Chapter 548: The Armored Instruction Regiment’s Grand Charge!

After speaking with Colonel Hoffmann, Morin didn't linger at headquarters. He grabbed Manstein and bolted outside.

Hoffmann, the Eighth Army's Chief of Operations, efficiently summoned his adjutant and began organizing the Instruction Brigade's resupply, muttering things like "fuel priority" and "maximum ammunition allocation."

Morin and Manstein briskly walked through the headquarters camp. By the time the Instruction Brigade's flag came into view, their garrison was already a hive of activity.

Trucks unloaded from the military trains were continuously rolling into the camp. Logistics troops shouted as they hauled ammo crates and supplies off flatcars.

Several half-track armored vehicles slowly reversed into parking areas along newly paved temporary roads, their engines roaring in a chaotic symphony.

Morin scanned the camp and quickly spotted Rundstedt in front of a staff tent.

The major was holding a roster, verifying something with a signalman. Seeing Morin approach, he immediately jogged over.

"General, is the meeting at Army HQ finished?"

"Yes, but the situation is complex and hard to explain in a few words..." Morin peered into the camp. "What's our current deployment status?"

Rundstedt flipped open his logbook and rapidly rattled off the information.

"General, before our headquarters train arrived, the first few trains already delivered the bulk of the logistics convoy, the entire Armored Instruction Regiment, and the 1st and 2nd Battalions of the Motorized Infantry Instruction Regiment."

"Arriving today alongside headquarters are the brigade's direct-reporting units, the Thunder Warriors, and some artillery mapping personnel."

"What about the 3rd Infantry Battalion?"

"Still en route. They won't arrive until tonight at the earliest... The Artillery Regiment's heavy equipment trains will be even later."

Morin processed the cards in his hand and made a decision.

The White Army had already crossed the river at Rzhyshchiv. If he waited any longer, Denikin would turn two crossing points into four, then six, eventually linking them into a massive bridgehead.

If he waited for the entire brigade to assemble before acting, the southern garrison might already be pushed off the riverbank. Even if they could still route the White Army then, it would cost significantly more effort.

"Orders!"

Morin looked up at the two men. Rundstedt and Manstein instinctively snapped to attention, heels clicking together.

"Armored Instruction Regiment, 1st Battalion of the Motorized Infantry Regiment, Brigade Combat Engineer Company, and Thunder Warriors: form a combat battlegroup immediately!"

"I will personally lead the force south to reinforce Rzhyshchiv!"

Receiving an emergency combat order directly from Morin for the first time, Rundstedt nearly dropped his logbook.

"This... General, we're splitting our forces? This is our first combat mission since the expansion, won't that..."

"I know, but we're out of time." Morin interrupted, his tone firm, entirely different from his usual laid-back demeanor. "Denikin's vanguard has successfully crossed at Rzhyshchiv. If we delay, friendly forces there won't hold... Once that position falls, the entire southern approach to Kyiv is wide open."

Manstein took over, briefly summarizing the intel Hoffmann had shared, especially highlighting the massive disparity in forces in the south.

Hearing this, Rundstedt honestly felt the decision was even more dangerous. But he quickly weighed the stakes, and Morin's resolute attitude signaled that the decision was final.

Rundstedt could accept all of this, except for one thing...

"...General, you are a Major General now."

"Mhm."

"A Major General personally leading the assault echelon from the front is against regulations... How about... let me lead the force, and you command from Brigade HQ..."

Morin grinned. "Have I ever lacked a history of breaking regulations? Besides... this is the Instruction Brigade's regulation~"

"..."

Rundstedt was momentarily speechless, and even Manstein couldn't help but interject.

"General, Major Rundstedt has a point... Your status isn't what it used to be. If something happens to you..."

"Listen to me, both of you."

Morin raised a hand to stop their objections. His tone turned utterly serious, stripped of any joking.

"This is the Armored Instruction Regiment's first real combat deployment. Major Weichs is capable, but he's only led this unit for barely two months... Letting him command a regiment plus an infantry battalion on a completely unfamiliar battlefield for their first fight... frankly, I'm not comfortable with that."

Morin looked at their conflicted expressions, paused, and continued, "Besides, if there's anyone in the Instruction Brigade better at fighting than me, I'll gladly sit in the rear... Is there?"

The two opened their mouths, but it was the "veteran" Manstein who finally spoke.

"Sir, you've used that excuse from Major all the way up to Major General. You say it every time..."

Morin: "Which just proves it's a tactic that has survived extensive combat testing, right?"

Manstein: "..."

There was truly no refuting that logic.

"Enough. The military situation is critical. Execute the orders."

Morin finalized the command, leaving no room for further argument. They could only listen as he finished issuing instructions.

"When the 3rd Infantry Battalion, Artillery Regiment, and remaining personnel and supplies arrive, Brigade HQ will assemble them at top speed and immediately march toward Rzhyshchiv to link up."

"Yes, General!"

Morin turned and walked toward the tent set up by his orderlies to fetch his "exclusive weapon."

While Rundstedt was still getting used to it, he realized that Morin, once shifted into combat mode, was exactly as Manstein had described—a completely different person from his everyday self.

Manstein suddenly remembered something and shouted at Morin's retreating back.

"General! The brigade aviation unit—"

"Right, right, right! Almost forgot in the rush... Contact them now! Have the alert aircraft take off immediately to scout the Rzhyshchiv sector!" Morin waved a hand without looking back.

"Understood!"

Before the Instruction Brigade even departed for the East, the brigade's aviation unit, having completed their transition to new aircraft, had arrived in Western Rus early by train. They were stationed at the same field airfield as the Eighth Army's aviation unit.

Normally, doing this wouldn't yield immediate reconnaissance reports. Standard procedure required waiting for the recon plane to return, developing the photographs, and compiling a formal report—a lengthy process.

But Morin was obviously not "normal." Having his subordinate aviation unit fly over the area was enough to dispel the "fog of war" and light up his system map's vision.

When the emergency deployment order reached the Armored Instruction Regiment, Major Weichs was squatting next to a half-track, watching a mechanic check the track tension.

Hearing the breathless messenger report the contents, he practically sprang up.

"What? The entire regiment rolls out immediately?"

"Yes, sir! General Morin ordered the entire Armored Instruction Regiment to board their vehicles and move south toward Rzhyshchiv at once! He will personally accompany the unit!"

Muscle memory allowed Major Weichs to take the order document from the messenger. But in the few seconds the messenger turned to leave, his brain spun frantically—We just finished a three-day march a few days ago, then spent nearly two days bouncing on trains. We just got off and started maintenance...

But his hesitation lasted only those few seconds.

"Pass my orders! Halt all maintenance immediately! All hands gather gear, board vehicles, and prepare to move out! Battalion and Company Commanders report to Regimental HQ for an emergency combat briefing at once!"

Orders cascaded down the chain of command. As the regiment's battalion and company commanders sprinted to the HQ tent to receive Major Weichs' combat deployment based on Morin's orders, the "fierce-looking" sergeants in every company roared.

"Alle Mann! Schnell aufsitzen! (All men! Quickly mount up!)"

The camp exploded into activity. Soldiers resting in their field tents practically launched out of their bedrolls, donning their personal gear in an instant.

Three or four men tackled the tents to unhook the guy lines, while others packed their squadmates' weapons and baggage into the armored vehicles.

In a minute or two, each squad's tent was rolled into a tight bundle and strapped to the rear hull of their respective half-tracks.

Squad leaders rapidly called roll, then led their men into the rear cabins.

"Squad 1, present!"

"Squad 2, present!"

"Squad 3, present!"

Major Weichs, as the regiment commander, was currently stressed to his absolute limits.

He never expected their first real combat to come so suddenly; he had never experienced this kind of operational tempo. He constantly verified fuel reserves, ammunition basic loads, and vehicle statuses with Hoth, Guderian, and others... He wished he could inspect every single vehicle himself.

On the other side of the camp, the Motorized Infantry Regiment's 1st Battalion reacted just as swiftly upon receiving orders.

This battalion was the Instruction Brigade's oldest foundational unit and possessed the highest level of training.

Within ten minutes of receiving the order, Battalion Commander Wolf completed roll call for the entire battalion. The platoons then methodically boarded their transport trucks with weapons and ammo.

Conversely, Kleist, currently at the Infantry Regiment's HQ, had a colorful reaction to the news.

"You're saying... the General is taking the Armored Regiment and rolling out? What about my Infantry Regiment?"

"Sir, the General's orders are for the 1st Battalion to accompany them. The 2nd and 3rd Battalions will follow once the subsequent trains arrive."

Kleist slapped his thigh hard. One of the main reasons he volunteered for the Infantry Regiment was to fight alongside Morin on the front lines. Look how that turned out.

"I knew I shouldn't have put the 2nd and 3rd Battalions on those rear trains! Great, now I miss the very first battle..."

He paced back and forth, finally throwing his hands up in frustration.

"Fine! Once the 3rd Battalion's train arrives, they are to assemble on the double as soon as they step off! If they're a minute late, Steiner is going to hear from me!"

Almost simultaneously, within the convoy of the Armored Regiment's 1st Battalion, the regimental operations officer, Guderian, was sprinting forward.

Regimental Adjutant Hoth chased after him, shouting, "Heinz, are you really going with the 1st Battalion?"

"Yes! Just like in training... I'm going to the front to see for myself!"

Guderian reached the 1st Battalion's command vehicle, first checking the Mauser C96 in his holster, then verifying nothing was left out of his map case. He spoke as he worked, "Someone needs to be on the frontline to observe with their own eyes. That's the only way to get immediate feedback from frontline troops and make timely judgments on the situation!"

"But this isn't an exercise!"

Hoth was still worried. Their shared passion for armored warfare had made them close friends.

"White Army artillery shells don't care if you're an operations officer."

Guderian hopped onto the rear step of a half-track command vehicle, looking back at Hoth with a grin.

"Don't worry, I'll keep my head down!"

"Tsk, you're truly insane!"

Hoth ground his teeth, standing in place. He said no more and turned, running back toward the regimental command vehicle.

From the moment the orders were issued to the first half-track rolling out of camp, the Instruction Brigade took exactly twenty minutes.

The Armored Instruction Regiment's various vehicles formed a column and sequentially rolled out of the temporary camp.

Following closely behind were the troop transports carrying the 1st Motorized Infantry Battalion and the Brigade Combat Engineer Company. Further back, about a dozen trucks carried the Thunder Warriors, already suited up in their "Mjölnir" armor.

Bringing up the rear were the auxiliary units: recovery vehicles, fuel tankers, and field kitchens.

Morin himself sat in the Armored Regiment's command vehicle, squeezed in with Major Weichs. It gave Weichs the distinct sensation of being a child watched over by a strict tutor...

The entire column crunched over the dirt roads outside the camp, speeding south.

The sight of hundreds of armored vehicles and trucks firing up and moving out in formation became the most spectacular scene across the entire Eighth Army HQ garrison.

Senior officers in the camp, and even the Western Rus officers who hadn't yet departed, stopped in their tracks, looking toward the Instruction Brigade's encampment.

Alekseyev stood on an elevation, quietly watching the entire emergency deployment process from start to finish. The two Rus officers behind him exchanged bewildered looks.

"General... that elite Saxon unit seems to be scrambling?"

"I have eyes."

Alekseyev watched the long dragon of steel and dust grow distant. It hadn't even been an hour since the meeting ended.

From the end of the meeting to the force moving out... with that reaction speed, any unit in the Western Rus National Army would still be trying to pass down the orders.

"Perhaps..." he muttered softly, almost to himself. "The nature of warfare truly is changing."

An officer beside him quickly asked, "General, should we adjust our southern deployments to coordinate with them?"

Alekseyev slowly shook his head.

"No rush. Let's see the results of their first engagement... If it goes as that young Major General claims, there will be plenty of time to adjust then."

"Words are wind until proven on the battlefield."

He turned and walked away, leaving the two officers to stare at the departing convoy for a long time.

Less than two kilometers from the Instruction Brigade's camp, the shrill ring of a telephone shattered the afternoon calm at the Eighth Army's field airfield.

In the duty room, a lieutenant lounging in a chair and flipping through outdated domestic newspapers scrambled to toss the paper aside and grabbed the receiver.

"Field Airfield Duty Room."

The voice on the other end was fast and urgent.

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Manstein, Operations Officer of the Imperial Guard Assault Instruction Brigade. Connect me to the brigade's direct-reporting aviation unit... right now, immediately!"

The lieutenant slammed the phone down and sprinted out of the duty room, taking the steps two at a time toward the aviation unit's tents.

Though the brigade's aviation unit shared the airfield with the Eighth Army's unit, their billeting areas were separate, roughly a hundred meters apart.

When the aviation duty officer ran over and grabbed the phone, Manstein rattled off the combat authentication code.

"Pork knuckles with beer!"

"The more you eat, the more you have!"

"Code verified... your orders, sir."

"Orders... The alert aircraft is to take off immediately for a combat recon mission toward Rzhyshchiv! Focus specifically on the enemy and friendly dispositions on both sides of the riverbank."

"Understood!"

The duty officer slammed the phone down, already bolting out of the tent.

Having integrated into Morin's Instruction Brigade for quite a while, the aviation ground crews and pilots had developed pure muscle memory for the words "emergency scramble."

Inside the alert pilots' tent, Manfred von Richthofen sat in his chair, sketching something in a small notebook with a pencil.

Opposite him, Immelmann sat on a folding chair, flipping through the flight logs from the past few days.

The two were discussing a coordination error during a recent formation flight drill.

"I think you should have banked left back there..."

"Emergency mission! Emergency mission! Alert aircraft launch!"

The chat was abruptly cut off.

Richthofen tossed his notebook onto his cot, snatched his flight cap and goggles from a tent pole, and burst out the flap alongside Immelmann.

The two sprinted toward their respective Fokker E.Is. The new combat aircraft sat in their revetments at the edge of the airfield. Their fabric skin paint was still fresh, and their propeller blades gleamed in the light.

The ground crews were already pulling the chocks.

"What heading?" Richthofen yelled at the duty officer as he ran.

"South! Rzhyshchiv!"

Richthofen vaulted into the cockpit, his fingers flying through the pre-flight checks... Fuel, water temp, airspeed indicator zeroed. He flashed a thumbs-up to the crew chief ahead.

"Contact!"

The propeller spun, the engine coughed twice, then settled into a steady hum, spitting a puff of black smoke from the exhaust.

Richthofen released the brakes. The Fokker E.I bounced down the grass runway, accelerating until it broke contact with the earth.

Immelmann's plane followed closely behind. The two merged formation over the airfield and banked south.

Unlike the Balkan campaign, which focused heavily on ground reconnaissance and attack, the aviation unit's deployment to the Eastern Front required heightened aerial vigilance.

The Russians had begun using aircraft for missions early in the civil war. With the White Army commandeering most of the old Empire's early planes, aerial reconnaissance by their aircraft was a common sight.

After Brusilov assumed command, White Army aircraft appeared even more frequently. The veteran general's appreciation and employment of aviation and artillery far surpassed most commanders in this world.

Therefore, on their first day arriving at this field airfield, the Eighth Army pilots warned them to watch out for Russian "aerial dogfighting."

The world below unfolded beneath their cockpits. First the tents and barbed wire of HQ, then vast, empty farmlands and sparse copses.

Flying south for mere minutes, Richthofen spotted a long snake speeding along the highway—the Instruction Brigade's armored column.

The exhaust from the half-tracks' radiant crystal engines left a grayish-white trail in the air. The convoy stretched for several kilometers, moving noticeably faster than during their domestic marches.

Richthofen dipped low and waggled his wings in greeting, then pulled up and continued south. Immelmann trailed about two hundred meters to his right rear, maintaining an intuitive spacing.

Just as Richthofen's plane overflew the armored column, Morin, sitting in the rear cabin of the Armored Regiment's command vehicle, noticed the two silhouettes passing overhead.

"Our planes."

Morin glanced up through the open roof hatch, then ducked back down, fixing his eyes on the system map in his mind.

Two markers representing friendly aviation units moved rapidly south across the map. Wherever they passed, the gray areas—the "fog of war"—were swiftly dispelled.

Major Weichs sat opposite Morin. Though he appeared to be studying the operational map, his attention was clearly glued to the General.

The Armored Regiment commander was undeniably nervous... What pressured him most was Morin sitting right in his vehicle, as if strictly observing his performance.

"Major Weichs."

"Here!"

"Relax," Morin said casually. "In a frontal engagement, the Armored Regiment holds a crushing advantage against infantry... Your job today is to ensure the speed and direction of the column's deployment are flawless. I will dictate the timing of the attack."

"Understood, General." Weichs swallowed hard, forcing his breathing to slow.

Morin said nothing more, redirecting his focus to the system map.

As the two recon planes pushed deeper, the illuminated area on the map grew larger. Nearly half an hour later, the riverbanks around Rzhyshchiv finally emerged from the fog.

Morin's pupils abruptly constricted. Two red enemy unit markers had appeared on the west bank of the Dnieper River.

The river was relatively narrow at both points, and the west bank sloped gently—indeed, perfect locations for a forced crossing.

In the illuminated area on the far bank, Morin saw a dense cluster of red markers. That was Denikin's main force.

He also noted several red units marked as "Artillery." Their deployment perfectly covered the two bridgeheads, meaning White Army guns could lay down covering fire for the crossing forces directly from the east bank.

Green markers representing friendly forces surrounded both bridgeheads, locked in an "Engaged" status with the red markers.

"Rzhyshchiv," Morin muttered to himself. He grabbed a pencil and quickly marked two points on the paper map before him.

Major Weichs leaned over, puzzled by the two specific locations Morin had pinpointed.

"General?"

"I suspect the enemy has likely crossed and landed here and here." Morin tapped the two points with his pencil tip. "The scale probably isn't massive yet, but they've secured a foothold on the west bank."

"How did you... We haven't even received a recon report yet..."

"I studied the terrain around Rzhyshchiv," Morin lied smoothly. "These are the only two spots where the river is narrow and the west bank is flat. If Denikin forces a crossing, he'll only pick these two points."

Major Weichs' mouth hung open slightly. Confronted with Morin's razor-sharp, almost "prophetic" situational analysis, Weichs didn't know what to say.

But he quickly recalled the advice given by "veterans" like Kleist and Manstein: If General Morin analyzes the situation, building a tactic based on his analysis is guaranteed to be correct. If General Morin issues a direct order, just execute it unconditionally.

Although Weichs didn't know where the veterans' blind faith in Morin came from, the current situation left no room for overthinking. He immediately acknowledged the order.

"We'll hit the southern one first." Morin circled the point with his pencil. "This bridgehead is closer to our line of march. Furthermore, based on the topography, there is a low dirt ridge we can exploit..."

"Understood." Major Weichs memorized the location and began mentally calculating the intricate details of deploying his forces.

Morin leaned back, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his thigh.

At their current speed, they would reach the outskirts of Rzhyshchiv in about two hours.

At that point, the Armored Regiment would transition directly from a marching column into an attack formation... They had drilled this exact maneuver during the domestic march. Though that was practice, the procedure remained identical.

As Morin pondered the tactical details, the system map suddenly flashed.

Above Rzhyshchiv, two new red markers appeared.

Enemy aviation units.

Above Rzhyshchiv, altitude twelve hundred meters.

Richthofen pushed his goggles up and looked down.

The Dnieper River wound from north to south, glinting with a leaden sheen in the light.

On the west bank near the water, gunsmoke billowed from multiple locations.

Richthofen nudged the stick, banking the plane slightly for a better view.

He saw an area on the bank blanketed in dense craters, with haphazardly constructed temporary defenses scattered about.

Further out, friendly infantry fired toward the river from their trenches.

Facing their fire, in a depression about three or four hundred meters from the shoreline, soldiers in dark uniforms returned fire from dirt pits and makeshift covers.

That was the White Army bridgehead.

Richthofen flew further south and, sure enough, spotted a second, similar scene three kilometers away.

The fighting there looked more intense. Friendly forces appeared to be organizing a counterattack, but from the air, the results looked poor.

He was about to circle around for a closer look when something caught his peripheral vision.

In the sky across the river, two black dots were rapidly approaching... Coming from that direction, they could only be White Army aircraft.

Richthofen's heartbeat spiked. He immediately signaled Immelmann flying off his left wing, pointing his right index finger at the eastern sky, then pumping a fist upward twice.

Enemy aircraft. Two.

Immelmann caught the signal, glanced in that direction, and flashed a "copy" gesture back.

The incoming aircraft weren't incredibly fast. Their silhouettes resembled monoplanes, but noticeably larger than the Fokker E.I.

However, even with the relatively slow speeds of this era's aircraft, the distance between them closed drastically in a head-on merge.

Richthofen assessed the situation.

They had a speed advantage. The Fokker E.I was theoretically much nimbler than the hastily developed planes of other nations, and its synchronized machine gun fired straight ahead through the propeller.

Two enemies, two of them. One-on-one...

Before he could finish his thought, the White Army formation split.

One headed for Richthofen, the other for Immelmann.

Realizing this, the two Saxon pilots smoothly separated, each turning to meet their respective opponent.

Richthofen pushed the stick forward slightly, dipping the nose to build speed. His index finger rested on the firing trigger, ready to shoot the moment he entered effective range.

However, what happened next completely defied his expectations.

As the distance closed to roughly two hundred meters, the White Army plane made no evasive maneuvers. Instead, it violently pitched its nose down and charged straight at him at a ludicrous angle.

The enemy wasn't aiming to shoot. They were trying to ram him with their airframe.

"!"

At the very last second, Richthofen violently jammed the stick forward. The nose pitched down hard, and the entire Fokker E.I practically scraped past the White Army plane's belly in a steep dive.

The roar of engines and howling wind blasted his ears, and he felt severe turbulence wash over his canopy.

In that split-second merge, Richthofen caught a glimpse of something... Affixed to the tips of the White Army plane's left and right wings were forward-extending metal poles, each tipped with a terrifyingly sharp, curved blade.

Richthofen gasped. So this is what the Eighth Army pilots meant by Russian "dogfighting"... literal physical combat!

He cursed inside the cockpit and violently yanked the stick back to level out.

The engine roared, hauling the plane out of the dive. Richthofen cranked his neck to find the White Army plane...

The enemy was climbing, preparing for a second pass.

On the other side, Immelmann was locked in a similarly harrowing close-quarters dogfight.

The second White Army plane employed the same near-suicidal head-on tactic. Immelmann broke right into a sharp turn, and the enemy's wingtip blade slashed past a mere few meters from his left side.

If he had reacted a fraction of a second slower, his entire left wing would have been severed.

"Fucking lunatics..." Immelmann gripped the stick, his palms slick with sweat.

After the brief initial merge, both pairs of aircraft gained separation, then almost simultaneously began turning, seeking their next approach.