"Eastern Millitary Strategy?"
Georg and Major General Knobelsdorff raised their eyebrows almost simultaneously.
These two were certainly no "military illiterates." In this specific era of the early 20th century, as a member of the royal family and a high-ranking imperial officer, the scope of literature they could access was far broader than that of ordinary people.
And at the mention of "Eastern Millitary Strategy," the first thing that popped into their minds was one of the rare treasures brought back by Marco Polo's entourage after enduring untold hardships—just before a certain mysterious Eastern power sealed itself off behind the mythal...
"Are you referring to Sun Tzu's Art of War?" Georg spoke first.
"I saw a manuscript in my father's study. It even had annotations by the Great Scholar Eckhart... But to be honest, some chapters were translated so obscurely that I didn't finish reading it all."
Major General Knobelsdorff pushed up his glasses and nodded in agreement.
"The library at the Dresden Imperial War Academy houses an earlier translation. I leafed through it a few times during my time there... The philosophy in that military treatise is indeed profound, but limited by cultural differences, I feel much of its essence might have been lost in translation."
Hearing this, Morin felt somewhat nostalgic.
In the world he lived in before transmigrating, the Latin translation of Sun Tzu's Art of War wasn't brought back to Europe by a French missionary until the 18th century. In this world, Marco Polo's followers beat that missionary by nearly two hundred years.
Even so, cultural barriers remained.
While these Europeans could understand the literal meaning, comprehending the Eastern philosophical core behind the strategy still felt a bit like scratching an itch from outside the boot.
According to the Chief of Staff, most military academy instructors evaluated it as "full of philosophical speculation, but too abstract"—in other words, "it sounds very reasonable, but we have no idea how to use it."
"Since you both know of it, I'll get straight to the point."
Morin placed his finger on the map, slowly tracing northward from Belgrade's location.
"The strategy I suggest is called 'Attack what the enemy must save.'"
The moment this term, translated into Saxon, left his mouth, the expressions of both Georg and Major General Knobelsdorff shifted slightly.
Morin continued.
"The core concept is simple—do not launch a forced assault on Belgrade. Instead, attack another location the enemy is bound to rescue... This will force the Balkan Coalition to pull troops back from the Kingdom of Bulgaria, relieving the pressure on our allies and thereby breaking the current stalemate."
Initially, Morin wanted to quote the more straightforward idiom "Besiege Wei to Rescue Zhao."
But unsure if the Thirty-Six Stratagems had also been brought over by Marco Polo's expedition, he swapped it at the last minute for the original line from Sun Tzu's Art of War.
The tent fell silent for three or four seconds.
Resting both hands on the edge of the sandbox, Georg furrowed his brows. Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, he jerked his head up and stared at the sandbox.
Major General Knobelsdorff strode quickly to the other side of the sandbox, leaning over to scrutinize the undulating terrain, his fingers darting back and forth between several locations.
"Right now, a portion of the Balkan Coalition's main force is pinned down in Bulgaria... which means the homeland defense of certain member states must be weak!"
"As long as we threaten the core region of any coalition member state, they will be forced to draw troops back from Bulgaria to defend it. Once the pressure on Bulgaria eases, it won't be so easy for the coalition to free up their effective strength."
Listening nearby, Morin felt quite gratified.
Worthy of someone capable of commanding an army group, Georg possessed basic strategic sensitivity. Morin only needed to say a few words for him to immediately grasp the concept.
Major General Knobelsdorff had already started calculating routes in his head.
His fingers unconsciously traced the railway lines marked by wooden strips on the sandbox, sliding from the Austro-Hungarian border toward the southeast...
"Wait a moment."
Georg suddenly straightened up, looking at Morin and the Chief of Staff with a flash of inexplicable excitement on his face.
"I have a proposal."
He picked up three pencils from the edge of the sandbox, handed one to Morin, one to Major General Knobelsdorff, and kept one for himself.
"Since Lord Friedrich mentioned 'Attack what the enemy must save,' let's test it—let's see if the three of us have the same location in mind."
Major General Knobelsdorff gave the Crown Prince a surprised look but ultimately nodded.
Morin had no objections either.
Georg extended his right fist and began to count down.
In almost the exact same instant, the pencils in all three hands pointed precisely to the identical location on the sandbox.
The tent went quiet for a moment.
Then all three looked up simultaneously, their six lines of sight meeting in the air.
Georg smiled brightly, a genuine, heartfelt cheerfulness.
Major General Knobelsdorff revealed a rare hint of a smile; even this normally rigid and meticulous Chief of Staff was amused by their tacit understanding.
Morin pulled his pencil back from the map, the corners of his mouth turning up.
"It seems the three of us are indeed thinking exactly alike." Georg reined in his smile, but the excitement in his tone hadn't diminished in the slightest.
Just then, the tent flap was carefully lifted open a crack from the outside.
An officer from the Army Group headquarters poked his head in, his voice hushed.
"Your Highness, Your Excellency Chief of Staff, Colonel Morin—the road ahead is confirmed safe. The convoy is ready, and we can begin the relocation."
Georg glanced at Morin and the Chief of Staff, then nodded.
"Good. Let's move out."
Major General Knobelsdorff excused himself and turned to briskly exit the tent. Relocating an army group headquarters involved multiple departments, hundreds of personnel, and numerous vehicles; he needed to oversee the final coordination personally.
When only Morin and the Crown Prince remained in the tent, Georg patted Morin's shoulder.
"Lord Friedrich, I have two empty seats in my car. Ride with me. We can continue our chat when we reach the new camp."
Naturally, Morin wouldn't refuse. He agreed and followed the Crown Prince out of the tent, only to spot his orderly and truck driver still waiting in the corner.
Morin walked over and gave them brief instructions.
"You guys head back to the Kampfgruppe first. Tell Kleist and Manstein to let the men get a good rest. I'll be staying at the Army Group headquarters tonight."
The orderly snapped to attention, already accustomed to this kind of situation.
Anyone who had served as Morin's orderly in the instruction unit knew their commander's style differed drastically from others. He didn't like orderlies trailing behind him all day, and going off solo to "jungle" was his norm...
"Commander, then... will you be coming back for dinner?"
Morin waved his hand.
"I'll eat here. I eat a lot, so saving my share means more for the rest of the regimental headquarters... Hmm, let me see if the headquarters has any 'excess' supplies you can haul back while you're at it."
The orderly grinned. Before he could salute, an aide-de-camp from the Crown Prince's side jogged over, followed by a dozen soldiers carrying wooden crates.
"Colonel Morin, these are the liquors and tobaccos His Highness ordered me to give to the instruction unit as a modest reward for everyone's hard work."
The orderly's grin turned into a hearty laugh. He and the truck driver hurried to the back of the truck trailer, quickly helping to load and stack the crates inside.
He then cheerfully bid Morin farewell. Seeing Morin wave, he climbed into the passenger seat.
The truck engine roared twice, and it bumped away down the road.
Standing nearby, Georg watched the scene and let out a rare laugh.
"Lord Friedrich, that orderly of yours is quite pragmatic."
"The soldiers of the instruction unit are honest folks; they're happy as long as they have food and drink."
Morin followed the Crown Prince toward an already-running staff car. The aide opened the door, and the two slid into the back seat one after the other.
Though Morin had reservations about staff cars always being open-top convertibles, he really didn't have much of a choice right now.
The vehicle slowly started, joining the convoy moving southward.
The sky had already begun to change. Even though the early summer sun set late, the early May evening still carried a lingering trace of spring chill. Georg leaned back against the seat, watching the passing fields and distant smoking artillery craters in silence for a while.
Then, he suddenly spoke.
"Lord Friedrich, tell me... as the Crown Prince of the Empire, what kind of distance should I keep from the people around me?"
Morin, currently pondering their next operational plan in his head, was caught off guard by the sudden question.
Georg didn't wait for a response, continuing his monologue.
"The aides say getting too close to subjects is improper. The etiquette officers say a Crown Prince must maintain majesty and a sense of distance."
Georg's tone was casual, but the content was anything but.
"Yet my royal father always reminds me to build good relationships with key ministers... These conflicting pieces of advice sometimes leave me quite conflicted."
Morin, sitting beside him, was already breaking a sweat.
Bro, is this 'Crown Prince monologue' something I'm even allowed to hear?
In the world before Morin's transmigration, roles like "Prince's confidant" or "Crown Prince's retainer" were high-risk occupations, as the "Prince" could fall from grace at any given moment for any number of reasons.
And here in Old Europa, cases of deposed Crown Princes were not uncommon.
An old emperor reigning too long finding the heir an eyesore, a Crown Prince violating a taboo by getting too close to a certain noble, or even just court gossip reaching the wrong ears... all could serve as reasons for deposition.
Crown Prince Georg seemed to notice Morin's stiffness and chuckled.
"Don't be nervous, Lord Friedrich... I'm not testing your loyalty. I simply want to chat."
Whatever that means. Is it really 'simply'?
This thought flashed through Morin's mind while Georg paused before continuing:
"In my eyes, you are a learned man with unique insights on many matters. Therefore, I am very curious—in your mind, what should a perfect 'King' look like?"
The car fell silent for several seconds.
The wind outside slipped through the crack in the not-quite-closed window, brushing against the silent Morin's face.
A perfect... 'King'?
To be honest, as a transmigrator raised under the red flag, having received a complete nine-year compulsory education and military academy training, Morin had a very clear categorization for "Emperors"—they were local specialties of feudal empires.
The dust of history...
Things that belonged in the trash heap.
So he had never pondered what a "perfect King" looked like. Or rather, in Morin's cognitive framework, no such thing as a "perfect King" existed in this world.
If this were right after he had first transmigrated, he might have leveraged his personal relationship with the Crown Prince to deliver a soul-cleansing lecture.
He'd hit him with a combo of "proletarian ideology," "all men are created equal," "water can carry a boat, but it can also capsize it," and "are kings and nobles given their high status by birth?"—just to see if he could align the Crown Prince's paradigm.
But Morin was no longer that hot-blooded military cadet fresh off his transmigration.
The members of the "International Brigades" he met during the Aragonese Civil War—those revolutionaries who likewise tried to raise the red flag in this world—had taught Morin a vivid lesson through their experiences.
This world possessed supernatural forces and some advanced technological levels, and coincidentally, these greatly amplified the power of the "state violence apparatus."
Therefore, indiscriminately copying another world's revolutionary experience under these productive and social conditions would highly likely result in cultural rejection, leading straight into the dead end of "empiricism."
Furthermore, Crown Prince Georg sitting beside him was clearly a staunch "feudal imperialist warrior."
Lecturing him on these topics without any groundwork was useless. It would only make the other party think you had ulterior motives or wanted to spark a "revolution."
Especially the latter—revolution...
After all, on the Europa continent in the early 20th century, the word "revolution" meant "the crown falls to the ground" for any royal family member.
Not to mention distant examples, the royal families of Europa had all seen exactly how the Tsar of the Great Lucian Empire and his family ended up "hanging from streetlights."
Besides, he was on a battlefield right now.
Preaching this stuff to his own supreme commander, no matter how you looked at it, was a sign of brain damage.
It's not the right time yet... You must maintain strategic patience, Morin.
Morin gave himself a mental tranquilizer, and his brain kicked into high gear.
He needed to say something—it couldn't be too perfunctory and hurt the Crown Prince's pride, nor could it be too radical and put himself in danger. Ideally, it should carry enough "substance" to match Georg's assessment of him being "learned and knowledgeable."
Outside the window, the western skyline had already turned a fiery orange.
The setting sun hung on the distant horizon, its afterglow painting half the sky.
Morin stared at that sinking sun for two seconds, and his uniquely human "leap of logic" took over.
The Sun.
The Sun King.
Kim Jong-un.
Augusta...
These completely unrelated terms danced rapidly through his head before being swiftly synthesized by Morin's augmented brain, ultimately piecing together a complete rhetorical script.
"Your Highness."
Morin turned around and performed an action Georg hadn't anticipated.
He extended a hand, palm facing up, letting the slanted afterglow from outside the car fall onto it.
"I think a perfect 'King' should be like the sun."
Georg was slightly taken aback.
He clearly hadn't expected Morin to give such an answer—or rather, such an "imagery."
"The sun?"
The Crown Prince tilted his head, carrying a hint of curiosity.
Morin nodded, his palm still open in the beam of light.
"Has Your Highness ever considered a question—at the dawn of their existence, almost all ancient civilizations in this world unanimously revered the sun as the supreme entity, creating countless myths and beliefs around it."
"In ancient Egypt, the Sun God Ra is the source of all things... In the ancient Eastern country behind the mythal, the sun represents the Mandate of Heaven... In Norse legends, the sun is the only force capable of dispelling the eternal night."
"Even our neighbors, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Gaul, and Britannia across the sea... you can find traces of the sun in the royal coats of arms and insignias of these nations."
Georg didn't interrupt Morin. He unconsciously mimicked Morin's action, raising a hand toward the setting sun.
The afterglow passed through the window and bathed his palm. The warm sensation traveled up through his skin.
"Then why the sun?"
Morin withdrew his hand, looking at Georg.
"Because the sun never chooses who to shine upon..."
"Its light falls on palaces, and it falls on fields... It falls on the emperor's crown, and it falls on the farmer's hoe."
"It doesn't give a fraction more for wealth and nobility, nor a fraction less for poverty and lowliness. Everyone can feel its warmth..."
"Therefore, everyone bathed in sunlight will naturally look up to it and follow it."
Georg's hand slowly came to a halt.
He maintained that posture, his palm facing the skyline outside the window, not saying a word.
Morin wasn't in a hurry. He waited a few seconds before delivering the final line.
"Your Highness, precisely because the blazing sun does not withhold its radiance, the hearts of the people will naturally follow its light."
The car fell silent again, but this silence was different from before. Georg's expression completely transformed.
The Imperial Crown Prince slowly lowered his hand, but his entire body froze.
His eyes widened, and his lips parted slightly, repeatedly chewing over the last sentence Morin had just spoken.
"The blazing sun does not withhold its radiance... the hearts of the people follow the light..."
Georg murmured it several times.
His expression shifted from confusion to deep thought, and from deep thought to a look Morin couldn't entirely decipher.
Watching him, Morin started to feel a tiny bit uneasy.
This was the most "moderate" rhetoric he could come up with.
It neither challenged imperial power nor preached revolution. In essence, it was just a different way of influencing the Crown Prince before him.
If even this triggered the guy, then Morin was truly out of ideas.
Fortunately, Georg quickly returned to normal.
The Crown Prince turned his head and looked at Morin earnestly, an expression on his face that Morin had never seen there before.
"Lord Friedrich." Georg's voice softened half a beat, solemn but not contrived.
"Those words... have inspired me greatly."
Morin hurriedly waved his hand.
"Your Highness, those were just a few rambling thoughts provoked by the view outside the window. You mustn't take them seriously... Please don't take them to heart."
Georg shook his head and said no more. He leaned back against the seat, relaxing his entire body, and half-squinted at the setting sun slowly sinking below the horizon.
The convoy bumped along the dirt country roads, continuing its push southward. The twilight retreated from the car inch by inch.
The new camp for the Fifth Army Group headquarters was ultimately chosen in a forest belt less than a kilometer from the former Serbian Second Army headquarters.
Consequently, the headquarters maintained a pure "field state"—tents, trenches, and camouflage nets were all fully equipped.
Moreover, this wooded area was sufficiently concealed, with the tree canopy providing overhead cover. Although the Balkan Coalition possessed virtually no aerial units, disciplined anti-aircraft camouflage was still implemented.
As the tents for various departments were erected one by one, Morin took the opportunity to scrounge a meal at the army group headquarters.
Because this army group was directly commanded by the Crown Prince, its logistical supply tier and specifications were a grade higher than those of an ordinary army group.
In addition to fresh roast beef, mashed potatoes, and stew, the dinner menu included numerous side dishes. The Crown Prince even had someone specially prepare a stewed pork knuckle for Morin.
Holding a mess tin, Morin sat opposite Georg, shoveling two mouthfuls of stewed pork into his mouth before reaching for a large chunk of beef.
Watching Morin eat, the Crown Prince wasn't surprised at all. He merely sighed and said:
"Lord Friedrich, your appetite... is still as massive as ever."
"Metabolism issues, Your Highness."
Morin mumbled an indistinct reply without stopping his hands, tearing off a large piece of bread, dipping it in the stew gravy, and shoving it into his mouth.
Major General Knobelsdorff, sitting nearby, had already put down his cutlery. He pushed his glasses up his nose, looking as if he wanted to say something but was holding back.
Georg noticed his Chief of Staff's expression.
"Chief of Staff, what's wrong?"
"It's nothing..."
Despite saying that, Major General Knobelsdorff cleared his throat.
"I just recalled a report I saw earlier from the General Staff's Logistics Department—the per capita ration consumption of the instruction unit is about 15% to 20% higher than the average level of equivalent units. At the time, I thought it was a statistical error..."
He glanced at Morin's rapidly emptying mess tin.
"Now I feel it's probably not a statistical issue."
Morin pretended not to hear.
Georg was amused. He picked up his cup, took a sip of coffee, and joined in the teasing.
"Lord Friedrich certainly can't eat that much all by himself. Besides, due to their training regimen, the instruction unit's ration standards have always been higher."
Immediately, the Crown Prince changed his tone.
"But then again, considering the instruction unit's combat record, their performance far exceeds that of other units by much more than fifteen percent..."
"So even if Lord Friedrich really can eat that much, judging by the return on investment, those extra rations are absolutely worth it."
Major General Knobelsdorff allowed his normally rigid mouth to loosen into a rare smirk.
"Your Highness makes a valid point. However, I still recommend that the Logistics Department add an extra correction coefficient when calculating the instruction unit's supply needs."
"What correction coefficient?"
"The Morin Coefficient."
A few staff officers at the next table nearly choked on their coffee.
Morin put down his mess tin, looking innocent.
"Your Excellency Chief of Staff, I protest."
"Protest overruled."
Major General Knobelsdorff didn't even look up, but Morin could clearly see his shoulders shaking.
"Chief of Staff, you've clearly been laughing this whole time..."
Dinner concluded in this rare, relaxed atmosphere.
When the three finished eating and gathered again in the newly erected operations tent, the sandbox had been reconfigured.
The number and positions of the small flags on it had been adjusted, updated by the staff officers based on the latest battlefield situation.
Georg stood in front of the sandbox, getting straight to the point.
"Lord Friedrich, since the three of us have reached a consensus on the strategic direction, we should now discuss the specific execution plan."
The Crown Prince drew a large arc over the sandbox with his hand.
"My idea is for the main force of the Army Group to continue pressuring the direction of Belgrade—this is our 'visible card,' laid out on the table for the Serbians to see."
"And the true killing blow will be the 'surprise force' led by you, Lord Friedrich... Only the unit under your command qualifies as a true surprise force."
During the battles of these past few days, Crown Prince Georg and the Chief of Staff had validated Morin's capability to command large-scale units.
After all, the current "Morin Kampfgruppe" was effectively a brigade-level combat unit, and under Morin's command, this Kampfgruppe's performance was more than stellar enough.
Major General Knobelsdorff nodded and took over the conversation.
"According to our prior consensus, we will fully utilize the interior line mobility advantage provided by the railways within the Austro-Hungarian Empire. This unit will complete a long-distance strategic maneuver, appearing from a direction the enemy completely unexpected."
"With your instruction unit as the core, supplemented by a portion of elite troops drawn from the Army Group... However, there is a problem here, Colonel Morin."
Morin sat up straight, adopting an attitude of attentive listening, before hearing the Chief of Staff say:
"Colonel Morin, the command staff of your instruction unit is very capable. I have seen the abilities of your key regimental officers, and they are indeed outstanding."
"But if they are to command a larger mixed force executing a strategic operation of this level, relying solely on them... might stretch them too thin."
Morin nodded without denying it, as this observation hit the nail on the head.
He had actually noticed this bottleneck during the previous battles.
Commanding a brigade-sized force relying solely on Kleist as the deputy, Manstein managing operations, Paulus coordinating, and other regimental officers filling in the gaps had truly reached its limit.
"The Chief of Staff is correct."
Georg picked up the thread, looking at Morin.
"So I just briefly considered drawing a batch of experienced staff officers from the Army Group staff or the rear, and temporarily attaching them to your command staff, Lord Friedrich."
Morin nodded in agreement with this arrangement, then raised his own issue.
"Your Highness, Chief of Staff... we may also need more vehicles."
"The instruction unit fully demonstrated the immense advantage of vehicular mobility during this penetration operation. The problem is that the distance for the upcoming combat operation will only be further, and it may involve force expansion. Without sufficient motorized transport means, the effectiveness will be greatly diminished."
Morin's request was entirely reasonable. After all, the current instruction unit still had some distance to go before reaching the pinnacle of Tier 0 light infantry, especially concerning long-distance marches on foot.
Georg and Major General Knobelsdorff exchanged a glance, and the Crown Prince spoke first.
"Reasonable. But the problem is, the number of vehicles the entire Army Group can currently mobilize is already severely stretched... especially after these few days of fighting, the vehicle damage and breakdown rates are very high..."
Major General Knobelsdorff added:
"The new batch of domestic military trucks is still in the process of being delivered to the troops. It will be some time before it's the Fifth Army Group's turn."
Morin lowered his head in silence for a moment. The only sound in the tent was the faint crackling of the kerosene lamp wick.
About half a minute later, he raised his head again.
"Your Highness, I might have a way to solve the vehicle problem."
Georg and Major General Knobelsdorff looked at him simultaneously.
"But I need Your Highness's help to coordinate some matters with the military—primarily concerning the approval process for requisitioning truck vehicles from the rear."
"Additionally..."
Morin deliberately paused for a beat, organizing his phrasing.
"I need to send a telegram back home."
Georg reacted very quickly. He guessed instantly who Morin intended to contact.
He was well aware of the relationship between Morin and Cecilia von Falkenstein; in the upper echelons of the Empire, this was no longer a secret.
"You want to send a telegram to Madam Falkenstein?" The Crown Prince brought it directly into the open.
Morin didn't deny it, explaining:
"Radiant crystal trucks are primarily handled by the vehicle manufacturers under 'United Industry,' so contacting Madam Falkenstein for requisitioning help is definitely the most convenient. However, regarding the military's formal procedures... I will still need Your Highness to pull some strings in that regard."
Georg thought for a moment and readily agreed.
"No problem, leave the rear coordination to me... I believe no one will dare stall your approval."
Then, the Crown Prince turned to the Chief of Staff.
"Have the communications office arrange for Colonel Morin to use the encrypted line to the homeland."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Major General Knobelsdorff immediately led Morin toward the communications tent, calling over a communications officer.
Soon, the telegraph machine and operator were ready.
The communications officer retreated to a corner of the tent, making room for Morin.
Sitting at the folding table, Morin picked up a pencil and wrote the first line on the telegram paper.
Then he realized he was facing a "tactical dilemma" he had never encountered before.
How to use the most concise word count in an encrypted military telegram to clearly explain to Cecilia, thousands of miles away, what he needed, why he needed it, how many he needed, and when he needed them...
While simultaneously not sounding too stiff and businesslike.
The pencil hovered over the paper for a few seconds, and then Morin began writing briskly.
The beginning of the telegram followed standard official format, while the middle section provided a concise statement of needs—vehicle types, approximate quantities, and supporting requirements.
At the very last line, Morin hesitated.
He wrote and crossed out, crossed out and rewrote.
Finally, gritting his teeth, he added a single sentence.
"Everything is going well, don't worry. — Friedrich."