Chapter 8
Chapter 8
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: How to Befriend Seniors (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
“Rommel, want a smoke?”
What the hell, where did this cigarette come from?
I hesitated for a moment before extending my hand.
“...Thanks.”
I’d sworn not to smoke in this life...
But when Senior Student offered it so amiably, I couldn’t exactly turn it down.
It’s absolutely not because I was blinded by the pack. My will is like steel.
Before long, I’d grown close enough with Senior Student and a handful of other upperclassmen that we were sharing smokes in the corner.
“...Where on earth do you get luxuries like this?”
“What, already worrying how you’ll get them after we graduate?”
“...Haha.”
I let out an awkward laugh, and the senior flashed a sly grin.
He voiced the excuses I’d been making for myself.
“Life at cadet school is pure hell, isn’t it? Once you get a taste for contraband like this in that environment, how hard do you think it is to quit?”
“Exactly.”
Cadet school was brutally harsh.
In an era where the only entertainment was crosswords anyway, the constant oppression made it nearly unbearable.
It wasn’t mindless drilling—they bound your mind with endless restrictions.
And that feeling like you’ve hit your limit...
“Phew...”
“Smoked a bit before, huh?”
The smoke drifted away, filling my soul with bliss.
Senior Student exhaled a plume of his own and continued.
“You asked how we smuggle this stuff in? It’s a kind of tradition.”
He explained that the school was built like a fortress, complete with secret passages to the outside.
“Graduated seniors send people through those passages with snacks and such. Just like their seniors did for them.”
“Hoo...”
“The instructors and commandant know about it but turn a blind eye. Maybe they think loosening up from second year is wise, or maybe they just respect tradition—who knows.”
“Fascinating. A place like cadet school, which seems like an impenetrable fortress, has stuff like this going on...”
“Heh.”
Even cadet school was run by humans, after all.
I’d never heard about this tradition... but it wasn’t the kind of thing that’d make the records.
“As the top student, I’ll probably be in charge of contraband management until mid-year.”
Senior Student twirled the cigarette pack with flashy fingerwork as he spoke.
“But when I graduate, it’ll probably get handed off to you. Get what I’m saying?”
“Buy the cadets’ favor with the contraband?”
“It’s real power. Win hearts or freeze someone out of the group.”
Those connections wouldn’t end at officer school—they’d last into active duty...
I barely suppressed a grin tugging at my lips.
It was the ideal position I wanted. Not flashy enough to inspire envy, but wielding real behind-the-scenes influence.
A spot that let me approach the Junkers subtly drawing lines against a commoner upstart like me.
“Knew a smart guy like you would catch on. It’s a chance to offset that fatal flaw of your commoner birth.”
The senior patted my shoulder and went on.
“My classmates seem to like you well enough too, so just keep your grades up. The spot’s yours.”
“It’s not exactly clean work, though. What if something goes wrong?”
“Of course there’s risk. If a nutjob commandant takes over one day and cracks down on smuggling, military life’s over on the spot.”
But judging by his playful tone, that wasn’t likely.
Made sense—a tradition didn’t survive without reason.
“Understood. I’ll do my best.”
“Mm-hmm, good man.”
Snap! The senior caught the spinning pack and tucked it into my pocket.
“Take this. Apology for coming at you so aggressively at first.”
“No need. Your reputation was on the line. I’ll just think of it as a gift.”
“Smooth talker. Skip parade training tomorrow—heard Count Schlieffen caught a cold.”
With that, Senior Student turned to leave.
“See you after parade. Study hard for midterms.”
“Yes, sir.”
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
With Count Schlieffen down with a cold and halting public appearances, peace finally returned to me.
No more nail-biting worry about getting caught swapping out gear during parade drills.
On the other hand, I felt a twinge of guilt, like maybe I was the reason he got sick.
Oh well, what could I do?
“Check this out! Last year’s ‘Deutschland (LZ 7)’ airship—they’re launching it this year!”
Manfred shoved a newspaper with an airship illustration in my face.
Ever since I’d baited him into it, he’d thrown himself into aviation knowledge.
“Imagine! An airship like this could carry enough bombs for passengers too! Sneak into the enemy rear and wreck their supply lines!”
True to Prussian soldier form, Manfred tied every bit of it to warfare.
I smiled indulgently through his spiel, but eventually snapped at the sheer absurdity.
“Or use it for resupply! Drop goods to encircled troops! Keeps their combat strength up until they break the siege!”
“...You think?”
“...A guy can dream.”
He pouted for a second, then his eyes lit up again.
“Fine, then enlighten us, authority on modern warfare Lieutenant Rommel—what role could airships play?”
I scratched my head thoughtfully before answering.
“None, probably.”
“You trash. Zeppelin would have your head.”
“Come on, airships are just lumbering giant targets. Might shine early war, but long-term? No way.”
Bombing accuracy sucked, payloads were underwhelming, slow as hell, weather-sensitive, flimsy defenses.
And crazy expensive, with recon planes and fighters outclassing them anyway—why bother?
I ticked off the flaws one by one, and Manfred snatched back the paper.
“Aircraft are the future, obviously.”
“...”
Well... quick pivots were a soldierly virtue too.
Oh, speaking of fighters...
“Hm.”
I grabbed a sheet of paper and started sketching.
Manfred, fresh off the aviation article, peered over curiously.
“Whatcha drawing?”
“Thinking of filing a patent. Take a look.”
Simple design—didn’t take long.
Manfred tilted his head at first, then dropped the paper and dove into the sketch.
“...This is!”
“What do you think?”
“Revolutionary! It’s that, right?!”
Manfred shouted excitedly.
Aviation nerd spotted it right away.
“Fighter machine gun setup!”
“More precisely, ‘synchronizer gear.’”
Early fighters mounted machine guns on wings or struts—not the prop nose we know.
Best spot was behind the prop, and some did it, but...
Huge problem: bullets chewing your own propeller.
“But mount cams on the prop shaft like this, push up the cam follower...”
“Got it—links to the gun via lever.”
“Exactly. Every prop rotation interrupts firing automatically.”
“With this... fighters become viable overnight!”
I tidied the sketch for patent filing with a grin.
Send it to Dad for application... that’d rake in some cash.
Perfect. Need more patents like this to build funds.
Early 20th-century wild savanna out there, but Dad had connections and pull—no patent trolls for us.
‘Just gotta pace it—not pull too much aggro.’
“Oh, and if you patent this, mind if I write some aviation folks?”
“Go for it. You know people?”
“Heh, been buddying up with classmates into gliders and planes lately.”
Manfred puffed up proudly, and for some reason, I wanted to smack him.
Guy was so lighthearted, his charisma was off the charts. Even dying to network, I couldn’t pull that off.
Oblivious to my souring face, he kept going.
“Know a guy who knows a guy... I can even write Count Zeppelin direct!”
“Skip him. He’s airships only—no fixed-wing interest.”
“How about Dr. Junkers?”
“Junkers?”
Junkers... that Junkers I knew?
The Stuka guy?
“Hugo Junkers?”
“You know him too! Not famous yet, but I’m betting he pioneers German aviation!”
Oh.
Oh... Manfred.
Now I get why you’re so popular.
This dude had real talent!