge out of a fortified pass.

But if the Saxons arrived first... then things would be troublesome.

The old colonel spurred his horse, increasing his speed.

"Everyone, run!"

His gruff roar echoed through the column, and the exhausted column behind him quickened its pace slightly.

Meanwhile, from the other direction, the soldiers of the instruction unit's 3rd Battalion were also running with all their might in silence.

Two units, one from the north, one from the south, were sprinting at full speed toward the same objective.

And in the sky, the two re-launched "Taube" reconnaissance aircraft had already flown over the pass and entered the Prahova River Valley area.

Manfred looked down at the map in his cockpit, then looked up at the continuous valley ahead.

The wind was strong, and the airframe constantly jolted. He had to use his knees to help clamp the control stick to free one hand to steady the map.

According to the marked position on the map, the location of the river valley exit should be more than twenty kilometers ahead.

"I'll go check the situation first."

Manfred muttered to himself. Then he gave a "descend" hand signal to his wingman nearby, pushed the nose down to lower altitude, and flew south along the winding river valley.

The engine noise of the two reconnaissance aircraft echoed in the narrow river valley, reflected exceptionally loudly by the mountain walls on both sides.

And on the rugged mountain road below them, an unprecedented bizarre sight had appeared.

There was a traffic jam.