The Platoon Leader of Rumor

The first day of training was a run. The next day was marksmanship, and after that came bayonet drills and trench combat, one after another.

By the end of that hellish week, the 3rd Platoon barracks area had fallen into a silence like the dead. The defiance they'd shown before was nowhere to be found. The soldiers were too busy dragging their exhausted bodies off to rest.

Not a single one of them dared to complain. In just one week, I had taken complete control of 3rd Platoon.

Not that the process had been a smooth one.

Putting Gunter in his place on the first day had only been the opening move. Fear and drills alone couldn't fix what was rotten at their core — that festering slacker spirit ran deep.

From the second day on, the resistance turned crafty. A soldier who twisted his ankle mid-drill and requested to be excused. One who "accidentally" lost his supplies. Another who slyly pretended he couldn't understand orders and worked at half speed. Gunter wasn't the only piece of trash testing my patience — there were plenty of them.

And every time, my skill, Status Analysis, proved its worth.

"Ugh, Lieutenant! My ankle... my ankle hurts too much, I can't...!"

The pathetic acting nearly wrung a laugh out of me. Smirking inwardly, I activated the skill.

Status Analysis.

Nervousness from faking it? You little bastard...

I clapped Fritz on the shoulder and spoke.

"Oh my, oh my. That really is a shame."

For a moment, my show of kindness relaxed him. But the real blow came next.

"Still, it doesn't look serious enough to warrant a trip to the infirmary. So while the others are training, you'll dig dirt behind the barracks in full combat gear. Trust me — if you don't keep moving, it only aches worse."

The moment I finished, Fritz's face drained white. Then he was hauled away by his collar.

"I-I'm sorry, sir! Platoon Leader...!! Just give me one chance...!"

The barracks erupted with his begging. But I didn't so much as blink. His cries faded into the distance, and at last the barracks fell quiet.

Thud. Thud. Thud! Everything, that is, except the sound of shovels biting into the dirt behind the building.

Gulp. The Adam's apple of the soldier who'd been clutching his stomach just moments earlier, angling to be next in line, bobbed violently. He quietly lowered the hand he'd been pressing to his belly.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Anyone else feeling ill?"

No one answered.

Truthfully, the slackers playing sick weren't the real headache. The genuinely dangerous ones were those who harbored deep resentment and quietly stirred up the others. So I kept Status Analysis running through every training session, sweeping it over the whole platoon like a radar.

On the fourth day, during live-fire drills, a soldier dropped a cartridge casing. In that instant, a faint smile crept across the lips of the man beside him — Corporal Kurt.

I aimed the skill straight at him.

...Covert instigation of a slowdown? You son of a bitch...

That night, I summoned Kurt for a private word.

"The training tolerable, Corporal Kurt?"

"Yes, sir."

He played it cool.

"During today's drills, a few of the soldiers were unusually slow. Almost as if they'd agreed on it beforehand."

"I really couldn't say, sir."

His eyes wavered, just barely. In that instant, the information window flashed.

"Feeling anxious?"

I threw an arm around Kurt's shoulders. He flinched. Still, he kept up the lie.

"I-I don't know what you mean, sir."

"Heh. Now that's no way to treat a friend."

I released his shoulder and took a step back. His eyes lit up for a split second — he thought he'd weathered the storm. Kurt straightened his posture as if he'd never been trembling and opened his mouth.

"Sir. Slandering a soldier's honor on baseless suspicion is—"

"The Company Commander has delegated full authority to me."

I cut him off.

"The authority to summarily transfer any soldier in 3rd Platoon — any soldier — who refuses to submit or proves a detriment to the unit."

I paused, then looked him dead in the eye. Kurt's eyes were shaking.

"Say, for instance... to somewhere like the Eastern Front Pioneer Battalion."

The Eastern Front Pioneer Battalion. The moment that name left my lips, the color left Kurt's face.

The word "pioneer" here was no ordinary pioneer. It referred to something like a modern combat engineering corps — units that spearheaded the very front of battle, clearing the way for everyone else. That was how they'd earned the name.

Clearing minefields. Breaching razor wire and trench lines. Building bridges for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠river crossings. Leading the assault. The most lethal jobs imaginable, performed on the Eastern Front — the front with the lowest survival rate in existence. A place where supplies barely arrived and brutal cold set in as early as autumn.

In practice, it was called a soldier's graveyard. A penal battalion, in effect — a perfectly legal way to dispose of troublesome or insubordinate soldiers.

And so, the instant he heard that name, Kurt transformed. The blood drained from his face, and as though a sudden chill had gripped him, his jaw began to chatter.

"S-sir. Th-that's..."

THUD! At last, Kurt slammed his forehead into the floor.

"I was wrong, sir! Platoon Leader! I've... I've committed a mortal sin!"

His words were mashed to pieces by terror. He crawled forward on the floor, trying to grasp my boots. I slipped my foot lightly out of reach. Taking that as refusal, he finally began to weep.

"J-just once...! P-please, sir...!"

Status Analysis.

Terror. And a burning will to live. This much was no act.

"I... I went out of my mind for a moment, sir! The others stirred me up...! Please, just one chance — give me one chance and I'll serve you like a dog! Anything you order, anything at all...!"

He begged, pounding his forehead against the floor over and over. It split open and bled, but he didn't stop. I watched for a moment, then spoke.

"Raise your head."

Kurt froze. Slowly, he lifted his face and looked up at me. The face smeared with blood and tears was a wreck.

"By tomorrow morning, you will end everything you started — with your own two hands. If you don't, your army career ends right there."

"Yes! Yes, sir, I understand! Thank you, sir!"

The next morning at roll call, with the platoon assembled in formation, Kurt stood in the very front row. The skin under his eyes was black and dead — he clearly hadn't slept a wink all night.

I took the muster report as usual and announced the day's training, then added one last thing.

"Oh, and I visited the Company Commander yesterday. He's promised that any man in this platoon with persistently poor training results or lax discipline will be specially transferred to the Eastern Front. Anyone interested?"

A frigid silence settled over the formation. In that instant, every eye in the platoon swiveled to one place. Kurt. His whole body trembling, he bowed his head.

Fear is contagious. In the eyes of the platoon members as they watched Kurt, curiosity was giving way to dread.

"All hands, prepare for training."

At my quiet order, the soldiers scattered as if lashed by a whip. As they grabbed weapons and rigged their gear, voices drifted up from all around.

"...Did you see that? Corporal Kurt."

"His face was just... Christ. I was about to fake sick yesterday."

"Shut it. The Platoon Leader might be listening right now."

One soldier flinched and glanced around warily.

"How does he know? What Kurt told us behind everyone's back..."

"No idea, damn it. You think somebody ratted us out?"

Then it happened. A shadow fell suddenly over the back of a soldier who was lagging behind in his preparations. It was Kurt.

"Hans! You little lunatic! Wake up and move!"

CRACK! Kurt's hand smacked across the back of Hans's head. Hans spun around, face full of indignation, but under the ferocity of Kurt's glare not a word came out.

"Do it right, you bastard!"

With that, Kurt was the first to finish rigging his gear and bolted out of the barracks. Faster and cleaner than anyone else in the platoon.

Rumors about 3rd Platoon spread through the company in the blink of an eye.

"Hey. Take a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠look at those 3rd Platoon boys over there."

"...Something's different about them, isn't it?"

"Different? They're a completely different unit."

A corporal from 2nd Platoon beside them lowered his voice.

"You hear? That new platoon leader ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of 3rd — they say he can read minds."

"Aw, Corporal Steiner, I know you're full of it again. That's not even plausible."

A private snorted, but the corporal's expression was dead serious.

"It's true. There was a guy faking an injury, and supposedly the platoon leader tapped him on the shoulder once and called him out on the spot. They say the guy spent the whole day digging behind the barracks until sundown?"

"...Whoa. For real?"

Then a sergeant sitting nearby chimed in.

Forget that — anyone know what happened to that bastard Kurt? He was playing king of 3rd Platoon one day, and the next he was the platoon leader's lapdog. Word is he's been busting his ass to suck up, smacking his own squadmates on the back of the head and everything."

"Corporal Kurt? No way. What happened?"

"The rumor goes... the platoon leader got him alone and said exactly one thing to him. 'You want a transfer to the Eastern Front Pioneer Battalion?'"

"That man isn't just some officer. Day one on the job, he straight-up flattened Sergeant Gunter."

"...Is the guy insane or what...?"

"Watch your mouth, punk."

Thwack. The corporal's hand meeting the private's back of the head brought the lively chatter to an end. And remarkably, not a word of those rumors was false.