Isekai Military Cadets Joining Their Units Be Like...

While Albert II and his two "power brokers" were holding their discussion in Sanssouci Palace, Morin followed Schmidt into the encampment of the 33rd Infantry Regiment's 1st Battalion after greeting the sentry.

The combat unit's temporary camp was noticeably noisier and more chaotic than the area around Regimental Headquarters.

The air carried a mixture of damp earth, sweat, and cheap tobacco. Storm lanterns flickered in the night breeze, stretching and shrinking the soldiers' shadows.

Everything here had the rough, makeshift feel of the First World War that Morin knew so well.

Although it was already late at night, the unit was clearly still on standby and had not turned in.

Soldiers wearing the classic spiked helmets gathered in twos and threes with their respective units, both inside and outside the tents. Some were cleaning their rifles, while others spoke in low voices.

But most simply sat in silence, staring blankly at the flickering flames.

Clearly, not everyone understood why they had come to fight in a foreign land the way Schmidt, the messenger, did.

Most were merely obeying orders as soldiers.

Schmidt led Morin through the temporary camp. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to dampen his liveliness, and he grew less talkative.

Soon, they stopped in front of a slightly larger tent.

"Second Lieutenant, this is Battalion Headquarters. Major Thomas is inside."

Schmidt pointed at the tent, then lifted the heavy entrance flap and went in first.

Morin took a deep breath, straightened his rather rumpled and stained uniform, and followed him inside.

Only one oil lamp burned in the tent. The light was far from bright, casting a dim yellow glow.

A burly, middle-aged officer sporting a standard Saxon handlebar mustache stood before a campaign table covered with a map, his brow furrowed.

Hearing the tent flap lift, he looked up. His gaze first fell on Schmidt, then shifted to Morin behind him.

When he saw Morin's badly bruised face and the bandages showing above his collar, the major's eyebrows rose involuntarily.

Schmidt stepped forward and handed over a document envelope, rapidly summarizing what had happened to Morin.

Morin froze for a moment. He had not expected Lieutenant General Mackensen to let the others speak openly about it.

"...That's the situation, sir! General Mackensen ordered me to bring Second Lieutenant Morin directly here to report to you."

After listening, Major Thomas looked Morin over again, a complicated expression on his face.

"You're lucky to be alive..."

He opened the envelope, pulled out the written orders, glanced over them, and nodded.

"Understood. Go back and report."

"Yes, sir!"

Schmidt gave a crisp salute, turned, and hurried out of the tent.

Major Thomas set the orders aside and pointed to a nearby ammunition crate, his tone softening considerably.

"Have a seat, Second Lieutenant. What you've been through... is quite a story."

Morin had no idea how to respond to that, so he could only give a sheepish smile and sit down.

The major opened the documents the messenger had brought, scanned them quickly, and sighed.

"Morin, given what you've been through and your current condition, I ought to let you get some proper rest first... but the situation has changed. The troops may be moving out soon..."

"I'm fine, sir!"

Morin knew that, as a newcomer, he needed to find a way to leave a good impression on his superior. In the straightforward world of the military, that was simple enough.

"Please give me my orders!"

"Good! 3rd Company has been waiting a long time for you to take command of that platoon. I'll have someone take you over right away."

Thomas was clearly very pleased with Morin's attitude. He called outside, and an orderly immediately entered.

"Take Second Lieutenant Morin to 3rd Company and report to Captain Hauser."

"Yes, sir."

After leaving Major Thomas's tent, Morin soon found 3rd Company's encampment under the orderly's guidance.

The atmosphere here was livelier than at Battalion Headquarters. A sharp, capable-looking captain was assigning tasks to his noncommissioned officers.

When he saw Morin arriving with the orderly, the captain's eyes lit up, and he immediately strode over.

"You must be Second Lieutenant Morin? Thank heavens, you're finally here!"

The captain enthusiastically shook Morin's hand with enough force to make him wince.

"I'm Karl Hauser, commander of 3rd Company."

"Sir!"

Following this body's muscle memory, Morin immediately saluted his direct superior.

"No need for formalities!"

Captain Hauser clapped him on the shoulder, his delight plain on his face.

"You know, our previous platoon commander suddenly fell ill on the train to Aragon... and died right there! My 3rd Platoon has been without a commander for almost a month. The platoon sergeant has been acting commander all this time, and he's nearly run himself ragged!"

Only then did Morin understand. He had been brought in to fill a vacancy.

Captain Hauser was clearly a man of action. After only a few pleasantries with Morin, he called over the company headquarters staff and the other officers.

"Everyone, let me introduce Second Lieutenant Morin, the new commander of our 3rd Platoon! Come get acquainted!"

At Captain Hauser's words, everyone gathered around and greeted Morin warmly.

Morin took the opportunity to quickly familiarize himself with the organization of the Saxon Imperial Army's lower-level units.

Aside from officers with direct command responsibilities, such as the company and platoon commanders, an infantry company actually had quite a sizable headquarters staff.

One company sergeant major, who served as its central figure;

One supply sergeant, who assisted the company sergeant major in managing provisions, clothing, quarters, and related matters;

Two clerks, who handled the company's various documents and reports. After all, the company commander was usually busy and had no time to deal with complicated paperwork and reports;

Four medics equipped with basic medical kits, responsible for battlefield first aid and evacuating wounded men to the battalion aid station;

A six-man signals squad responsible for establishing and maintaining communications with Battalion Headquarters. Usually, they simply served as messengers, but if company headquarters needed a telephone connection to Battalion Headquarters, they would have to lay the wire;

Finally, an eight-man transport section responsible, both on the march and in camp, for managing the company's field kitchen cart, food reserves, drinking water, extra ammunition crates, spare weapon parts, tools...

And, of course, the company headquarters' baggage.

Morin even noticed that two of these eight men were dedicated specialists: a farrier and a harness maker.

That was because, in addition to mounts for officers and messengers, each infantry company in the Saxon Empire had two horse-drawn transport wagons to carry the entire company's baggage on the march.

The good old Holy Roman Mule Empire...

As he got acquainted with everyone, much of the knowledge this body had learned at Richterfield Central Military Academy began resurfacing. His "cheat" also kept bringing up notifications of updated information.

With his compulsive need to clear notifications, Morin realized that he would probably have quite a "battle" with those red dots later.

After the others dispersed, the two other platoon commanders—a taciturn first lieutenant and a cheerful-looking second lieutenant—also came over to introduce themselves.

The relatively friendly atmosphere in the company eased Morin's taut nerves considerably.

Once the brief pleasantries were over, a stern-faced, middle-aged sergeant wearing senior NCO insignia approached Morin.

"Second Lieutenant, I'm Klaus, the platoon sergeant of 3rd Platoon."

"Hello, Sergeant Klaus."

Morin nodded and took the initiative to shake his hand.

"Please assemble the men. I'd like to meet everyone. Sorry for the trouble."

"Yes, sir."

Before long, the soldiers of 3rd Platoon had assembled in the open ground before the tents.

The Saxon Empire's current infantry squads consisted of nine men.

Every two infantry squads formed a section. Eight squads, or four sections, provided seventy-two riflemen, the platoon's main fighting force.

Together with the platoon commander, platoon sergeant, four NCOs, and two messengers, they formed a "supersized" infantry platoon of eighty men.

Apart from the platoon commander, its key members were the platoon sergeant and the four NCOs, who generally held the rank of corporal.

The platoon sergeant was the commander's deputy. Like the sergeant major at company level, he was the soul of the unit and the bridge between its commander and soldiers.

Many of the platoon's day-to-day affairs, large and small, were also handled by the platoon sergeant.

Sergeant Klaus, who would be assisting Morin, was a veteran NCO with more than sixteen years of service. For an infantry platoon, he was nothing short of a treasured heirloom.

The other four NCOs were responsible for the platoon's daily training and for leading its four sections in combat.

The assembled soldiers stood in orderly ranks. Beneath the chilly moonlight, faces both youthful and weathered turned toward their new commander.

The rigid hierarchy of the Saxon Empire's military kept them in absolute silence.

Although Morin had also been a military academy cadet before transmigrating, he had not yet reached graduation and assignment to a company. Still, judging by what some senior cadets had told him, he absolutely could not show nervousness or stage fright now, or he would face serious problems later...

Morin could feel everyone stealing glances at his facial injuries. Quite a few shoulders were trembling slightly; the men looked ready to hurt themselves holding back their laughter.

He cleared his throat and said, "I know what you're looking at."

He pointed to his face.

"If you want to laugh, go ahead. Don't hold it in."

For a brief moment after he spoke, the ranks remained silent. Then the men burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Morin smiled along with them. Only once the laughter subsided did he continue:

"Starting today, I'm your platoon commander. My requirements are simple... obey orders, trust your comrades, and never shrink from battle! Anyone in this platoon who violates those rules, myself included, will face the full force of military law! Is that clear?!"

"Yes, sir!"

After saying a little more about discipline and combat, Morin dismissed the men. Watching the soldiers leave, he knew very well that their laughter had only brought them closer on the surface.

Their respect for him came mostly from his rank.

He still had a long way to go before truly winning them over.

Remembering some "tips for joining a company" that senior cadets had shared when visiting the academy before his transmigration, Morin called over the platoon sergeant and the four corporals after dismissing the men, hoping to get a basic understanding of the unit's current situation...

It was also a chance to get acquainted and bring them closer together.

They began with brief introductions and chatted about their service histories.

Morin discovered that Klaus was not the only seasoned veteran. None of the four corporals was a novice, either; all had served for quite some time.

On reflection, that was hardly surprising. After all, they were noncommissioned officers promoted from the ranks rather than officers appointed through the formal commissioning process.

This was also very similar to the German Empire's situation before the outbreak of the First World War in Morin's previous world—a very high proportion of junior NCOs had produced an army with excellent combat proficiency at the lowest levels.

However, those NCOs had also suffered heavy losses early in the war, eventually causing their proportion within frontline units to fall sharply.

As they became more familiar with one another, Morin could clearly feel Klaus and the others relaxing.

One of the corporals then asked, out of curiosity, where Morin was from.

After searching the memories in his head, Morin answered without hesitation, "I'm from Dresden..."

"Oh! So you're from the capital, sir!"

"No wonder you carry yourself differently. Your family must be quite distinguished, too..."

Looking at the NCOs' eager faces, Morin froze for a moment before suddenly realizing that this country's capital was not "Berlin."

But once he remembered that the country itself had become the "Saxon Empire," everything immediately seemed reasonable.

In this timeline, the land was most likely ruled not by the House of Hohenzollern, but by the Saxon House of Wettin...

In that case, it made perfect sense for Dresden, the ancestral seat from which the House of Wettin had risen, to become the capital of the Saxon Empire.

Finally, after asking about matters such as noncombat illnesses and injuries and the soldiers' morale, Morin confirmed that there were no problems with the platoon's basic combat readiness. Platoon Sergeant Klaus then led him to a small tent.

Klaus and the orderly had just pitched it together. It was the platoon commander's private tent.

"Second Lieutenant, get some rest. I'll fetch you some hot water."

"Thank you, Sergeant Klaus."

After Klaus left, Morin sank onto the camp bed. Utter exhaustion washed over him like a tide, leaving him feeling as though his bones were about to fall apart.

Before long, his orderly for the current rotation—a soldier who also looked very young—entered with a cup of hot water and several pieces of dry, hard bread.

"Sir, I just checked, and the fire in the company headquarters' kitchen cart has already been put out. Have something to tide you over for now... Sergeant Klaus got this hot water for you."

"Thank you. You get some rest, too. I can manage."

Morin nodded, then struggled through the hard black bread with the help of the hot water. Everything that had happened that day had left his mind in a jumble.

An inexplicable transmigration, an inexplicable capture, an inexplicable rescue...

And now he had somehow completed the "military cadet assigned to a company" achievement.

After finishing the food in a few bites, Morin felt his eyelids beginning to droop. Just as he was about to lie down fully dressed and get some sleep, urgent whistles suddenly sounded all around him.

The tent flap lifted, and Platoon Sergeant Klaus poked his head inside.

"Sir! Orders from company headquarters! Everyone's to assemble. We move out in two hours!"

"Huh?"