Hans, Your Coffee Tastes Awful

Morin finished briefing the others, then turned to Sergeant Klaus beside him with a solemn look.

With such a seasoned veteran there, Morin felt somewhat reassured, even though he would not be commanding the troops himself.

It was another way of saying that an old hand was worth his weight in gold...

"I'm leaving the troops in your hands while I'm gone, Sergeant Klaus! Keep a close watch, and be ready for an enemy counterattack."

"Don't worry, Lieutenant."

Sergeant Klaus nodded firmly. After the morning's battle, he no longer had any doubts about Morin's orders.

With everything arranged, Morin turned and found Hans, his orderly, sitting nearby.

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and his legs might as well have had lead weights strapped to them. The strain on his nerves and the intense physical exertion since yesterday had nearly drained him dry.

Morin was amazed this body had held out so long. Its endurance was almost superhuman.

"Hans."

"Lieutenant?" The young orderly sprang to his feet.

"Go to the kitchen wagon and get me a cup of coffee." Morin rubbed his temples. "Make it as strong as you can."

"Yes, Lieutenant!" Hans answered and hurried off at a trot.

Once the orderly had gone, Morin took Corporal Baumann and four other capable soldiers toward the rear of the village, where the Battalion Baggage Train lay concealed.

Morin did not know how many Royal Army casualties the Field Artillery Battalion's 77-millimeter field guns had caused during the bombardment before the morning attack, but the damage to the village was plain. Many buildings had been hit.

Morin and the others followed a village road strewn with shell craters and rubble. Before long, they found the baggage train's concealed position and temporary camp.

More than a dozen heavy four-wheeled wagons, along with several trucks like the one Morin had ridden in earlier, were cleverly hidden at the edge of a small wood. The horses had been unharnessed and were leisurely eating fodder nearby.

The quartermaster of the 1st Battalion, 33rd Infantry Regiment, a middle-aged captain with a Prussian handlebar mustache, was taking inventory with the baggage train soldiers.

When Morin handed him the written orders, the captain looked startled for a moment. Then his mustache twitched upward.

"Lieutenant Morin?" The quartermaster looked him over. "That fine flanking attack this morning was your doing?"

"I got lucky, sir," Morin replied modestly.

"Luck is part of a soldier's ability."

The quartermaster sounded entirely serious. His expression toward Morin changed, and he put away the orders before waving to a soldier beside him.

"Go on. Pick out the six bicycles in the best condition for Lieutenant Morin and his men."

He turned back to Morin with a warning. "Lieutenant, the country lanes around here are rough and full of potholes. They'll be hard on the bicycles, so take care when you ride."

"Thank you for the warning, sir."

As the soldiers went to fetch the bicycles, Morin glanced toward the back of the baggage train's camp. A separate, cordoned-off area caught his eye.

Two enormous figures stood there.

They looked like heavily armored knights enlarged several times over. More than three meters tall, they rested silently on one knee. Along with the Arming Swords, kite shields, and enormous rifles—or cannons—on a weapon rack nearby, they exuded a wordless sense of menace.

Compared with their massive, heavy torsos, however, their limbs looked rather short, giving them oddly proportioned silhouettes.

They looked like a cross between an onion knight, something out of Sakura Wars, and SYNDUALITY...

The result was bizarre.

Black-and-white tabards bearing cross emblems covered them from head to toe. Only a few thick metal pipes showed through the gaps, while exhaust pipes protruding from their backs suggested they were powered by some kind of internal-combustion engine.

A number of people in similar black-and-white tabards, but without weapons, were busy maintaining and resupplying the two steel giants.

"Good heavens... Are those Armored Knights?"

Corporal Baumann, standing behind Morin, could not hold back an exclamation.

The other soldiers craned their necks too, their eyes full of curiosity and awe.

Like most Saxony soldiers, they had only seen blurry pictures of these steel creations in newspapers. This was their first time seeing the real thing.

For people of this era, the sight of their cold metal surfaces and immense size made an impression no black-and-white newspaper photograph could match.

The quartermaster followed their gaze and smiled knowingly.

"First time seeing the Teutonic Order's prized machines, I take it."

He walked over to Morin and lowered his voice.

"Brigade Headquarters heard we'd taken heavy casualties this morning, so they sent us these two Siegfried-model Armored Knights, along with a whole squad of Knight Squires as reinforcements."

The quartermaster seemed to have taken a liking to Morin, the brave young officer, and offered a little more than he had to.

"With these two big fellows, the next attack will be much easier! If we run into another enemy machine-gun position, they'll go in and clear it out. Better that than throwing away more of our men's lives, or making you take another desperate gamble."

Morin's interest stirred. He knew how foolish and brutal it was to send men charging into machine-gun fire. The morning's battle was still vivid in his mind.

If these machines, much like the mechs he knew of, could deal effectively with enemy strongpoints, they would be a godsend to the infantry.

He wanted to know how they actually worked on the battlefield. Could their armor stop machine-gun bullets? Could it withstand a hit from a field gun?

But he knew this was no time to satisfy his curiosity. The reconnaissance mission could not wait.

"Thank you for telling me, sir." Morin looked away and thanked the quartermaster again.

"Off you go. Good luck."

The men wheeled their brand-new bicycles out of the baggage train's camp. They had not gone far when Hans, the orderly, came hurrying after them, panting and carrying a steaming tin cup.

"Lieutenant, your coffee!"

Morin took the cup. A strange smell, burnt and bitter, rose to his nose.

He took a sip. The taste defied description. It was like a medicinal brew made from charred beans and some kind of herb, so bitter and astringent it nearly scraped his tongue raw.

Frowning, he looked at his orderly, Hans.

Between that name and the coffee in his hand, he felt a joke rising in his throat, ready to burst out.

"Hans!"

"Yes, Lieutenant!"

"Your coffee tastes awful!"

"..."

With that, Morin tipped back his head and drained the stimulant, which tasted like poison. He thrust the empty cup back into Hans's hand and swung himself onto his bicycle.

"Move out!"