A New Era (3)

And so, in those days when some inscrutable twist of fate had planted young Ernest Bethell and William Russell in Uiju as war correspondents, the man whose every step Bethell's eyes had been tracking — Sergeant Hong Beom-do of the 3rd Regiment's Armored Infantry, the outfit they called the Lobster Corps — was marching along with a look of pure boredom, his kit slung over both shoulders.

As for how Hong Beom-do, a boy of roughly Bethell's own age, had come to be addressed not as a private but as a sergeant, an NCO — that was another story.

"Yes, sir."

"Louder! Do you understand?"

"YES, SIR!!!"

That was the speech Han Seong-geun, commander of the 3rd Regiment, had delivered after assembling his men.

And then there was the other rumor: that any day now, His Excellency the President himself would come down to the front on a so-called inspection — that the great man intended to look upon his soldiers with his own eyes, even here, on the most dangerous stretch of the line.

Hong Beom-do had not believed a word of it at first. But every time the story made the rounds, he watched the regiment commander shoot murderous looks at the political officers who had, at some point, attached themselves to the unit — and gradually he began to accept that it might actually happen.

Still, a knot of disbelief had coiled itself somewhere in his chest, and it would not stop whispering.

Is he really going to come?

To a boy who had already walked the line between life and death on a real battlefield, the idea made no sense at all. Didn't men of high rank — men who believed themselves precious — go out of their way to avoid anything dangerous or filthy, scrambling to hide their existence from the lowly? The way a man steps around the filthy muck of a rain-soaked road?

His commanding officer and the other generals, it seemed, saw things differently.

"War correspondents will be coming around before long, pestering you for your impressions of the fighting. Answer them properly. This is a decision of great purpose, handed down by His Excellency himself."

And so the entire regiment was given a stern warning: do absolutely nothing that the largely foreign press corps could seize upon. And what sort of things might that include? Looting. Robbery. Rape. Assault. The usual catalogue of wartime sins. Anyone caught at it, the commander promised, would have both legs broken and be packed off home as a disabled veteran.

It was not an idle threat. Han Seong-geun had issued standing orders to the military police and the attached political officers to patrol the occupied zone and the surrounding villages on a regular schedule. Which was how the Armored Infantry had managed, under the convenient pretext of "physical conditioning," to slip out of the choking atmosphere of the occupied territory and make a brief escape back to Uiju.

In that respect, their company commander, Captain Nam Man-ri, was a more than decent officer.

The man knows how to be flexible.

He had a talent for dressing up a scheme in a plausible excuse — physical training, of course — slipping it past the military police and the political officers, and getting his men a bowl of rice wine and a proper rest in Uiju, which had by now become the rear. A man who knew how to work an angle.

One of the armored infantrymen, uncomfortably aware of young Bethell's gaze — a look thick with admiration and curiosity — kept his eyes locked forward and grumbled under his breath.

"Training. In the middle of a war. God damn it all! Training, at my age! A war, at my age!"

Great support means great responsibility, they said. What kind of horseshit logic was that? As if it weren't miserable enough getting thrown into a brawl with Qing bastards in this northern wilderness at his age.

Young Hong Beom-do let the old veteran's complaints wash in one ear and out the other, and snorted a laugh. There was such a thing as a lot in life turning out too well. This was the whining of a man with a full belly.

He said as much, taking a swig from his canteen — not water, but water mixed with roasted grain powder.

"Heh. Our pay went up, didn't it? And the rations, and the kit — they send us whatever we ask for, first in line. I heard even these boots were supposed to go to the 1st Regiment. They snatched them and shipped them to us instead."

Hardtack crumbs were already stuck to the corners of his mouth. He was not wrong. The Armored Infantry, basking in everyone's attention, was overflowing with boots, rations, snacks, kit, and Western rifles. Word was the staff had even promised to issue every armored infantryman a repeating pistol before long — a double-action, or a six-shooter, or whatever they called the thing.

"Where else in the world is there a General Staff that actually listens when you whine that rifles are a pain in the ass to carry in an assault?"

"You're the one who chimed in and agreed with them."

"Well, they are inconvenient."

Having charged a fortress gate himself, Hong Beom-do had thought much the same. Better to go over the wall with a pistol in one hand and a war club in the other than to storm a position with a rifle bouncing and snagging on your shoulder the whole way.

"Still — who expected them to send the things the very next day?"

That was the problem. Within hours of the complaint being lodged — the very day after the fighting at Jiuliancheng — a crate of fifty Western pistols had come flying into Uiju. On the personal orders of His Excellency the President, they were told, after he had personally reviewed the local situation and the after-action reports.

Of course, those reports and that "local situation" had not come from Han Seong-geun's desk. They were the product of the political officers in each unit, who had been eavesdropping on the armored infantrymen's griping. Nobody needed that spelled out for them. Which was why a fair number of men had been hauled before the regiment commander — the oldest and highest-ranking man in the unit — and given a thorough working-over the night before.

"Uncanny, that's what it is. Enough to make a ghost scream."

It was not, of course, anything of the sort. Hong Beom-do and the rest of the 3rd Regiment had long since learned of the telegraph and the signalmen who worked it. They could feel the world changing around them, faster every day.

"So the fact that we're walking around in these fine leather boots isn't particularly strange either."

As he said it, Hong Beom-do lifted the square-toed leather boot on his foot to knee height. Now this, he thought, is a piece of kit. Even in the rain, your feet did not sink into the muck and come up soaked. On the day they had stormed the gate, not a single man had lost his footing or gone down. And on a march this long, you raised fewer blisters than you ever had in straw sandals — the soles of your feet actually felt easy.

"Besides, our vanguard scores itself a haul of leather shoes every other day. The other units probably think we're boiling soup out of leather boots."

"Heh. Before the revolution, we might've been hungry enough to actually do it."

In any case, the leather boots — something they had never had before — had made the soldiers' lives considerably more comfortable. Which, naturally, had the other regiments in an uproar, convinced their own share had been stolen. Most of the Republican Army still marched with three or four pairs of straw sandals lashed to their packs; only the senior generals and the officers from well-off families were exceptions. Set against that reality, the armored infantrymen in their solid ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠American leather boots were enjoying a privilege of a different order entirely. There was even a rumor making the rounds that the war had driven the price of straw sandals across all eight provinces up nearly threefold, a full-blown shortage.

Privilege or not, when Hong Beom-do told them to quit talking and keep marching, the old veteran snapped back — and, in the same breath, seemed to concede ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the point, shrugging his shoulders.

"Tsk. That's because we're always the ones standing at the head of the column, in the worst of it. It's only fair!"

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir."

And so, as they did every day, the Armored Infantry pushed on.

While Hong Beom-do and his comrades joshed and recovered their strength in Uiju, the mood among the regiment commanders and staff officers gathered at Jiuliancheng — already turning their minds to the next objective — was decidedly bright.

"According to the telegram from the Vice-Minister of Military Affairs, the Hyangbogun called up from Pyeongan Province, Hamgyong, and Gyeonggi, along with their accompanying regiments, will be assigned to each of your divisions within three days at the earliest."

"That's considerably faster than I expected."

"I thought we'd be lucky to reach full strength by the end of the month."

The reason for the good cheer was simple: the speed of the conscription, and the regiments taking shape far sooner than anyone had dared hope.

"We all set our minds to this war from the very beginning, did we not? This is the natural result."

Yun Ung-ryeol put in from the side, and the commanders around the table nodded. In the days after the revolution, how many officers and generals had sat with their heads in their hands, wrestling with documents, bracing for the fury of the Qing?

Seo Gwang-beom brought them back to the matter at hand, passing a sheaf of papers to each commander and regimental staff officer.

"The full-strength organization standards for each division and regiment. Please review them."

This was the assignment of the incoming Hyangbogun, and the supply plan that went with it. This, in other words, was the whole of Operation Blue — the true shape of the divisional scheme that the Wolf's Lair had kept under a veil of threats and secrecy.

In peacetime, the regular infantry regiments would operate at roughly one-third strength. When war came, Hyangbogun conscripted from every region and from across the country would be attached, and the formations reconstituted as full divisions. Looking at a conscription law that actually functioned, and at the Hyangbogun now being called up, the Republic would be capable of putting five United States-style regular infantry divisions into the field in wartime.

For a while the only sound in the command tent was the soft rustle of paper as men turned pages. Han Seong-geun, commander of the 3rd Regiment, was the first to speak.

"Two Hyangbogun regiments attached to each regular regiment — that's roughly six thousand men. So two regular regiments make a division. And the artillery?"

"The artillery battalions are specialist personnel, so we've held them out. For the moment, French batteries seconded from the Far East Squadron will fill the gap. In time, if the Republic has the means—"

"Keep senior ranks at the higher echelons to manage the specialist branches, and attach them only in wartime to operate at divisional level. Good. I understand."

It was a sound arrangement. The specialists would train and maintain their equipment in peacetime; the ordinary infantry would not be left sitting in garrison, generating nothing but resentment. Efficient — and dangerous.

"Efficient, yes. But there is a risk. We prepared for this war. We ground our teeth and struck first. If anything goes wrong, however, this plan is the Imo Incident all over again."

The staff of the northern expeditionary divisions, who had only now grasped what the Wolf's Lair and the Ministry of the Army were actually planning, bowed their heads at Han Seong-geun's explanation — and at the danger it contained.

"If the enemy crosses the border without a declaration of war, we have no response and no strategy prepared for it. This mobilization plan is efficient only if we assume we will always be the ones on the offensive. Am I wrong?"

The point was a fair one. If the enemy broke through the frontier in a surprise attack, or drove on the capital, the rear-area units would have to meet them with incomplete organizations, their call-up unfinished.

Yun Ung-ryeol, who had been listening in silence, stepped in. He approached the problem from a practical angle — the actual habits and training of the provincial forces as they stood.

"The plan already carries a note that the border divisions are to be kept at full strength even in peacetime, so that much is covered, is it not? As for the rear-area units — they're already being pulled into every construction project under the sun. The provincial troops spend more time with shovels in their hands than they do training as it is."

"That's not wrong. But if this war ends in a Republican victory, the situation will change."

"Change how?"

"When the fighting is over, we will have to plant our garrisons even further north. Take our next objective, for instance — Shengjing."

He pushed aside the scattered wooden markers and tapped the city labeled Shengjing.

"Between Liaoxi and Liaodong there are ruined fortresses and old walls, but there is no natural frontier to draw a clean line between them. No river. No mountain range."

"The locals keep talking about Geumsuk Mountain, do they not?"

"That's south of Shengjing. We fully intend to sweep Liaodong in this campaign. If we abandon a city like Shengjing and try to make Geumsuk Mountain our defensive line, who in their right mind would resettle in Shengjing?"

The other staff officers frowned. He was right. Geumsuk Mountain lay south of Shengjing — a range that widened a little north of the Yalu, and a poor candidate, in every respect, to serve as the border of a Liaodong newly absorbed into the Republic.

Seo ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Gwang-beom, recognizing that no amount of private worrying in this tent would produce a solution without the Treasury and His Excellency's approval, moved to put the matter down.

"Let us table this for a separate proposal at the Cabinet, and turn for now to how we will divide the incoming regiments and the fully constituted divisions."

"Agreed."

The two men nodded and, drawing on a conversation they had already had, began to lay the operation out for the rest of the command.

"First, the 3rd Regiment — the 3rd Division, I should say. The Pyeongan Division will take Shengjing, as planned."

"Our 6th Division, the Hamgyong Division, will push farther still — to Yingkou."

"Yingkou—"

"A naval port at the tip of the Liaodong Peninsula. The point of this plan is to bottle up the Beiyang Fleet's operating waters around the peninsula, and, should they attempt to reach the mainland, to wreck both Shengjing — which would serve as their rear-area hub — and the naval port at Yingkou."

Yun Ung-ryeol and Han Seong-geun each laid out their own objectives. Then it was Seo Gwang-beom's turn.

"We will make for Dalian. As the two generals have just described, we will constrain the Beiyang Fleet's operating waters and, at the same time, fortify Dalian Harbor — the one place that would give the enemy a viable environment to land a large army."

"And the other regiments and divisions arriving afterward?"

"Before we advance on the next objective, Shenyang, they will sweep the surrounding towns and villages of Liaodong in a single stroke. We confirmed just before the war that the bandits of Liaodong and Manchuria had gone over to the Qing. A suppression campaign will be conducted to prevent them from harassing our rear."

When Seo Gwang-beom finished, red lines sprawled across the map, cutting through Qing territory in every direction. In one corner of the command tent, the telegraph the signalman was working ticked away in a steady mechanical rhythm, tireless and precise.