Chapter 150
Chapter 150
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 150
Chapter Title: [Side Story] Boiled Life (4)
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My greatest accomplishment wasn't just identifying a single plant that was barely edible.
Before the soldiers' hunger hit its breaking point, I succeeded in dispelling their fear of raw food. Lt. Colonel King expressed his gratitude to me, saying that if we'd lasted just a few more days in that state, soldiers driven mad might have grabbed anything they could find and eaten it, only to drop dead.
Once the food issue was resolved, the sentries—who'd been rotating every hour due to hunger and fatigue sapping their focus—switched to three-hour shifts. That naturally freed up some manpower.
I took those people into the forest, shooting around and stuffing sackcloths with anything that looked edible. We set up snares using vines and tree branches all along the paths they frequented. These weren't aimed at local wildlife whose seeds had already dried up—no, these were for the enemy.
Back at the barracks, we'd dump all the gathered plants and roots onto the floor and test them one by one for toxicity. We'd rub them on sensitive skin like lips or cheeks to check for reactions, then cut off a fingernail-sized piece, soak it in water for 24 hours, and sip a few drops of that water. If nothing happened, we'd nibble a speck of dust-sized bit. That was how we confirmed.
[DAY-17]
Everyone in the unit ended up suffering through brutal fevers or gut-wrenching pain with diarrhea at least once. But as a result, our detachment secured additional edibles beyond the reeds—like cassava and jackfruit we'd seen a few times on TV, plus wild sugarcane. Of course, these were just rough guesses: this tastes like potatoes or sweet potatoes, so it must be cassava; sap comes from the stem, so sugarcane. No one knew exactly what we were eating. What mattered was that we'd filled our bellies sufficiently and even stockpiled enough food in the corners of each platoon barracks to solve the rations problem entirely.
[DAY-74]
Two months had passed since we arrived. There had been five more operations, fourteen deaths, and twenty new arrivals. Whether the brass above us resented our survival or not, one day we got an absurd order from the 14th Special Ops Detachment: raid an enemy anti-air observation post and simultaneously reclaim an enemy civilian-held area. First Platoon, riding out on our sole support helicopter, returned after two weeks with only half its men alive. It seemed like the good ones always died first. Instead of mourning, I doubled down on hardening myself.
By then, I'd survived through sheer stubbornness, and I felt the truth of the saying that one real fight beats a hundred drills down to my bones. My marksmanship and combat skills had improved to the point where I could keep up with John and Val.
The new arrivals started calling me the quartermaster when they saw soldiers hauling in armfuls of roots and fruits every day, asking things like "Can we eat this?" It wasn't wrong, so from then on, I was fully treated as the supply guy. Around that time, we'd succeeded in cultivating cassava.
While trimming cassava roots, one passing squadmate remarked, "This stuff is damn hard to kill off. The stems we discarded after harvest sprouted new roots."
Without thinking, I replied, "Then just harvest and replant."
I replanted some in a corner of the plot.
Nearly a month later, when we dug up a root and saw fresh tubers sprouting, the squadmates cheered. Even Lt. Colonel King, famous for never showing emotion, said, "I thank Medici for sending you to us."
A few days later.
The day a marsh viper—thought to be completely extinct around here—got caught in our "anti-personnel tactical ambush ankle snare,"
Lt. Colonel King stood before the expanded cassava field and officially declared that the 14th Special Ops Detachment had escaped the food shortage crisis.
[DAY-81]
When the 14th Special Ops Detachment's daily radio pleas for supplies—even basic rations—grew sparse, a few soldiers from the higher unit finally came to check if we'd all died.
We'd evolved from allied forces into something closer to Viet Cong, but we welcomed them warmly anyway. In gratitude for their concern, we shared our traditions with the higher unit. Their new uniforms were sleek and tough, and the combat rations they brought melted on the tongue.
That's how we fully regained our strength. And I realized it was time for the unit to move to the next phase.
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"Hey, Lowell. Busy?"
Day 89.
Lowell, who was plowing the field with a plow (a gun barrel shredded by a grenade blast tied to a tree branch), stopped at my question and straightened up.
"Well... not really?"
"Then come with me somewhere."
"Oh, found something new again?"
Instead of answering, I just nodded at Lowell's words.
Yesterday, supplies dropped from a transport plane to our drop point. Real supplies, not just greenhorns.
Still, beggars can't be choosers, so I gratefully unpacked them...
"Infant formula? This is all they send?"
"Damn bean cans every damn time."
The contents were utterly unfit for a unit fighting tooth and nail in a hot zone.
Two crates of bean cans.
One crate of herring cans, some bizarrely bloated in the middle.
Ten mismatched rifles of various makes. Four unusable because the ammo didn't fit.
Two bundles of grenades, sixteen total.
Three man-portable anti-tank weapons, nine rounds.
Twenty bulletproof vests.
Most crucially, 900 rounds of ammo.
Looking at the crumpled memo noting our supply status—cassava 140 roots, reeds half a barracks volume—I saw the last resupply date amid the disorganized notes. Exactly six weeks ago.
Three newbies died in the last enemy raid, leaving us at 37 men.
About 24-25 rounds per man—barely enough to half-fill one magazine per soldier.
Plenty of vests, but skimpy on ammo.
To me, it sounded like "go out and get shot."
"What do they say up top? It's like yelling at a wall, but shouldn't we at least curse them out?"
"I ran to do exactly that, but the colonel was already on the radio screaming."
The normally composed colonel was gripping the handset with gritted teeth in a low, seething voice. I couldn't make out the other side clearly, but snippets and the colonel's responses pieced it together.
"'You still not dead?' or something like that."
"What? Who said?"
"No idea. Probably whoever sent the colonel here. The bastard who sent us to die is pissed we're still hanging on. When supplies came up, talk shifted to the next op."
"Fuck... gonna lose a ton again. What's it this time? Last one seizing a key observation post was doable—"
"Assault. Full-on against the enemy-held Tarrel Ground."
Lowell looked incredulous at my words. No surprise. I did too.
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'This goes beyond absurd—it's downright unreasonable! Colonel! A full assault? We lack the manpower, gear—anything to pull it off!'
[That's—static!—the colonel's incompetence—static!—no changes to the op—static!]
'Reconsider! If you don't change it now...!'
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Hearing that made me realize just how many trash like Medici were up top. Me, subordinate to those scum. It made my blood boil.
"A few days ago, flyboys clashed big and gained air superiority briefly. They're gonna show us some wings. After air strikes, 14th Special Ops blocks the enemy's main avenue—the front. Meanwhile, main force maneuvers gear to hit the flank of the enemy facing us in the chaos."
Full assault. It meant dragging out all heavy gear both sides had hoarded, since resupply made it tough.
No matter how expert our unit at guerrilla and sabotage, we couldn't stop a mechanized artillery division with rifles and a few grenades.
The radio intel was a death sentence for the whole unit.
"...What'd the colonel say?"
"If they push like this, we have no choice but to fight to survive, he said. Even talked about turning a rifle on a colonel-level guy, but the reply was worse."
"What?"
"'Due to 14th Special Ops' capability shortfall,' they laid mines flawlessly along the enemy advance route in case the front breaks. Left the main gate path clear for vehicles, so escape if you want. But that's instant disobedience and desertion. War time, so high chance of execution."
Crack!
Lowell, eyes closed and rubbing his brow with one hand, slammed his plow into the ground at my last words.
"Just when we were scraping by... they really wanna kill us all to feel better."
"Might as well squeeze us dry before killing us off."
I could see why they sent anti-tank weapons they'd never spared before. We're dying anyway, so at least draw enemy fire. If we luck out and turn their arty and tanks our way, main force gets a clean shot at the exposed flank.
"...Fine. Our death date's set. So what's this 'let's go somewhere' about? Prepping to desert?"
"Even if we luck through the minefield, we'd get executed as deserters or dragged back to hell like this."
"...Surrender?"
"Yeah, right."
The 14th Special Ops name struck terror in the enemy ranks we faced. Masters of guerrilla war, pairing off in twos or threes to snipe patrols with a few shots then vanish. Truth was, ammo shortages meant ambushing for days till a shot lined up, fire, then bolt. But to them, it was pure horror—not knowing where or how death struck. Trace us? Snares everywhere, linked to toxic plant powder sprays.
Raid outright? They'd abandon junk gear, relocate the unit, then main force mortars the infiltrators regardless if 14th was still there.
No wonder enemy hatred for us pierced the heavens. Surrender? They'd accept, line us up, behead, and burn the bodies.
"Both allies and enemies hate our guts. Only one way we survive."
"What?"
"Expand the reason we're alive right now, bigger."
Before finding Lowell, I barged into the colonel's tent post-radio and laid out my idea.
We weren't executed because public opinion kept us alive enough they couldn't just wipe us.
Scale that up, make 14th Special Ops a household name, and they couldn't discard us like trash.
"Plenty of sane commanders see war as war, not just Medici scum. Show skill and results, they'll notice. Only way out of this shit: make 14th too valuable to discard. Spread our name far and wide so using us as cannon fodder looks idiotic to everyone."
Not that grandiose. Same as surviving on other soldiers' goodwill—now win commanders' eyes. Same method.
Lt. Colonel King pondered, agreed, called in 1st and 3rd platoon leaders plus me (the planner), minus Lowell on patrol, and schemed all night.
"Make a name against division-level enemy with a few anti-tank shots, less than a mag ammo, thirty-odd men...? Possible?"
"Not as is. That's why I need you. Squad: you, me, Shepherd, and 14th Special Ops aces—strong, agile. Before fighting, we got work."
Professor unfolded the op plan the colonel finalized after agonizing last night, showing Lowell.
"Main force is already detouring far with gear for the op in three days. Jungle limits heavy routes, so big loop to close distance unseen. Means operating and maintenance crews went too. But all those stockpiled supplies at main base? No time to move 'em all. They're not broke like us."
"Hey... no way?"
Lowell eyed the big red X on the allied supply depot in the colonel's op map.
"Infiltrate our lines... and loot?"
"Not looting. Just aggressive resupply. Even as 'abandoned,' biometrics read 'ally,' so fixed turrets won't shred us."
Professor handed Lowell a balaclava and poncho, hand-made by Marty with huge 14th Special Ops mark.
"No killing allies, no matter what. Stay at supply theft level per military law—no pretext for those itching to kill us. We boldly declare 14th Special Ops, enter lines, seize supplies justly and violently, bolt home before discipline hits. Okay?"
"Ha, hahaha..."
Lowell took the bank-robber balaclava, laughing in disbelief. Announce ourselves and rob allies?
"Too... perfect!"
He donned the patched, musty-smelling balaclava, grinning like a proper bandit.
"Kid, be real. Colonel didn't dream this solo. His Majesty couldn't think up such lunacy."
"Uh... everything but this was colonel. Fake surrender docs to enemy, raid directions to distract—all his."
"Then this?"
"Pfft! Supplies? Supply guy's job, obviously!"
John emerged from barracks in his balaclava. Behind him, others in matching 14th-marked gear followed one by one.
"Team's ready. Kid, confident? Bad luck, we die."
"Pray HQs pampered flowers trust biometrics."
"Nah, not that. Even geared with top shields, energy weapons, plasma grenades—we're one infantry company max. Enemy's battalion with all that plus more. Distract 'em, sure, but combat hits, at least ten-to-one pour fire our way."
"...I know."
I'd wrung out a survival plan. All night yelling curses with colonel and platoon leads.
No way everyone lives, no matter what. But...
"At least survivors get immortalized as 14th Special Ops legends. Better than all shredded like trash—save who we can."
And so, they proudly marched toward 394th Armored Regiment's main gate—the only mine-free path from the rear mine hell.
That evening, the watchman monitoring base sensors opened the gate for eight forward unit soldiers: no metal pings, biometrics solid ally.
That night, the brigade lost every high-tech gear and supply in storage to masked maniacs bellowing "14th Special Ops here!", "Grabbing supplies!"
By the time panicked watch reported "Allies rioting in the depot" to commander—who'd exited with tanks—and firing was authorized, two trucks loaded with 2.5-ton equivalent booty had blasted the gate with captured plasma cannon and fled.
Three days later, main force clashed as planned—but ignored 14th direction, facing fully prepped enemy battalion. Fierce battle ended in dramatic win, thanks to small infantry unit punching enemy rear while main fixed them.
Later military court: Sergeant Professor said, "Just supply theft. Seemed we'd use it better than those morons, so took it."
Post-trial, brass canceled medals and promotions for Professor, Lowell Bartos, Doris Lishah, and other 14th survivors as punishment. For some reason, they assigned special forces under Professor Sergeant—stressing Tarrel Ground as "defense"—for disruption/rear infiltration, formalizing 14th Special Ops.
Afterward, 14th Special Ops became legend.
Side Story - (Complete)
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