Chapter 116 - Through the Night
New recruits had arrived in Ernest's 2nd Platoon—or rather, the 1st Platoon, now.
This time, they weren't thrown straight into battle, so, thankfully, there was actually time to train them.
That was only possible because the 2nd and 3rd Battalions of the 13th Regiment still hadn't recovered.
"Hey, keep your heads down. If you don't, you'll die. Seriously, you'll be dead."
"Ugh! Huff, huff! Damn it!"
The recruits panted like exhausted dogs, their tongues hanging out as they endured the drills.
They'd thought training would mean shooting at targets or going for runs, but all they kept being made to do were endless crawling and duck-walking exercises.
"Out of every ten bastards killed in combat, nine die because they can't keep their heads down. I tell them over and over—just keep your damn heads buried—but they always end up poking them out and getting killed."
Ralf walked alongside a soldier struggling to crawl forward, tapping his own head as he spoke.
"None of us has ever had our heads shot at before. People just keep doing what they're used to—so no matter how much you warn them they'll die, they still end up peeking up and looking around, and that's how they get themselves killed."
Ralf let out a deep sigh.
"Crawling, crouching, hunkering down... Honestly, you shouldn't even have to teach that kind of thing. Once you get in there, you'll do it all instinctively. You have to, if you don't want to die. But habits are scary things, and before you know it, you'll stick your head up without even realizing it—and that's how you get yourself killed. That's why I'm drilling this etiquette into you right now—to make sure you remember to keep your heads down."
Thud!
"Ow!"
Ralf kicked the helmet of a recruit who kept raising his head. The newcomer shot up, glaring at Ralf.
"What, you got a problem? Sure, you can stand up and glare during training, but if we were in battle, you'd already be lying over there, never getting up again."
Whether the recruit glared or not, Ralf simply snickered and scoffed at him.
"Hey, take a look over there. You see? Huh? The guys who got here before you—they're doing everything I tell them without a single complaint. Why do you think that is?"
Ralf pointed at the soldiers crawling hard through the mire. They were the ones who had survived the last battle, and not a single one of them grumbled about Ralf's training—they just did as they were told.
"When it comes to combat, humility is what really matters. Humility. Knowing when to keep your head down is what saves your life, got it? If you can't do it, do you want me to make you crawl?"
"...I'm sorry."
The soldier, who had looked ready to jump up and argue with Ralf, lowered his gaze and apologized the moment Ralf gripped his rifle with both hands and looked about ready to swing the stock.
He then lay back down and resumed crawling diligently across the ground.
Ralf snorted and spat on the ground.
"Sergeant Ralf, how's the training going?"
Ernest approached and asked him.
"Well, there are a few punks with attitude, but it's going all right."
Ralf answered with a broad grin.
Ernest stared quietly at the soldiers crawling in their ill-fitting uniforms, then forced a dry, raspy smile.
"They must be competent, if they've got enough spirit to challenge a new platoon leader."
"Oh, come on, that was ages ago—are we still stuck on that?"
"If someone overheard, they'd think it happened a year ago."
"Hasn't it been, what, three years since then?"
Ralf waved his hand dismissively and grinned at Ernest's joke, playing off what had happened just ten days before as though it were years ago.
Back then, Ralf himself had been filled with suspicion toward the new platoon leader.
The kids fresh out of the Military Academy had been killed off one after another, unable to even take care of themselves, let alone lead anyone.
But Ernest was definitely different from those green recruits.
No—he was special.
"Take good care of yourself and make sure you survive for a long time, Sergeant Ralf. You haven't been in long enough for me to even consider recommending you for staff sergeant yet."
"And what would it take to make me staff sergeant? I feel like a month ought to be more than enough."
"Gustav's been serving for over twenty years and he's still just a staff sergeant, don't you think you're getting a bit greedy?"
"If you don't have ambition, are you even human? More like a corpse."
"That's true. Keep up the good work."
"Yes, sir."
As Ernest headed back toward the tent, he looked up at the sky.
The rain was gradually letting up.
Soon, it would stop altogether.
From that point, the Battle Situation would shift once again.
It would be ideal if the 6th Division and 7th Division could end things for good before the 5th Division had to rejoin the fight.
"Supplies are here! Supplies!"
"Hand over the cigarettes!"
"You can't just take them!"
"Is there any booze?"
"Are you all animals or something, just rushing in to grab whatever you want?"
The moment word got out that supplies had arrived, a crowd gathered in front of the supply storage room.
Normally, supplies were strictly controlled and distributed according to each unit's allocation.
But sometimes, when there weren't enough to go around, whoever showed up first and took them got priority.
"Hey! Hey! Get everyone out here, fast! Supplies are here!"
"Supplies! Supplies!"
"Yeahhh!"
As soon as Yurgen heard about the supplies, he committed the outrageous act of mobilizing his entire company.
"What, what is it?! What's going on?!"
"You hurry up and run too! They're giving out booze!"
"Yeahhhh!"
Last time, the 2nd Company had lost out on luxury items like cigarettes and alcohol because they were a step too late, so now the soldiers' eyes went wild as they dragged confused new recruits along with them.
Ernest and Robert also came running in a hurry, not even wearing their raincoats, and Jonas, still not quite understanding what was going on, followed as well.
"Heh heh heh. Damn. This is pure chaos."
The battalion quartermaster gave a wry chuckle when he saw the 2nd Company mobilize every available man to seize the supply storage.
"Ha! The 2nd Company is taking over the supply storage!"
Having brought nearly a hundred men from his company, Yurgen laughed triumphantly as he barked orders at the quartermaster.
"Hand over all the cigarettes! Every last one!"
"Vendermere, have you lost your mind?"
"Didn't you say last time it was our fault for coming late? Huh? Well, we were the first ones here this time!"
"This is absolutely crazy."
The quartermaster laughed in disbelief, almost sounding deranged.
Last time, when there weren't enough cigarettes, he'd given everything to the company that arrived first, and when Yurgen showed up he'd just said, "Well, you should've come earlier.
That's what he'd said.
Now, if he tried to switch it up and distribute the cigarettes evenly, that crazy bastard would never stand for it.
"Booze! Booze! Booze! Booze!"
"Hand over the alcohol!"
"Yeahhh!"
"Are we soldiers or bandits?"
The company members were screaming for alcohol at the top of their lungs, and Yurgen egged them on, practically trying to loot the booze as well.
"We don't care about alcohol or cigarettes—just give us the Balt Battery and bullets first."
Ignoring the chaos, Ernest went straight to the supply officer, who looked flustered, and firmly requested the most important supplies: the Balt Battery and bullets.
All of the Empire's Balt Batteries were produced solely by Emperor Walter himself.
In other words, they were supplied from Grimman to the entire Empire.
Storms were still raging across the Central Region of the Empire.
The production of Balt Batteries was already struggling to meet demand, and the bad weather was making the supply situation even worse. If things went wrong, they could end up not receiving their fair share of Balt Batteries.
Ernest gathered a few soldiers from those clamoring for alcohol and cigarettes and started carrying over the Balt Batteries and bullets.
"…What exactly happened?"
As Ernest was moving the supplies, he asked the supply officer. The supply officer scratched his head, looking a bit flustered as well.
"I don't know either. We just hand out whatever we're given."
"How much did you receive?"
"About four times the usual amount."
"…Four times."
Ernest stared at the boxes the soldiers were struggling to carry.
Those boxes were packed full of Balt Batteries.
This time, the 2nd Company received about twice the usual amount of Balt Batteries.
The 1st and 3rd Companies would be getting that much as well.
And after that, there would still be enough Balt Batteries left to keep the supply depot well stocked.
'Did they finally put a stop to the embezzlement?'
Ernest wondered if the Empire had finally cracked down on the embezzlement of Balt Batteries.
Even in Belliang, the enemy nation, enormous numbers of Balt Batteries were in use—if not quite as much as the Imperial Army, then still a lot.
It was obvious to anyone that there had been major leaks within the Empire.
Maybe the Emperor finally came to his senses and started paying attention to domestic matters, even if it was a bit late.
'But even so, something doesn't add up. Isn't the production of Balt Batteries basically fixed by nature? There's only one Emperor producing them.'
Abundant supplies not only directly boost combat effectiveness but also raise the morale of the soldiers.
It was certainly a good thing.
Yet Ernest couldn't shake a vague sense of unease.
'Could a new Master Baltracher have appeared? Now, of all times?'
This level of production just didn't make sense.
Ernest wondered if perhaps a new Master Baltracher had emerged and was now producing Balt Batteries alongside Emperor Walter.
If Emperor Walter were to suddenly die, the supply of Balt Batteries would instantly be cut off.
The Empire would collapse.
A new Master Baltracher was absolutely essential to the continued existence of the Empire.
But what if this new Master Baltracher wasn't of royal blood?
Would the Empire really entrust such immense power to someone outside the imperial family—the power to decide its entire future?
Could there be another Master Baltracher besides the Emperor?
'The Balt Aptitude Test.'
Ernest searched his distant memories.
The Balt Aptitude Test—every subject of the Empire was required to take it upon turning ten.
Ernest had always thought it was not just to train new Baltrachers and strengthen the Empire, but also a part of the census for collecting taxes.
Hoping for a shot at changing their destiny, nearly everyone—nobles, commoners, even slaves—clung to the results of the Balt Aptitude Test.
There was no need to bother with a tedious census.
People would report themselves when taking the Balt Aptitude Test, and all the imperial administration had to do was use that information as the basis for levying taxes.
But what if that wasn't the real purpose?
What if the test was actually intended to find Master Baltrachers—those qualified to challenge the Emperor's authority?
And what if, when war broke out and circumstances became dire, the Empire started to use those individuals?
After following his thoughts that far, Ernest found himself confronted by a new question.
'…How are Balts made to fill the Balt Batteries in the first place?'
Could a single human being really be producing enough Balt to supply the entire vast Empire and sustain the war all alone?
If someone truly possessed the power to create and control that much energy themselves, could such a being even be classified as human?
Wouldn't "god" be more appropriate?
If that were possible, would war even be necessary?
If Walter Ulrich Mihahil personally took to the battlefield, who could possibly stand in his way?
"What do you think you're doing, 2nd Company Commander."
Ernest snapped out of his musings, startled by the sharp voice.
At some point, the soldiers from the 2nd Company, who had been clamoring for booze and cigarettes and trying to raid the supply depot, had all fallen silent and were now nervously staying outside the warehouse, reading the situation.
"Battalion Commander."
Yurgen, who had just been shouting and carrying on, now snapped to attention and saluted Lieutenant Colonel Levin Ort, the 1st Battalion Commander, with perfect military discipline.
Levin accepted the salute, even as he frowned.
"We're here to collect supplies."
Once Levin had returned the salute, Yurgen answered his question.
"You think that explanation is enough for this situation?"
Levin pressed Yurgen in a very strict tone.
But it wasn't Yurgen who was flustered—it was the Quartermaster.
"During the last supply run, the company that arrived first received priority, and the 2nd Company wasn't properly resupplied. So this time, we came early to make sure we got the supplies we needed."
Yurgen stated this boldly.
Levin's pale brown eyes, almost intimidating in their lightness, shifted to the Quartermaster's face.
The Quartermaster turned deathly pale.
"Since this happened under the former Battalion Commander, I won't hold you responsible for it."
Levin spoke to the Quartermaster in clipped, precise tones.
"But it won't happen again. From now on, thoroughly review all the battalion's supplies and ensure that everyone gets exactly what they need, without shortages. That's an order."
"Yes, sir!"
Having restored order with his low, commanding voice, Levin turned his gaze back to Yurgen.
"Captain Vendermere."
"Yes, sir."
"From now on, follow proper procedures and report accordingly. That's an order."
"Yes, sir."
Levin had realized that Yurgen hadn't stirred up this situation out of mischief or to incite a rebellion.
By alerting Levin to the Quartermaster, who'd been abusing his power over supplies, Yurgen was also giving the Quartermaster a dose of his own medicine.
Levin didn't punish anyone.
He let it slide that the Quartermaster had indulged in a little power trip, and that Yurgen had brought his whole company and caused a commotion.
He let it all go.
But no one dared think that Levin Ort, the battalion commander, was a lenient man.
When Levin clearly and firmly declared that this was an order, it was a warning: do this again and you'll pay for defying orders.
"..."
Levin swept his sharp gaze around the area.
Then, ignoring the tense standoff between the Quartermaster and Yurgen, his eyes met those of Ernest, who'd been standing a little farther off, quietly loading the company supplies and minding his own business.
Ernest had done his best not to draw attention to himself, but his large frame was impossible to hide in the middle of the brightly lit warehouse, especially beside the comparatively small Supply Officer.
"Who are you?"
"Second Lieutenant Ernest Krieger, 1st Platoon Leader, 2nd Company, sir."
When Levin asked, Ernest answered right away.
Levin silently observed Ernest's officer's uniform, soaked from the rain, then subtly frowned.
Ernest wondered anxiously if something was wrong with his appearance.
But Ernest always made sure his clothes were neat, kept himself clean, and was always freshly shaven.
He'd come in such a hurry that he hadn't put on his raincoat, so he was just a bit wet.
"Second Lieutenant Krieger. As far as I know, you've received a medal, haven't you?"
"Yes, I was awarded a Medal of Merit."
"Never mind the medal—where's your medicine case?"
Ernest, startled, instinctively patted his chest.
Of course, the medal and the medicine case he'd tossed into a box right after receiving them weren't about to magically appear there just because he checked.
"From now on, make sure you wear them at all times."
"Yes, sir!"
Whether he wore his medal or his medicine case was up to him, but Imperial Army regulations required them to be worn.
It stemmed from the rather absurd reasoning that it was unforgivable to not wear what had been awarded by a higher authority or superior.
In any case, rules were rules, and by not wearing either item after being decorated, Ernest was technically in violation of regulations.
Levin had chosen to overlook it.
But by pointing it out, Levin had made it clear he was well aware of Ernest's background.
There was no real reason for the new battalion commander to know that a mere platoon leader had received a medal.
Perhaps he'd looked into materials promoting Ernest as the "son of a hero."
Levin scanned his subordinates with a dissatisfied look, then pulled up the hood of his raincoat and strode out of the military supply warehouse.
His aide, looking a bit awkward holding an umbrella, hesitated and then hurried after him.
"Ernest got a medal already?"
"Yeah. In his first battle."
"That's impressive. But why doesn't he wear it?"
"He just doesn't like to."
Once Levin left and the suffocating atmosphere in the air eased, Jonas and Robert started whispering to each other.
"You have to admit, he's stubborn as hell."
"Look, here comes another stubborn one."
Robert was pointing to Ferdinand, who was entering the supply depot.
All through the Military Academy, Ferdinand had stubbornly kept his alliance with Ernest and the Black Outfit Alliance.
He didn't care at all about the tense mood and walked straight up to the quartermaster to salute.
The quartermaster, looking less than thrilled, returned the salute, and Ferdinand spoke in a calm, flat voice.
"I'm here to collect supplies."
"…Uh, Lieutenant Hartmann. There's really no need for the company commander to come in person."
The quartermaster ran a hand nervously through his sweat-dampened hair.
Why on earth were these damned company commanders always so eager to make his life difficult?
Ferdinand turned his head, puzzled, and looked over at Yurgen.
Yurgen just shrugged and pretended he didn't know anything.
Ferdinand had only been dragged onto the battlefield just a little over ten days ago.
He'd actually just joined the 1st Battalion yesterday, immediately promoted to Lieutenant and made Company Commander.
So when Yurgen had rushed over with all his company members in tow, Ferdinand assumed that, in the 1st Battalion, company commanders had to collect supplies in person, and that's why he'd come himself.
"Next time, just have someone investigate the supply status and send it to me. I'll take care of everything from my end, so don't bother coming here like this."
"And what if you try to pull another stunt?"
"Damn it... I'm sorry. Seriously, I'm sorry. I must be a bastard."
"Well, at least you know it."
In the end, the quartermaster had no choice but to apologize to Yurgen.
Yurgen, despite his blunt attitude, accepted the apology with remarkable generosity.
The anger of a heavy smoker who can't get his cigarettes is truly deep and wide.
That Yurgen Vendermere could forgive something like this just shows what kind of outstanding man he is.
"It's been a while. Glad to see you made it through."
"I heard you even got a medal? That's so like you, Krieger."
"I didn't get it because I did anything special. They just handed it to me."
"They don't just hand those out. If they did, everyone would have one."
Meanwhile, without knowing what was going on, Ernest was shaking hands and exchanging greetings with Georg and Baumann, who had come with Ferdinand.
It had only been ten days since he'd last seen them, but it felt like a month.
Maybe that's because the memories from their days as officer cadets were so vivid.
It's just a little over a month since the war was declared.
"Is the battalion commander always that scary?"
"He's really strict. People say he's downright terrifying."
"Damn. We're screwed."
Having heard from Georg about Levin, Robert let out a sigh and smacked his forehead.
There are only two kinds of superiors worse than a strict one: an incompetent one, and a strict but incompetent one.
After chatting for a short while, they parted ways again.
There was an overwhelming amount to do.
Training new recruits, checking supplies, distributing provisions, studying tactics…
On top of that, Ernest refused to give up teaching the soldiers how to read, so he had to prepare study materials as well.
Back in the tent, Ernest opened up the box and rummaged through it, but couldn't figure out where that damned medicine case was, so in the end he dumped the entire box out.
"..."
Finally finding the medicine case and holding it in his hand, Ernest stared absently at the empty bottle rolling around on the floor.
He'd run out of medicine.
He'd tried to stretch it for as long as possible, but in the end, this moment had come.
There hadn't been any reply to the letter Ernest had sent to Haires.
Haires must have sent a letter too, but that hadn't arrived either.
Since neither Robert nor Jonas had received any mail, maybe it was just the war and the weather paralyzing the postal service.
Regardless, starting today, Ernest would have to live without the medicine.
He'd taken it every single day for the past seven years, never missing a dose, and now he had no idea what was going to happen.
That medicine was truly awful.
For Ernest, it brought unbearable headaches and crippling lapses in concentration, earning him several hardships because of it.
But now, unable to take even that wretched medicine in the midst of war, he missed it.
No—it wasn't just missing it.
He felt sad, exhausted, and in pain.
His father had always sent more before the medicine ran out. It had always been that way until now.
Even that ordinary, daily routine could not withstand the wild gales of war and had finally come undone.
All the things Ernest Krieger had built up over a lifetime were collapsing at a staggering, heartless pace.
He could hardly grasp just how much he'd changed from his self just two months ago.
War, it seemed, was an act that broke down a human being so thoroughly, you couldn't even tell how ruined you'd become.
Clatter.
Ernest picked up the empty bottle, carefully putting it back into the box.
Then, he placed the Medal of Merit, which had been lying around, on top of the empty bottle.
Would Father be happy if he gave him this medal?
Would Father smile and praise him, like he did when Ernest won the Silver Daffodil at the Silver Horseshoe Tournament, or when he received the Silver Horseshoe?
Would he be proud of him, just like back then?
Clack.
Gazing at it for a moment, Ernest closed the box.
He strapped the medicine case to his chest, put on his raincoat, and stepped out of the tent once more.
There was too much to do.
He had no time to be lost in sentiment.