Soldiers Must Eat to March (2)
“I am Albrecht von Wallenstein, transferred here as of today by order of His Excellency the Governor-General of Bohemia.”
The man sitting before me wore a thoroughly unimpressed expression. He probably had zero interest in someone like me.
“I am Michael Falkenheim, colonel of the 12th Regiment where you’ll be serving. From now on, Lieutenant Wallenstein, you’ll serve under my command as a lieutenant and fight those Ottoman bastards over there.”
The Holy Roman Empire, the nation I now belonged to, had been locked in a grueling thirteen-year war with the Ottoman Turks. Even the Bohemian Crown Lands had mobilized large forces several times to join the fight. Back then, I’d been too young, and my tiny fief had been too insignificant to receive orders to send troops, so this was my first time actually participating in the war against the Ottoman Turks.
“I assume you’ve heard the rough state of the war on your way here.”
“Yes, I understand the war against the Ottoman Turks is currently at a stalemate.”
To be precise, the Holy Roman Empire’s forces held a slight edge over the Ottoman Turkish army. Their strategic goal was to capture Vienna, the empire’s capital, while ours was to reclaim the Hungary Kingdom from them. The current battlefield was Hungary, where both sides were locked in fierce struggles over its castles and fortresses.
The Holy Roman Empire has at least occupied a tiny sliver of Hungary.
“You know your stuff. The current situation is hard to call a clear victory for either side.”
This war would drag on for another three years in tedious siege after siege. In the end, the Holy Roman Empire would succeed in bringing Hungary under its influence.
Later, those cowardly Ottomans would even incite rebellions, but they’d ultimately fail.
“And this war will be a terribly tedious one. Young lieutenants like you must be eager to rack up merits, earn recognition from the King of Bohemia or His Imperial Majesty… but it won’t be easy to stand out in this campaign.”
Up until World War I and II, wars were seen almost like extreme sports. In the 18th and 19th centuries, plenty of young men even enjoyed enlisting as a thrilling escape. Battles back then—sieges aside—rarely dragged on forever, and as long as you didn’t suffer a catastrophic defeat, your odds of survival were pretty good.
Among us young nobles from the lower rungs, 99% had joined up to turn our fates around through battlefield glory. Impress the emperor or some high lord with merits, and you could change your stars overnight. The original owner of this body, Wallenstein, had been a mere village head until he converted to curry favor with the emperor—and then his luck turned. And I’d volunteered immediately at the King of Bohemia’s order because I wanted the same.
“Understood, sir.”
A flicker of approval entered Colonel Falkenheim’s eyes, which had been looking at me so apathetically moments before.
“Aren’t you interested in earning merits?”
Saying I had no interest in merits here would brand me as lazy and unambitious in the colonel’s eyes. A bad first impression could take years to shake, so I had to answer carefully. Failing to win his favor wouldn’t end my life, but it would set back my path to advancement.
“How could I, a noble of the Holy Roman Empire, have no interest in earning merits? But when you get down to it, merits are a minor matter.”
“I’ve got over fifteen young nobles your age serving under me, all bloodthirsty for glory… and yet you think differently.”
“Earning merits matters, of course, but isn’t the most important thing serving His Imperial Majesty? Compared to that, merits are secondary, in my view.”
During the Hundred Years’ War, French nobles got so obsessed with personal heroics that they’d charge lance-first without orders, only to get shredded by English longbows and traps. Things weren’t much different in this era of tercio tactics with matchlocks and pikes. Hot-blooded young nobles, blinded by glory, would break formation with their units—and those units often got wiped out. In the worst cases, it turned winnable battles into defeats. The colonel, a veteran of over a decade in this endless war, must have eyed me warily for that reason.
“Youngsters these days are all impatience, no foresight… but you seem different.”
“Thank you, Colonel. And there’s one favor I’d like to ask.”
“If it’s not too much, I’ll see what I can do.”
Whether in a 21st-century army or a 17th-century European one, a mere platoon had limited impact on the battlefield. You needed lieutenant colonel rank at least to lead something meaningful and claim real credit—otherwise, you just followed orders and prayed not to catch a bullet. And I was a young noble who’d never commanded so much as a squad in my life.
Standing out as a mere platoon leader? Impossible.
So, what could I do right now that would yield visible results?
“Please assign me as the supply officer.”
The colonel’s eyes went wide at my words.
“Fighting on the front lines is still the best way to earn merits. Why aim for supplies of all things?”
Even in the 21st century, supply roles were seen as dead-end “easy jobs” that stalled promotions—you needed staff or ops positions for that. In the 17th century, steeped in chivalry and macho culture, volunteering for supplies was like declaring you had no ambition. Worse, it’d brand you a coward hiding from bullets.
“I hold a bachelor’s degree in law from Altdorf University, and in earning it, I studied accounting ledgers and various laws extensively. So I believe my skills are best used supporting those fighting on the front, not fighting there myself.”
“A university degree—quite the scholar, eh.”
In 21st-century Korea, bachelor’s degrees were a dime a dozen, but here, they were like passing the civil service exam with flying colors. Even a serf with one could demand knightly treatment anywhere and land a mid-level government post equivalent to a corporate section chief.
“Very well, have it your way. Serving as a supply officer is still loyal duty, after all.”
Whether he disliked me going into supplies or not, Colonel Falkenheim promptly dismissed me. Assigned as the quartermaster officer, I resolved to produce visible results right away.
“The Holy Roman Empire’s army is currently suffering massive financial woes.”
Giorgio Basta, the corps commander over our regiment, hadn’t been paid in roughly three years starting this one. His mercenaries—no, the emperor’s own army—were one step from bankruptcy.
“If I can cut costs without skimping on supplies, my presence in the regiment will stand out for sure.”
In a pinch where every coin counted, saving budget and maintaining supply quality? Who wouldn’t love a quartermaster like that?
“The easiest place to start… is food.”
This era hadn’t adopted standardization yet. Supplies were bought by rough guesswork on needs.
That’s where the money leaks.
Just plugging those gaps would help immensely. Figuring out per-soldier consumption and scaling to a thousand men—that alone would do it.
As the saying goes, strike while the iron’s hot. I planted myself next to the camp merchant handling our food supplies.
“Alright, let’s properly measure how much soldiers eat in this era.”
The others gave strange looks to a lieutenant scribbling notes by a merchant, but I didn’t care. I’d prove it with results soon enough.
**