Chapter 4
Chapter 4
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: To the Rhineland Front (3)
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Over the course of that allotted month, I trained the platoon’s soldiers in a variety of ways.
Drill exercises to instill discipline and unify their movements, the four essential spear-handling techniques with proper stances for each motion, basic physical conditioning, classes to ensure they could instantly comprehend the platoon leader’s orders, PT gymnastics, route marches, and so on...
Of course, all based on things anyone who’s served in the Korean military—or even just watched YouTube videos without enlisting—would know well.
It might seem rudimentary, but in a world where military science hovered between the medieval era and early modern times, even this foundational training amounted to a military revolution.
The Reich Empire’s army did have dedicated courses for officers and knights, spanning years to build the competencies of true soldiers, and they did impart bits and pieces of that to the rank-and-file in crash courses.
But whipping conscripts into shape to flawlessly execute orders like “left,” “right,” or “form anti-cavalry square” in such a short time was an excruciating ordeal.
Small wonder, then, that the Empire’s military manual opened with this gem:
“In training, it suffices to teach them how to hold the spear, march, and thrust. The rest, they’ll pick up on the battlefield by imitating the veterans.”
Yet the Jaeger Platoon now...
“Commence training! Jaeger Platoon, form anti-cavalry square! Enemy knights approaching from the right!”
Sergeant Michael Schmidt repeated my command.
“Each squad, form anti-cavalry square! Knights incoming!”
At that order, the spear-wielding soldiers precisely angled their long spears at 45 degrees to the ground, gripping the middle with their right hands as if measured with a ruler.
Simultaneously, their left hands rested on the hilts of the swords at their right sides, ready for what came after the charge.
The two crossbowmen per squad leveled their weapons seamlessly through the tight ranks.
The square formed perfectly in about 50 seconds.
Considering it had taken over ten minutes the first time, the progress was nothing short of emotional.
“Crossbowmen, target the horses and loose on my mark, then reload! Spearmen, aim for the horses’ jaws! Enemy closing in!”
At my next command, the soldiers—eyes flashing like they were in live combat—snapped their weapons toward the imaginary foe, demonstrating what rigorous training really meant.
The crossbowmen loosed first, firing blunt-tipped bolts, while the spearmen drove their spear butts deeper into the earth.
Five seconds later, they adjusted the spear tips to the height of a horse’s throat.
Thanks to their diligent practice, every man handled his spear at the same angle and speed—the sight straight out of a movie scene.
“At ease!”
With that, they pivoted right in unison, tilting their spears forward about 30 degrees.
Their idle left arms snapped straight to their sides at a perfect angle.
Just their postures alone evoked battle-hardened veterans who’d rolled through years of war.
As all eyes fixed on me, I spoke.
“Less than a month into training, and you move as one. I’m thoroughly satisfied.”
To be sure, a close inspection would reveal plenty of rough edges, and refining them bit by bit would spur further growth.
But with only two days until the mock battle...
Training wrapped for the day, leaving just one. Crash-fixing flaws now would yield zero results.
Worse, drilling them without rest right up to the eve would sap their stamina and tank combat effectiveness.
In this situation, the smart play was blanket praise to skyrocket morale.
“You’ve felt the change in yourselves and the platoon already, but mark this: as of today, you’ve graduated from chirping rookies who can’t tell left from right. As Empire soldiers, you can now sync seamlessly not just with your squadmates, but with any unit. I’m proud of you all for enduring this grueling regimen without complaint.”
Memories of past ordeals flashing through their minds—or perhaps sheer pride in their own resilience—the soldiers answered my declaration of their growth with resounding applause.
“Training ends here today. Tomorrow, we’ll just review what we’ve drilled—no extras. And to pray for victory, we’ll hold a platoon feast, but alcohol’s off-limits.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed their faces, but it couldn’t be helped.
Stumbling drunk into the mock battle would waste a month’s work.
“Instead, win the mock battle the day after, and you can guzzle booze and gorge on meat to your hearts’ content. I stake my name as platoon leader on it. Think you can do it?”
Their response roared as one.
“Yes, sir! We can!”
“Good. Dismissed—rest up.”
The day before the Imperial Academy cadets’ selection mock battle for Rhineland Front deployment.
Lieutenant Colonel Hans Weber, tapped as an examiner, toured the training grounds to assess if any platoon leaders showed promise.
But he seethed with resentment at being pulled from his battalion’s frontline grind for this.
And rightly so—the real reason for his dispatch was to stage a scene the Emperor desired: academy dropouts rushing to the Rhineland Front first.
The Crown Prince, moved by their zeal, would then step up to the frontlines himself, proving his mettle as heir apparent—and that would be trumpeted Empire-wide.
“His Majesty’s devotion to the Crown Prince is understandable, but with twenty academy cadets volunteering, that’s nigh on 700 troops attached. Can greenhorns really wield trained soldiers effectively in battle?”
The colonel grumbled, envisioning endless retraining for soldiers botched by book-smart novices.
As he walked, he spotted the nearest platoon: Cadet Richard de Feynman’s.
“Mock battle’s tomorrow! Win, and booze, meat, women are yours! Charge ahead—lower spears!”
Feynman’s soldiers advanced one step, two, spears leveled per orders.
But strides mismatched wildly, thrusts rippling like waves on a chant.
They hustled, blinded by promised rewards, but enthusiasm sans skill was worthless.
“Useless in combat. Might have to suggest to His Majesty reassigning these academy-trained platoons to rear echelon support.”
The cadets would learn supply ops’ value, earn patriot creds, and spin tales of the Crown Prince praising their fervent youth in menial roles.
Having remotely gauged dozens of trainees, the colonel addressed the escorting professor.
“Professor Byulot, apologies, but no point lingering here.”
The words stunned—no value in inspecting further—but the implication cut deeper.
No frontline-worthy talent in this batch.
That could impugn the professors of the upper years.
Even mid-tier applicants nearing graduation should perform adequately regardless of grades.
Byulot broke into a cold sweat.
“No, no—several more to go, yes? Our cadets may be talented, but to a commander like you, Colonel Weber, they’re just fledglings. And it’s only been a month of training!”
Weber nodded, seemingly convinced.
“True, even academy second lieutenants take one or two years to trust as platoon leaders. Expecting cadets to forge a solid platoon in a month is tall order. If they need just light field seasoning, I’ll call it a win.”
“Haha, much appreciated.”
“I’ll reassess. Hold on.”
He adjusted his evaluation sheets: from “combat-ready” to “needs polish but functional.”
Downward revisions across the board, then:
“Peter Jaeger’s platoon last. We’ll wrap here and head back to rest.”
And so, he approached the final evaluation: Peter Jaeger’s platoon.
“Mock battle tomorrow, so just anti-cavalry drill today. Finish strong—I’ll let you feast after!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Enemy infantry approaching! Lower spears—brace!”
Spears—four meters long—angled to throat height, the mass advancing in lockstep.
“They’re here! Sweep and thrust!”
The infantry whipped spears right to parry imaginary foes, then lunged in unison at necks.
Unveteraned and muscle-limited, their speed wasn’t lightning—but the cohesion screamed battlefield viable.
Professor Byulot and Colonel Weber stared, incredulous that one cadet had forged a proper platoon in a month.
“Well done, all. Under the deputy, hit the supply merchant for all-you-can-eat meat. Just don’t gorge till you’re sidelined for the mock battle. Dismissed.”
Both wanted to grill him on his methods...
But status quo’d their tongues.
Weber, who’d picked that four-year-old Peter—now Peter Jaeger—in interviews, thought:
The kid I selected just might be the genius to upend Empire military doctrine from the roots.