Wearing British clothes as a second-generation aristocrat

20. I can still fight.

Those usually dignified officers still hung their heads, not daring to utter a sound.

The scorching wind still seeped in through the gaps in the tent, stirring up the dust on the ground, and mingled with Lord Congriffin's cursing, creating a suffocatingly oppressive atmosphere.

Perhaps tired of shouting, Lord Congriffin sat down on a small stool and began to pour wine down his throat.

The officers remained silent for a moment longer, until finally, a major staff officer cautiously took a step forward, his body slightly hunched.

"Sir, this is a report I've compiled, summarizing the experiences and difficulties of the past three months of siege of Kanur, and listing several reasons why we failed to breach the city. Perhaps... perhaps..."

Having said that, he held a neatly folded report in both hands and respectfully handed it over, his eyes lowered, not daring to look up even slightly.

Lord Congriffin gave him a cold glance, snatched the report away, and after only a quick look at the cover and the first few lines, his brows furrowed.

"Two months ago!"

Lord Congriffin crumpled the report into a ball and, with all his might, slammed it into the senior staff officer's face. The paper hit his forehead hard and rolled to the ground.

"The reasons given above were used two months ago! Do you think I'm an idiot? Or do you think Major General Wellesley is a fool who would believe such repetitive nonsense?"

The staff officer was knocked off balance and a red mark instantly appeared on his forehead, but he didn't dare to rub it and could only stand straight.

"Idiot! Stupid pig! Dog shit!"

Lord Congriffin's roar echoed through the tent, making the officers' eardrums buzz.

"I've fought in India for thirty years. What kind of battles haven't I fought? What kind of predicaments haven't I encountered? But I've never seen a bunch of useless idiots like you! You can't even come up with a decent excuse, you can't even write a useful report!"

Lord Congriffin was hurling insults, his rage almost consuming him. He roared, "You'd better desert, then I can execute you in the open!"

The other officers, having been the first to suffer a setback, kept their heads down, not daring to breathe, fearing that they would be the next to be caught in the crossfire of anger.

Just then, another senior staff officer, a lean man with a steady gaze, slowly stepped forward and carefully handed over a few sheets of paper, saying, "Sir, there is another report that has just been submitted. It was reported up the chain of command by Colonel Stevenson of the 94th Infantry Regiment on the Kanur front. Perhaps it can give you some different ideas."

Lord Congriffin was having a good rant.

"Oh? A different approach? I'd like to see what kind of report would make you dare to speak up at this time. Give it to me!"

The staff officer dared not delay. He quickly took out a neatly bound report from his briefcase, held it with both hands, and carefully handed it to Lord Congriffin.

This report was the "zonal joint defense and mobile clearing" plan that Dugan had spent the night compiling, which was then reviewed by Colonel Stevenson, delivered by messengers overnight, and finally delivered to Camp Azisekhan, ending up in the hands of a staff officer under Lord Congriffin.

When Lord Congriffin received the report, his face showed a hint of impatience. But as his gaze swept across the paper, the anger on his face gradually faded, his brows slowly relaxed, and the irritation in his eyes was replaced by a trace of surprise and curiosity.

His gaze became focused, and his fingers lightly traced each line of the report. From the situation analysis at the Kanur front to the specific tactical details of "regional joint defense and mobile clearing," to the troop deployment suggestions, casualty and material consumption statistics, every part was clear and to the point. Even the specific methods to deal with the Maratha guerrillas' harassment were considered in detail.

Silence fell again inside the tent, and the staff officers remained too afraid to even breathe.

"Interesting, very interesting," Lord Congriffin murmured. "This plan, at least, seems quite clear-headed, far more useful than the excuses you useless people come up with!"

Lord Congriffin stood up, his gaze sweeping over the officers and staff present. "It seems that with this, I won't need to find any more excuses for the time being."

Leaders all over the world are the same; they all like to hear solutions from their subordinates, even if those solutions require a certain amount of resources, rather than listening to their subordinates make excuses for failing to complete tasks.

The officers and staff present finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Lord Congriffin carefully folded the report, placed it in his uniform pocket, and said firmly, "This plan is feasible! Prepare the horses immediately; I want to personally take this report to Major General Wellesley!"

Newly appointed Major General Wellesley desperately needs to achieve military merits, and if this plan succeeds, the person who proposed it will surely be given an important position.

Lord Congriffin, now over fifty, had long yearned to achieve another military exploit and add a glorious chapter to his military career, so he naturally wouldn't let this opportunity slip by.

Lord Congriffin straightened his uniform; although his linen shirt was already soaked with sweat, it still couldn't hide his imposing presence.

He strode out of the tent, the scorching sun casting a long shadow on him.

In the distance, several soldiers were respectfully waiting, leading his warhorse.

He mounted his horse and shouted to the officers in the tent, "I, Wall Congriffin, am still the same general who can win battles!"

With that, Congriffin gave a sharp jerk of the reins, and the warhorse neighed loudly, galloping away into the distance, its hooves pounding the scorching red earth.

The officers and staff inside the tent looked at Lord Congriffin's departing figure, exchanging glances, each with their own thoughts.

Just as Congriffin was about to meet with Major General Wellesley, Dugan and Colonel Stevenson were also waiting anxiously.

The wind at the Kanur front still carried the scorching red earth, making the tent flaps flutter loudly.

Inside Colonel Stevenson's makeshift tent, the atmosphere was so quiet it was almost oppressive. Several documents were laid out on a makeshift table made of ammunition boxes.

A corporal, covered in dust, with bandages on his head and a splint on one arm, was dejectedly reporting on the military situation.

"Yes, that's right. Lieutenant Colonel Haywood discovered the Maratha guerrillas' movements, so he left Major McKenzie to garrison in Omarachi. But less than 10 miles from the town, we were ambushed by the Maratha guerrillas. They were well-equipped and had laid an ambush, catching us completely off guard... and we suffered heavy losses. At the same time, Major McKenzie, who was left in the town, was also attacked."

Colonel Stevenson's brow furrowed deeply. "And then what?"

The corporal, who had narrowly escaped death, continued, "Lieutenant Colonel Haywood was killed in action during the breakout... Major McKenzie is missing; according to the escaping soldiers, he was most likely captured by the Marathas..."

The corporal lowered his head and said, "In the end, only a little over four hundred of us escaped. The rest... were either killed in battle or captured, and all their equipment was lost..."

Silence fell over the tent. Colonel Stevenson stood up and made the sign of the cross on his chest, a moment of silence in remembrance of Lieutenant Colonel Haywood, who had tragically died in battle. Major McKenzie had been captured, and his chances of survival were slim as well.

Other officers followed suit, and Dugan also made the sign of the cross.