Chapter 552: Long Time No See, Tova... Do Svidaniya

After the battle concluded and Western Rus allied forces took over the positions, the battalions of the Armored Instruction Regiment regrouped and began their withdrawal according to combat regulations.

Fuel and ammunition trucks arrived at designated staging areas. They moved down the line, refueling the half-tracks with radiant crystal fuel and replenishing the ordnance spent during the engagement.

When it came to ammunition consumption, both the vehicular light machine guns and the 50mm "RAK15" rapid-fire anti-armor guns were absolute gluttons.

Since this was their first live combat engagement, the gunners laid down incredibly heavy suppressive fire, chewing through much more ammunition than initially projected.

Officers of the Armored Instruction Regiment moved between the companies with clipboards. At every vehicle, they would look up and ask, "Any major mechanical issues?" Only after the vehicle commander shook his head would they check a box and move on to the next.

Standing near the temporary command post, Morin verified the estimated arrival times of the rear echelon units with Manstein. He planned to cable Rundstedt to apply some pressure and hurry them along.

With Denikin’s 140,000 men massed across the river, Morin still worried the enemy might leverage their sheer numbers to force a crossing.

Meanwhile, a cavalry squad dispatched from within Rzhyshchiv followed the rutted dirt tracks straight toward the Armored Instruction Regiment’s position.

The outer perimeter reacted instantly. Two Sd.Kfz 100 armored reconnaissance vehicles, previously concealed behind bushes under camouflage netting, roared to life. They charged onto the dirt road, blocking the path and training their machine guns on the approaching riders.

The accompanying infantry squad burst from cover, fanning out into a standard combat formation.

Seeing this hyper-vigilant defensive posture, the riders prudently halted a hundred meters away.

They reigned in their horses and signaled their peaceful intent. One of the riders shouted in heavily accented Saxon, "Friendly forces! We are liaison officers from the Western Rus National Army!"

Verification was swift. After an outpost check of their credentials, a sergeant and a squad of Instruction Brigade soldiers escorted them inside the perimeter.

Morin quickly noticed the four men, all wearing the standard uniform of the Western Rus National Army.

A middle-aged officer in his mid-thirties led the group, followed by a young man barely in his twenties, and two regular soldiers bringing up the rear.

As they walked, the young officer muttered in Russian, "These Saxons are way too on edge. Halting and cross-examining friendly forces for this long..."

The older officer didn't even turn his head, replying flatly, "That's not being on edge. That's a forward sentry post."

The young man scoffed. "Here you go again."

"Standard forward outpost deployment for the old Imperial Army. Distance from the main line or camp is dictated by terrain. Round-the-clock watch, mandatory cross-examination of all unidentified personnel—"

"Alright, alright!"

The young officer cut him off, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I just made a passing comment. Can you stop comparing how professional the old Imperial Army was to our ragtag operation every single time?"

The older officer finally glanced back at him in silence, but his 'Am I wrong?' expression spoke volumes.

The soldiers led the two officers to the temporary command post.

As Morin prepared to step forward and greet them, his peripheral vision caught movement. Major Klose and his four subordinates, who had been resting nearby, shot up from the ground the moment they laid eyes on the Western Rus uniforms.

The five "black coats" quietly shifted closer to Morin, acting as vigilant overseers bracing for a grave threat.

Morin glanced at them, marveling at how quickly they slipped into character. Their reaction time rivaled the Instruction Brigade's emergency combat deployment.

He didn't say a word. Everyone knew exactly why they were here.

"Greetings," Morin said in Saxon.

The middle-aged officer immediately stepped forward and saluted.

"General Morin, I am Major Grishin, liaison staff for the Rzhyshchiv garrison." He gestured to the young man behind him. "This is my adjutant, Lieutenant Primakov."

They shook hands and exchanged brief pleasantries.

Major Grishin relayed that General Yegorov, the garrison commander in Rzhyshchiv, had already received word of the Saxon reinforcements arriving and neutralizing the bridgehead threats.

"General Yegorov asked me to convey his deepest gratitude."

Though his Saxon carried a distinct accent, Grishin, a former Imperial Army officer, spoke fluently. "He also invites you to his headquarters inside the city to discuss further defensive deployments face-to-face."

"Of course," Morin nodded. "I was planning to consult with you as well."

"Additionally, General..."

Grishin added, glancing at the temporary camp of half-tracks and trucks surrounding them.

"General Yegorov insists that your unit rests inside the city limits. We have cleared a large area on the outskirts perfectly suited for your vehicles. Making allied troops camp out in the wilderness... we simply couldn't bear it."

Morin nodded his thanks.

Their entire exchange remained strictly professional and courteous from start to finish, giving the military inquisitors absolutely nothing to nitpick.

After Major Grishin departed, Morin ordered the brigade to relocate to the Rzhyshchiv urban zone.

As the reorganized forces hit the road, Manstein squeezed into the rear cabin of Major Weichs’ armored command vehicle.

The cabin grew cramped, the three men's knees nearly knocking together.

"General, I don't understand something," Manstein spoke up once the engine roared to life.

"I can guess what you want to ask. Go ahead."

"I simply do not understand the Imperial high command's actions."

Manstein frowned, speaking rapidly. "When you intervened in the Kingdom of Aragon's civil war, the Empire actively helped the Western Rus form the International Brigades... We supplied massive amounts of weaponry and gear... And now? They treat these same people like a plague."

He gestured toward the outside.

"Sending inquisitors to spy on us, terrified we'll be 'corrupted' by our allies... It's too contradictory."

Weichs, who had sat quietly awaiting orders, finally chimed in.

"I've heard about the International Brigades... The Eastern Europa Brigade definitely had many communists in its ranks... But ultimately, the Empire permitted or even pushed for its creation."

Weichs shook his head. "Now they flip-flop faster than turning a page."

Morin listened to their complaints in silence as the vehicle swayed over the rough terrain, the engine noise filling the cabin.

"It's nothing surprising."

Morin finally spoke, carefully framing his evaluation. "You have to realize that the Empire is not a monolith. The faction that supported aiding Western Rus is completely different from the faction terrified of importing their 'dangerous ideologies' back home."

"Both factions influence the Emperor, creating this illusion of the left hand fighting the right."

"So His Majesty just lets these two factions infight recklessly?" Manstein asked.

"Wrong. You think His Majesty is caught in the middle... but actually, cough... keep this between us..."

Morin paused, leaning in closer. "His Majesty reaps all the benefits. He balances both factions, ensuring neither can destroy the other, and extracts exactly what he wants from their stalemate."

"The Aragon civil war and the International Brigades are perfect examples."

"He boosted the Imperial Diet's left-wing to rebalance the political scales, influenced the Aragon civil war to thwart Britannian hegemony, and tightly bound the Western Rus Provisional Government to the Empire to guard our 'western gate'..."

Manstein opened his mouth to reply, but Morin cut him off.

"Honestly, we shouldn't worry about this."

"General—"

"The military is an instrument of violence. It's best to stay out of politics."

Morin patted Manstein's knee. "Our job is to follow orders and win battles. Leave the labyrinthine politics alone. If the sky falls, I'm tall enough to hold it up."

Manstein and Weichs nodded, dropping the subject.

But Manstein couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't that simple. Having served under Morin for a while, he had absorbed his philosophies and observed his actions.

Morin didn't act like a man bound by rigid regulations. He possessed an intangible quality entirely absent in anyone raised within the traditional Imperial officer corps.

Manstein couldn't define what it was, but he chose not to dig deeper. Some things were above his paygrade, and he was content to follow orders and let his commander shoulder the burden.

The convoy rolled south, and Rzhyshchiv's silhouette slowly sharpened.

It was a small settlement—more of a riverside town than a true city. Low wooden houses and a few brick buildings flanked the main roads. Only the town center boasted complex structures, capped by the onion dome of an Orthodox church serving as its sole landmark.

To Morin's surprise, crowds lined the streets as the convoy entered the town limits.

Men, women, and children in drab homespun clothes craned their necks to watch the passing vehicles. Though they lacked flowers, their enthusiastic waves made their gratitude obvious.

"It seems the garrison informed the civilians of our identity," Weichs said, peering out the roof hatch.

A wrinkled old farmer pointed at the half-tracks rolling past, turning to the person next to him.

"Look, the front and back wheels on that thing are different!"

"Are the Saxons bringing tractors to a war?"

Morin barely stifled a laugh.

Alongside the welcoming civilians, Morin noticed several field medical stations and large mess tents billowing white smoke. The savory aroma wafted down the street.

Civilian women helped out at these stations, changing bandages for the wounded and feeding firewood under massive iron pots.

Morin analyzed the scene: civil-military relations here were rock solid. The locals willingly aided the defenders, proving the garrison commander knew how to manage his troops effectively.

The convoy reached the designated camp—a large, open expanse in the northwest corner of town, perfectly suited for vehicle parking.

Morin vaulted out of the command vehicle, ordered Weichs to manage the camp setup, and waved to Manstein.

"Let's go meet this General Yegorov."

Major Grishin waited at the camp entrance to guide them.

Just as Morin stepped off, footsteps echoed behind him. Major Klose and a deputy followed silently in their black coats.

Morin glanced back but made no move to stop them.

As they walked the main road toward the garrison headquarters, Klose hurried to Manstein's side, whispering, "Colonel Manstein... Even if they are allies, shouldn't General Morin bring a security detail if it's just the few of us?"

Manstein looked at Klose with sheer disbelief.

"Major Klose, do you know who is walking in front of us?"

"...Major General Morin."

"Then who do you think needs protecting here?"

Manstein sped up, walking away without waiting for a reply.

Klose opened his mouth, suddenly realizing how monumentally stupid his question was. This was the Empire's sole frontline spellcaster, an "Imperial Hero" draped in titles.

The "Kingslayer" of the Balkans hardly needed bodyguards. He had severely overthought the situation.

Morin heard the exchange and smirked.

At least for now, Major Klose seemed easy enough to handle. He lacked guile and possessed a certain dense charm. Morin wondered how he ever made it to Major.

The garrison headquarters occupied a two-story brick building in the town center, likely a former town hall or administrative center.

Major Grishin led them down a narrow corridor to a spacious room on the second floor.

A large composite wooden table dominated the room. Maps of various scales hung on the walls, plastered with red and blue marker lines.

Staff officers murmured around the table, turning as Morin's group entered.

The man sitting at the head of the table stood up.

Alexander Ilyich Yegorov.

Grishin had introduced him earlier, and surprisingly, he was a famous historical figure.

Sturdy, sporting a neatly trimmed beard, he wore the standard Western Rus National Army uniform without a cap. A fresh bandage wrapped his left arm.

As Morin observed him, he quickly searched his memories.

Yegorov... In Morin's original timeline, this man became a Marshal of the Soviet Union. In this altered world, with the Bolsheviks crippled by assassinations, Yegorov remained a member of the Socialist Revolutionary Party.

But regardless of the shifting timeline, a man of his caliber was highly competent.

"General Morin." Yegorov stepped around the table, extending a hand.

"General Yegorov." Morin met his grip.

They shook hands firmly, maintaining a friendly demeanor.

"I received the telegram from Kyiv and knew your forces were en route."

Yegorov's Saxon was less fluent than Grishin's, but perfectly functional. "But honestly... I didn't expect you to arrive this fast."

He released Morin's hand. "And I certainly didn't expect you to solve my biggest headache in under an hour."

Morin smiled. "Favorable timing, nothing more. The White Army vanguard lacked numbers and time to fortify their bridgeheads, and you kept them under constant pressure. If we arrived two days later and let them dig in, it wouldn't have been this easy."

"It wasn't timing."

Yegorov flatly rejected Morin's humility. "My men watched the entire battle. With your armored vehicles coordinating with infantry like that, even the sturdiest White Army defenses wouldn't have mattered!"

Morin didn't boast, merely nodding in thanks before pivoting to business.

"General Yegorov, Denikin won't stop because he lost two battalions. I estimate he will launch a massive river crossing offensive within two or three days."

Yegorov grew serious, instantly shifting into commander mode. He guided Morin to the large map on the wall.

"Coincidentally, I share that assessment."

He tapped the Rzhyshchiv sector of the Dnieper River.

"He has over a hundred thousand men across the river. My two divisions total thirty-four thousand men, but only about seventy percent are combat-ready."

Morin studied the map. The defenders had fewer effectives than he anticipated. Without the Dnieper acting as a natural barrier against 140,000 men, they would have been flattened long ago.

"Currently, only my advance battlegroup has reached Rzhyshchiv," Morin stated truthfully, hiding nothing.

"The rest of the infantry and artillery regiments will arrive over the next two days. Once fully assembled, I will have roughly twelve thousand men."

"Twelve thousand? Aren't you a brigade?" Yegorov raised an eyebrow.

"Ah... my brigade is slightly oversized..."

Yegorov didn't press the organizational quirks. He had seen the "advance force" fight. If the rest of the 12,000-strong brigade fought like that, their true combat value was immense.

"Together, we have about forty-five thousand men," Morin calculated. "The numerical gap against the White Army is still massive."

"It will be a brutal fight," Yegorov admitted bluntly.

"Indeed," Morin agreed. "But I have good news."

"Oh?"

"An armored airship carrying a contingent of Armored Knights is currently en route from the rear. Once it parks over the Dnieper, Denikin won't easily row his men across, no matter how many troops he has."

Yegorov had heard rumors of these Saxon war behemoths but remained skeptical.

"When will this airship arrive?"

"Two days, conservatively," Morin estimated. "If Denikin attacks before then, we hold the line with what we have."

Yegorov nodded. Though doubtful of the airship's true impact, the young general's logic was flawless. And given the recent victory, Morin's promise to "hold the line" carried significant weight.

Morin then brought up the Cossack cavalry brigade.

Yegorov waved it off, noting they were only good for cavalry charges. Using them as static infantry on the riverbank was a waste, so he had relegated them to the rear as a second echelon.

"Good," Morin said.

They rapidly finalized communication protocols, fire support coordination, and intelligence sharing.

Standing behind Morin, Major Klose listened intently, hanging on every word. But from start to finish, the two commanders discussed pure military strategy—he couldn't find a single "inappropriate remark."

As the business concluded, Yegorov looked at Morin, his tone lightening.

"General Morin, pardon my intrusion... Did you fight in the Kingdom of Aragon's civil war?"

Behind Morin, Major Klose physically tensed.

"I did," Morin answered openly. "How did you know?"

Yegorov gestured with his hands. "The telegram from Kyiv mentioned your name. Several of my officers fought in Aragon and shared stories of their time there. They frequently mentioned a Saxon officer... Friedrich Morin."

Morin's expression shifted, a sudden realization hitting him.

"They remember me?"

Yegorov offered a meaningful smile and waved at the door. "Send Andrei in."

The door opened. The man who walked in was heavier than Morin remembered, but his thick, bushy beard remained identical.

Andrei Nikolayevich Savitsky.

Former Commander of the 1st Battalion, 2nd Regiment, Eastern Europa Brigade of the International Brigades. His comrades knew him simply as "Bearded Andrei."

During Morin's early days in Sevilla, this man led international volunteers alongside him in brutal, bloody battles. Morin vividly remembered assaulting Sevilla and running into the elite Northumberland Fusiliers; Bearded Andrei charged in to join Morin in vicious hand-to-hand combat.

Seeing Morin, Andrei flashed a wide, toothy grin beneath his thick beard.

However, recognizing Morin's current rank, he hesitated, unsure if a casual greeting was still appropriate.

Morin smiled, experiencing an unexpected surge of emotion.

Seeing an old comrade in this unfamiliar warzone, enveloped by artillery fire... words couldn't describe the feeling.

He stepped forward and extended his hand.

Andrei's grip was thicker and just as unreasonably strong as he remembered.

Instinctively, Morin spoke in fluent Russian. "Long time no see, Tova..."

The word 'Tovarishch' (Comrade) danced on his tongue when he felt eyes burning into the back of his head. Two pairs of eyes, to be exact.

Major Klose and his deputy's presence felt overwhelmingly intense in that split second.

Alarms blared in Morin's head.

"...Do Svidaniya." (Goodbye).

Andrei froze.

He only knew a few Saxon words, but he certainly hadn't forgotten his native tongue.

"Do Svidaniya? That means 'goodbye'... Hah! Morin, your Russian has gotten rusty!" Andrei laughed in Russian, clearly confused.

But he quickly noticed the two black coats behind Morin. Andrei was rugged, not stupid. From his time collaborating with the Saxon Army, he understood their internal dynamics perfectly.

He easily guessed the purpose of the stern-faced men wearing eagle-claw badges.

Andrei's smile widened. He suppressed the urge to bear-hug Morin, settling for a vigorous handshake.

Yegorov watched the reunion with interest, interjecting, "Andrei told me repeatedly about a young, incredibly fierce Saxon officer he met in Aragon."

"Fierce is an understatement! This guy back then..."

Before Andrei could launch into a war story, Morin cut him off in Russian.

"Old friend, we have plenty of time to reminisce about the battlefield later."

Morin spoke while glancing at Major Klose from the corner of his eye. Klose stood rigidly, clearly committing everything to memory, even if he couldn't fully translate the Russian.

Andrei caught the hint and dropped the stories, though his joy remained undiminished.

"Fine, we won't talk about the past." He patted Morin's arm heavily. "Either way, with you here, we feel secure."

They briefly discussed enemy dispositions and troop deployments. Bearded Andrei currently commanded an infantry regiment holding a two-kilometer sector east of town.

"Where is your sector?" Morin pointed at the map.

Andrei traced a line roughly a kilometer north of the southern bridgehead. "From here to here..."

After finalizing the overarching defensive scheme, Morin and his team departed, bidding Yegorov farewell.

As they walked back to camp, Major Klose finally broke his silence.

"General Morin."

"Yes?"

"Did you... know that National Army officer back in Aragon?"

"Yes," Morin replied flatly.

"The Empire dispatched my unit to support the International Brigades. The War Ministry holds the complete records of that deployment. If you are interested, Major Klose, you are free to request the files."

Klose's mouth twitched, wanting to ask more, but he ultimately just nodded.

"Understood."

Morin didn't look at him again and kept walking forward.