Chapter 533: Electroshock and White Feathers, Everyone Has a Bright Future

Upon returning to the garrison, Morin had the communications room connect him to the Imperial Army Central Hospital's internal line.

The person who answered was a second lieutenant responsible for external liaisons. His tone, initially routine and businesslike, noticeably spiked half an octave upon hearing the caller's identity.

"Wait... You are Colonel Morin?"

"Yes. Minister Falkenhayn hopes our instruction unit can also observe Dr. Kaufmann's presentation on 'psychological trauma treatment for frontline soldiers'... Is tomorrow convenient?"

The line was silent for two seconds, followed by the muffled thud of a chair hitting a desk leg.

"Con... Convenient! Of course it's convenient! Dr. Kaufmann happens to have a presentation scheduled for tomorrow afternoon! Rest assured, Colonel, sir, I will go confirm the exact time with the Director right now!"

"Alright, tomorrow afternoon it is."

Meanwhile, at the Imperial Army Central Hospital, the liaison second lieutenant practically skipped and ran out of the communications room. He dashed down the corridor, slammed on the brakes in front of the Director's office on the third floor, took a deep breath, and finally raised his hand to knock.

"Tch, come in..."

The response from inside sounded rather annoyed, indicating the Director was clearly busy, but the second lieutenant pushed the door open anyway.

Director Frank Dreiser sat behind his desk. In the chair opposite him sat a lean, middle-aged man wearing glasses—Dr. Kaufmann himself. The two were obviously discussing something.

"What is it?" Director Dreiser looked up, displeased.

"Director, sir! I just received a call. Colonel Morin, Commander of the Imperial Guards Assault Instruction Unit, wishes to come observe Dr. Kaufmann's presentation tomorrow afternoon!"

The reaction of the two men in the office was even more exaggerated than the second lieutenant anticipated.

Director Dreiser stood straight up from his chair, his mouth opening and closing before he could make a sound: "Who did you say?!"

"Colonel Friedrich von Morin! He said Minister Falkenhayn asked him to come!"

Director Dreiser's expression cycled rapidly from surprise to ecstasy.

He turned to look at Dr. Kaufmann. The latter was also adjusting his posture, the expression behind his lenses becoming somewhat complex... a mix of feeling flattered and a subtle nervousness.

"Dr. Kaufmann."

Director Dreiser's tone suddenly became very serious.

"There can be no mistakes during tomorrow's presentation."

"Rest assured, Director. The situation last time... was due to some deviation in the selection of the subject. I have already pre-screened the subject for tomorrow's demonstration. The selected subject's reaction will be typical and relatively easy to control."

Dr. Kaufmann also stood up, pushed his glasses up, bowed slightly, and said, "Furthermore, since this new therapy is still in the exploratory phase, some unexpected incidents are actually—"

"I know," Director Dreiser interrupted him.

He walked around to the front of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Unexpected incidents are fine in the laboratory, but do not let them happen during a public presentation... You should understand this principle better than I do."

Dr. Kaufmann fell silent for a moment, then nodded: "Understood."

"Good."

Dreiser paced back and forth in the office twice, his mind clearly racing.

Finally, he stopped and looked up at the liaison second lieutenant still standing frozen in the doorway.

"Release the news that Colonel Morin is coming tomorrow."

The second lieutenant was stunned for a moment: "Release the news? To whom?"

"The Office of the Surgeon General, the people at the Ministry of Health, several members of the Imperial Diet (Reichstag)'s Health Committee... and Mr. Herzog!"

"Make absolutely sure they know that the Empire's youngest 'War Hero' is coming to observe our presentation tomorrow."

He then looked back at Dr. Kaufmann.

"With Colonel Morin present, those people will be willing to come join the spectacle... And as long as they come and see your results—"

"Then large-scale promotion afterward won't be a problem," Dr. Kaufmann finished the sentence, visibly growing somewhat excited.

"Exactly."

Director Dreiser patted Dr. Kaufmann's shoulder in satisfaction.

"Prepare well... This is a rare opportunity."

The next afternoon.

Morin had Manstein accompany him to the Imperial Army Central Hospital.

When the staff car pulled up to the main entrance, people were already waiting outside.

The welcoming committee included not just the liaison second lieutenant from the phone call yesterday, but also several hospital executives in white coats. This level of pageantry made Morin somewhat uncomfortable.

Morin and Manstein followed them through several corridors, finally stopping before a large room on the second floor of the east wing.

The moment they pushed the door open, the two felt something was off.

The room was quite large and divided into two spaces by a row of thick, heavy iron bars extending from the floor to the ceiling.

The side near the door was arranged with chairs and simply decorated, while the other side was open and sparse, housing some medical equipment whose purpose Morin couldn't immediately identify.

But what made Morin frown wasn't the setup, but the people inside the room.

There were far more people present today than Morin expected. Including him and Manstein, there were over twenty people, but only about seven or eight wore military uniforms. The rest...

There were a few middle-aged men in meticulously tailored three-piece suits, wearing Imperial Diet brooches on their lapels.

There were also several wealthy merchants whose clothes were clearly made of expensive materials; Morin had even seen two of them at previous banquets.

"Is this a results presentation or a social gathering...?"

Morin turned his head and exchanged a look with Manstein. The latter shook his head slightly, his expression also somewhat unreadable.

No sooner had the two walked in and found a place to stand than the people around them began to gravitate their way.

First, a few military officers he recognized came over to greet him. Morin didn't mind these people—except for two guys whose collar tabs indicated they were from the Army's censorship department.

But immediately following them, the people who had nothing to do with the military or medicine also started sidling up to him.

"Colonel Morin! I've heard so much about you! I am from Herzog Pharmaceuticals..."

"Colonel, sir, I am a member of the Imperial Diet's Health Committee. It's a great pleasure to meet you here..."

"Colonel, sir! I didn't get a chance to speak with you at the banquet last time—"

Morin wore a polite smile, handling these people one by one, but the feeling of being treated like a "mascot" was truly unpleasant.

He even began to doubt what these people were actually here to observe...

Fortunately, this uncomfortable socializing didn't last too long.

The sound of a door opening came from the other side of the iron bars, and several people in white coats filed in. Leading them was a tall, thin middle-aged man.

Round black glasses, a gaunt face, and a military uniform peeking out from under his white coat... The quintessential image of a Saxon "mad scientist."

The chatter in the room quickly died down, and everyone's attention shifted to the other side of the bars.

After stopping, the middle-aged man first swept his gaze over the faces in the observation room. Upon seeing Morin, the corners of his mouth ticked up slightly before he spoke.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Fritz Kaufmann, Chief Physician of the Neurology Department at the Imperial Army Central Hospital."

"Thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend... The purpose of inviting you here today is to demonstrate our team's latest progress in the field of 'psychological trauma treatment for frontline soldiers'."

At this point, Dr. Kaufmann specifically bowed toward a certain direction in the back row of the observation room.

"Special thanks must also be given to Mr. Herzog for his generous sponsorship. It is precisely these funds that allowed us to accelerate our research and achieve preliminary results."

The named wealthy merchant in the back row offered a polite smile, while the people around him shot him approving glances, initiating a round of "mutual commercial flattery."

On the other side of the iron bars, Dr. Kaufmann continued, "Since the outbreak of the Great War, wounded soldiers have continuously been sent back from the front lines... A significant portion of them have no visible physical trauma, yet exhibit symptoms such as full-body tremors, blindness, deafness, and even limb paralysis."

"Conventional surgical and medical treatments have proven highly ineffective against these symptoms."

He paused and pushed up his glasses.

"After research and demonstration by multiple psychiatric experts in the Empire, we believe this is a symptom of 'male hysteria' caused by psychological factors... The emergence of such symptoms indicates the patient experienced severe fear on the battlefield, which is a clear manifestation of a defect in willpower."

When these words were spoken, Morin's body visibly tensed, and Manstein beside him turned to look at him.

But Dr. Kaufmann kept speaking. His pace was unhurried, but his academic report-style tone made his words sound exceptionally obscure and difficult to understand.

"In other words... the fundamental reason these soldiers exhibit the aforementioned symptoms is that they lack sufficient mental fortitude to endure battlefield stress... From a military perspective, this is a somatization of 'cowardice'."

(Author's Note: There isn't much information about this on the Chinese internet; it's mostly just a few brief mentions on Zhihu. I initially thought it was fabricated too. But later, I found scanned documents on the foreign web translating to 'methodically treating soldiers' psychogenic movement disorders in a single session,' which also demeaned this condition as soldiers being as weak as women... And this Dr. Kaufmann seems to be from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, though for some reason he kept conducting experiments in Germany.)

Every word tumbling from Dr. Kaufmann's mouth made Morin increasingly uncomfortable.

He naturally knew what the man in front of him was talking about... This was actually "shell shock," common on the battlefields of World War I, or what was later professionally classified as "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder" (PTSD).

In the armies of all participating nations during WWI, because both sides used massive amounts of artillery to bombard positions, soldiers were subjected to continuous, prolonged shelling, causing this syndrome to appear on a massive scale.

But regardless of how you looked at it, this condition should not be associated with so-called "cowardice"...

Meanwhile, Dr. Kaufmann on the other side of the iron bars was still talking non-stop.

"Based on extensive observation in our daily practice, we found that neurological disorders caused by psychological shock can usually be normalized by another psychological shock."

"The method we currently employ uses strong artificial electrical stimulation combined with imperative verbal suggestion."

He adjusted his glasses and pulled open his white coat to reveal the officer's uniform underneath.

"Practice has shown that during treatment, the higher the rank of the practitioner, the better... Because a soldier's absolute obedience to a superior's orders lays the foundation for the success of suggestion therapy! Therefore, I specifically wore my military uniform today."

At this point, Morin already felt something was wrong, and the treatment method Dr. Kaufmann described reminded him of a certain infamous "therapy"...

Morin's hands unconsciously balled into fists, a small gesture acutely caught by Manstein beside him.

"Commander?"

"It's nothing," Morin shook his head. "Let's keep watching."

Perhaps noticing the change in Morin's expression, or perhaps acting on a presenter's instinct to gauge the reaction of the most important audience member, Dr. Kaufmann, who had been explaining his theoretical basis, stopped and looked in Morin's direction.

"Colonel Morin... do you have any questions about what I've explained?"

Everyone in the observation room turned to look at Morin following that question.

Morin hesitated for a moment, then spoke up: "Dr. Kaufmann, I have two questions."

"First... For a patient already in a state of extreme tension and fear, wouldn't the stimulus produced by an electric shock be even more negative?"

Hearing this, Dr. Kaufmann's smile stiffened slightly.

"Second..."

As he brought this up, Morin took a step forward directly.

"I do not agree with your definition of these frontline soldiers' symptoms as 'cowardice'... Many of them may have spent months in the trenches, experiencing bombardments and slaughter beyond ordinary imagination."

"Isn't it somewhat overly arbitrary to describe them with terms like 'cowardice'?"

Morin's two questions threw the room into disarray. The other observers began whispering among themselves.

Dr. Kaufmann clearly hadn't anticipated this. His preparations were thorough—the venue, equipment, and subjects were all in place... The only thing he hadn't prepared for was questioning from the "Hero of the Empire."

In his original assumption, a young officer who swept everything before him on the battlefield should hold a disdainful attitude toward those soldiers who "broke down from fear."

But reality had just slapped him right in the face.

After the room had been awkwardly silent for two or three seconds, someone in the back row of the observation room finally spoke up... It was the Army censorship personnel that Morin and Manstein despised the most.

"Colonel Morin."

The leading major spoke, his tone neither humble nor overbearing.

"Regarding the subjects participating in the treatment... I can provide some supplementary explanation."

"The vast majority of these soldiers have refused to return to the front lines due to fear... From a military law perspective, this constitutes desertion."

The other censorship officer chimed in: "Dr. Kaufmann's therapy has been demonstrated multiple times previously, and the results are significant. After treatment, those soldiers regained normal behavioral capacity and were able to resume following orders..."

"We also hope the Colonel will allow Dr. Kaufmann to finish today's presentation."

Morin stared at the two censorship officers for a few seconds. He had always harbored a strong dislike for this type of person.

Long ago on the Western Front, when he was still under General Mackensen's command, he had dealt with them, and it wasn't a pleasant experience.

Later, in the Balkan Peninsula, they hadn't caused trouble, largely thanks to the Crown Prince's presence.

But in this current setting... with other officials and observers standing around, and considering Dr. Kaufmann's presentation appeared to be an officially approved project...

Morin held his tongue for the moment, but his face turned ice cold.

Dr. Kaufmann was visibly relieved. He bowed slightly in Morin's direction, turned back to face his team, and raised his voice.

"Very well... I will now demonstrate the complete procedure of the therapy. The entire therapy consists of four parts:"

"First, suggestive preparation;"

"Second, the application of strong alternating current stimulation paired with copious verbal suggestion;"

"Third, utilizing the pre-existing obedience dynamic, issuing imperative commands demanding the patient strictly adhere to military regulations;"

"Finally, after the initial treatment concludes, we require subsequent guidance!"

As soon as he finished speaking, the side door on the other side of the bars opened. Two assistants in white coats pushed in a wheeled hospital bed.

Lying on the bed—or more accurately, strapped to the bed with leather belts—was a young soldier.

The soldier looked to be in his twenties, his face deathly pale, his entire body trembling incessantly.

His head was secured so he couldn't turn it, but his wide, terrified eyes darted frantically in every direction, avoiding only the spot directly in front of him where Dr. Kaufmann stood.

Some people in the observation room began to whisper; others unconsciously leaned forward.

Morin said nothing, but Manstein beside him could clearly sense that his commander was beginning to change.

Dr. Kaufmann walked to the soldier's bedside and took a metal headgear device from an assistant.

The contraption consisted of several leather straps and two flat electrode pads; it looked crude and brutal.

"Now, let us begin the first phase."

He fitted the device onto the soldier's head.

The soldier's body violently recoiled, a muffled whimper escaping his throat, but restrained by the straps, he could only struggle feebly on the bed.

Dr. Kaufmann returned to the machine and placed his fingers on a dial.

"Are you ready, soldier?"

No response.

"I am ordering you as a Major—answer my question!"

Still no response.

Dr. Kaufmann turned the dial.

BZZZZ—

A short, sharp buzz of electricity sounded. The young man on the bed convulsed entirely. The muscles in his limbs snapped taut against the restraints, then went slack. His mouth dropped open in a silent, agonizing spasm.

"State your name." Dr. Kaufmann's tone grew rigid. "That is an order."

The soldier's lips trembled, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, but he couldn't produce a single coherent syllable.

"Again."

BZZZZ—

This time it lasted longer. The soldier's spine arched violently. A dense layer of sweat instantly popped out on his forehead, and broken, choked sobs squeezed out of his mouth.

In the observation room, the expressions of most people grew somewhat unnatural.

The Reichstag members exchanged glances; some seemed to be debating whether they should continue watching.

"Soldier, state your name! Your unit designation!" Dr. Kaufmann raised his voice again.

The soldier could still only produce intermittent, breathless sounds, his entire body trembling so violently the bed frame shook slightly.

Dr. Kaufmann wiped the sweat from his brow, turned to his assistants, whispered a few words, then looked up. In a voice striving for composure, he announced to the observation area: "The patient's level of resistance is stronger than anticipated... This occasionally happens in clinical practice. Next, I will need to employ a more direct method of stimulation—"

He turned back to the two assistants: "Remove his clothing. Move the electrodes to his chest and groin."

But upon hearing Dr. Kaufmann's words, the two assistants remained rooted to the spot.

It wasn't that they were unwilling to follow orders, but that they were staring at something behind Dr. Kaufmann—on the other side of the iron bars.

Simultaneously, a commotion erupted in the observation area as everyone suddenly gasped.

SCREEECH!!

Immediately following, the sound of twisting metal, so grating it made everyone's hair stand on end, echoed through the room.

Dr. Kaufmann whirled around to see Morin gripping two iron bars with his bare hands, having physically bent them apart from their frame, forcibly carving out a passage wide enough for a person to pass through.

The cuffs of his uniform were strained to the breaking point, the definition of his forearm muscles clearly visible through the fabric.

"Stop."

Morin's voice was so low everyone had to strain their ears to hear it clearly, but every single hair on their bodies stood on end.

"This is an insult to frontline soldiers."

Dr. Kaufmann's face went stark white.

Behind Morin in the observation area, the two Army censorship officers saw things going south and stepped forward.

"Colonel Morin..."

One of them stepped out, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible.

"As was just mentioned, most of the subjects participating in this treatment have been officially determined by review... to be deserters. They refuse to return to the front lines due to a lack of courage, which constitutes—"

"Shut up!"

Morin didn't even look at the man when he spat those words, but the man genuinely clamped his mouth shut.

"You have no right to speak of what courage is... in front of me, or any other frontline soldier..."

...

Holy Britannia Empire, Capital, London.

The time here was one hour behind Dresden.

Having just enjoyed lunch and rested for a bit, "Baron" Rowan Atkinson climbed into a two-horse carriage driven by his servant, heading toward the Imperial War Office.

Because London was a "no-fly zone," aside from a very few mages of the Highland Mage Council, no other mages were allowed to use 【Fly】 within the city limits.

Therefore, even a 6th-circle mage like Rowan Atkinson had to use conventional transportation like everyone else when traveling within the city to areas without a 【Teleportation Circle】.

The carriage trundled unhurriedly along the street. Rowan Atkinson lifted a corner of the curtain, watching the streetscape outside.

The streets outside looked much the same as they did before the war. Pedestrians came and went, shops were open for business...

If it weren't for the occasional conscription posters on street corners and the signs for newly built convalescent hospitals for wounded soldiers, it would be hard to connect this city to the burning continental battlefield.

But soon, Rowan Atkinson saw a scene that made him frown.

On the sidewalk to the right of the street, a group of women clutching white feathers were intercepting male passersby.

One woman in a gray suit shoved a white feather into the hands of a baker's apprentice who looked no older than seventeen or eighteen.

"Aren't you going to enlist at your age?"

Her voice was so shrill it pierced right through the carriage walls, reaching Rowan Atkinson's ears.

"Your country needs you! Stop being a coward!"

The apprentice turned beet red. His lips trembled a few times, wanting to say something but ultimately failing. He lowered his head and quickly fled the encirclement of women.

Another young man was intercepted. This time it was someone who looked like a bank clerk, wearing a sharp suit and carrying a briefcase.

"Sir! Your country is bleeding! How do you have the face to walk the streets in clean clothes?"

Another woman blocked his path from the other side, slapping a white feather against his chest.

"Go to the nearest recruiting station! Go right now!"

The bank clerk, surrounded and berated, turned pale, then red. Finally, he actually turned around and walked toward the recruiting station draped with the national flag at the corner of the street.

Seeing this, the women erupted in cheers.

Rowan Atkinson dropped the curtain, turning his head to ask the servant driving the carriage, "Henry, what organization do those people belong to?"

The servant glanced out the window, frowning as he replied, "My Lord, they should be people from the WSPU."

"WSPU?"

Rowan Atkinson quickly searched his memory for the acronym.

"...You mean the lunatics who were setting fires in the squares before the war?"

"Yes, My Lord... Mrs. Pankhurst's group."

Rowan Atkinson naturally remembered the organization—the Women's Social and Political Union.

Before the war, they had staged mass hunger strikes, smashed cabinet ministers' windows, set fire to mailboxes, and rushed onto racetracks...

They were classified as a "radical terrorist group" by the Home Office, their leaders arrested and released time and time again.

How were they now openly intercepting people on the streets?

Hearing Rowan Atkinson's question, the servant replied while maneuvering the reins to avoid pedestrians rushing across the road ahead.

"Probably because public enthusiasm for the war has begun to wane... Casualties on the front lines are mounting, and fewer and fewer people are volunteering to enlist... So, the higher-ups reached some sort of agreement with their leaders."

"Her Majesty even pardoned many previously imprisoned WSPU members... In exchange, these people stop their vandalism and instead help the government incite men to join the war."

"The white feather is the mark of a 'coward'. Anyone stuffed with one of those who doesn't report to a recruiting station can forget about ever showing their face in their neighborhood again."

Rowan Atkinson's frown deepened.

"Absolute nonsense... Parliament should have implemented compulsory conscription ages ago. How many men can they really recruit with these street tricks?!"

Before he finished speaking, his gaze was drawn to another scene.

Another group of people, but this time, the target they surrounded wasn't an ordinary young man—

It was a man whose left arm was wrapped in bandages, clearly bandaged using standard field hospital techniques.

Although he wore plain civilian clothes, his slight limp on his left leg and the unhealed scar on his cheek clearly marked him as a wounded soldier returning from the front lines.

And that group of white-sashed women was trying to shove white feathers into his hands.

"Stop the carriage."

Rowan Atkinson's voice suddenly turned cold.

This chapter was translated by Nightjar Reads. For advance chapters and the newest releases, visit nightjarreads.com