Chapter 18: Hans, your coffee tastes terrible.

After Morin briefly assigned the tasks to the others, he solemnly turned to Sergeant Klaus standing beside him. With this seasoned veteran by his side, Morin felt somewhat reassured despite not being present to directly command the troops. In a way, it was like the saying, “An old hand in the home is a treasure indeed.”

“I’m leaving the unit in your hands during my absence, Sergeant Klaus. Keep a close watch and be on guard against any enemy counterattacks.”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant.” Sergeant Klaus nodded firmly. Having gone through the morning’s battle, he no longer doubted Morin’s orders.

With everything arranged, Morin turned and found Hans, the orderly, sitting nearby. His eyelids felt as heavy as if weighed down by a thousand pounds, and his legs were like lead. From yesterday until now, the strain on his nerves and the severe physical exertion had nearly drained him completely. Morin even felt that his endurance thus far was almost superhuman.

“Hans.”

“Lieutenant?” The young orderly stood up immediately.

“Go to the kitchen truck and bring me a cup of coffee. The stronger, the better.” Morin rubbed his temples.

“Yes, Lieutenant!” Hans responded promptly and hurried off.

Once Hans left, Morin, accompanied by Sergeant Bowman and four other selected, capable soldiers, headed toward the rear of the village, where the unit’s supply convoy was concealed. The artillery preparation from the 77mm field guns of the field artillery battalion before the morning assault had clearly inflicted considerable damage on the village, although Morin was unsure how many casualties it caused among the Kingdom’s forces. Many buildings showed the scars of bombardment.

They traversed the village road, riddled with shell craters and debris, and soon found the supply convoy’s hidden temporary camp. Over a dozen heavily loaded four-wheeled horse-drawn carts and several trucks—one of which Morin had ridden in earlier—were cleverly concealed at the edge of a small copse. The horses had been unsaddled and were leisurely grazing nearby.

The quartermaster of the 1st Battalion, 33rd Infantry Regiment—a middle-aged captain sporting a Prussian-style handlebar mustache—was auditing supplies alongside the convoy soldiers. Upon seeing the orders Morin handed him, he froze for a moment before his mustache twitched upward in a smile.

“Lieutenant Morin?” The quartermaster scrutinized him. “Was that brilliant flank assault this morning your doing?”

“Just luck, sir,” Morin answered modestly.

“Luck is part of strength, too.”

The quartermaster spoke seriously, and his eyes shifted with newfound respect. He promptly tucked away the orders and waved to his soldiers.

“Bring out six of the best-condition bicycles for Lieutenant Morin and his men.”

Turning back to Morin, he warned, “Lieutenant, these country lanes are rough—full of potholes and uneven ground. The bikes will take a beating, so ride carefully.”

“Thank you for the warning, sir.”

As the soldiers went to retrieve the bicycles, Morin’s gaze was drawn to a separate, cordoned-off area behind the supply camp. There, two enormous figures loomed.

They resembled colossal, heavily armored knights magnified several times over—each towering over three meters tall, silently kneeling on one knee. Their weapon racks held armed swords and kite-shaped shields, and massive rifles or cannons, evoking a silent, imposing presence.

Their bulky, armored torsos contrasted with disproportionately short limbs, lending them a strangely abstract appearance, as if they were a fusion between “Onion Knight,” “Sakura Wars,” and “SYNDUALITY.”

Their bodies were cloaked entirely in robes emblazoned with black-and-white crosses, with only thick metal pipes protruding from the gaps. Exhaust pipes jutted from their backs, indicating propulsion by some internal combustion engine.

At that moment, several personnel clad in similar black-and-white robes but unarmed busily maintained and resupplied these steel giants.

“Oh my… are these the ‘Armored Knights’?” Sergeant Bowman, trailing behind Morin, couldn’t help but exclaim.

The other soldiers craned their necks, their eyes filled with curiosity and awe. Like most Saxon soldiers, they had only seen blurry photographs of these steel constructs in newspapers; this was their first time witnessing the real thing.

The cold metallic texture and massive scale delivered a visual impact far beyond any black-and-white photo could convey in this era.

The quartermaster noticed their gaze and smiled knowingly.

“Looks like it’s your first time seeing these treasures from the Teutonic Knights.”

He approached Morin and lowered his voice.

“After hearing about our heavy losses this morning, headquarters sent over these two ‘Siegfried’-type Armored Knights along with a whole squad of knight attendants to reinforce us.”

The quartermaster, evidently impressed with Morin’s valor, added with rare enthusiasm:

“With these two giants, the next attack will be much easier! When we face enemy machine gun nests, they’ll go in and clear them out. It’s far better than sending our men to die or making you risk such dangers again.”

A flicker of thought crossed Morin’s mind. He knew all too well how foolish and brutal it was to throw lives at machine gun nests—the morning’s battle was still vivid in his memory. If these units—akin to what he understood as “mechas”—could effectively suppress enemy fire points, they would be a godsend to the infantry.

He was curious about how these machines operated on the battlefield. Could their armor withstand machine gun bullets? How effective would they be against artillery fire?

Yet, he also knew this was not the time for idle curiosity; the reconnaissance mission was urgent.

“Thank you for the information, sir.” Morin withdrew his gaze and thanked the quartermaster once more.

“Go, and good luck.”

The group pushed the brand-new bicycles away from the supply camp. Not far from there, Hans the orderly caught up, panting and carrying a steaming tin cup.

“Lieutenant, your coffee!”

Morin took the cup, and an odd aroma of burnt and bitter herbs wafted up. He sipped cautiously, the taste indescribable—like a concoction of scorched beans and some strange medicinal herb, both bitter and astringent, almost scraping his tongue raw.

He frowned and glanced at Hans.

That name, coupled with the coffee, triggered a nagging sensation, as if a joke was just about to escape his throat.

“Hans!”

“Yes, Lieutenant!”

“Your coffee tastes awful!”

“...”

With that, Morin tilted his head back and downed the cup of what could only be described as a toxic stimulant in one gulp. Then he handed the empty cup back to Hans, swung up onto his bike, and called out:

“Let’s move out!”