Soldiers Must Eat to March (3)
Over the course of a week, I meticulously recorded how much food the soldiers ate each day. I didn't weigh every single loaf of bread or hunk of meat they bought and consumed. Just looking at what one soldier or one officer purchased from the sutlers—how much and what kind—was enough to figure it out. And since I couldn't track all 1,200 men in the regiment by myself, my sample was limited to roughly one company... but this should be plenty to average out.
"They're not eating as much as I thought."
In our regiment, monthly consumption came to 20 tons of wheat, 14 tons of peas, 1,000 chickens, 25 cows, and so on. Divide that by the per-person daily intake, and you get about 1.5 kg of bread and 450g of meat per soldier. In calories, that's roughly 4,200 a day.
"The poor peasants are starving through famines, but they're busting their asses to feed the mercenaries well. If that's just how it is, then sure, it's how it is..."
One side eats as well as a 21st-century army—at least on paper—while the other worries every winter if they'll survive the hunger and shortages. It was absurd when I thought about it. The world was unfair by nature, but the Holy Roman Emperor seemed less concerned with feeding his people than preventing his soldiers from mutinying.
It stirred a bit of complicated feeling in me, but that wasn't important right now. What mattered was that I'd prepared data showing clear, immediate results.
"Major Trotska, I have something urgent to report."
Trotska gave me a thoroughly bored look at my words.
"What is it, Lieutenant Wallenstein? You know I'm busy... keep it very brief."
Busy? The man looked bored enough to yawn. Sure, in a 17th-century army, a supply officer was seen as a cushy post, but didn't he know poor logistics could wipe out a force before they even fought?
I couldn't show my frustration to my superior, though, so I kept my expression neutral and pressed on.
"I've found a way to drastically cut food procurement costs."
"And what's that?"
"Buy exactly the right amounts of bread, meat, and other rations from the sutlers every day, cook them up, and serve them. Then collect the cost from the regiment's soldiers. I'd like to call this the canteen system."
Trotska waved me off lazily, as if it was too much hassle.
"Enthusiasm's fine, but I don't see why we'd bother. Let the sutlers follow us around like always—the soldiers buy what they need. In return, they slip us some cash, pay the mercenaries a cut for the privilege... it's profitable."
Even 21st-century Korean armies had kickbacks sometimes. Suppliers jacked up prices for access, then gifted "tokens of appreciation" (cash) to officers. Famous results included seafood bibim sauce or sleeping bags so heavy they won prizes for weight but not warmth. They called it "livelihood corruption" sometimes. In the 17th century? No way it didn't happen.
"As you know, sir, they only bribe because they expect 30, 60, maybe 100 times the profit. Even if we forgo some kickbacks and their payments to us, managing the food ourselves will net more in the end."
With that, I politely handed him the neatly bound stack of papers.
"This is a detailed record of meals for 118 officers and men in Captain Droph's company. Based on it, each soldier eats about 3.5 pounds (1.5 kg) of bread and 1 pound (450g) of beef daily. Factoring in extras for the full 130 portions, plus transport costs and sutler profits, it comes to about 1,200 florins a month per company."
Ten florins bought a cow, so 1,200 was like 120 cows. Or two city mansions. An insane sum.
Even if houses are cheap compared to the 21st century, this is ridiculous.
"Right now, one company costs around 1,700 florins monthly for food. With twelve companies in the regiment, that's 6,000 florins saved a month."
"Yes, sir. And if we charge soldiers 1,500 florins per company under the guise of efficient rations saving them money... that's 3,600 florins profit monthly. More than the sutlers' kickbacks, right?"
"They only pay us 200-300 florins a month. Yeah, this is way better."
Even after showing massive savings, Trotska's face stayed glum. A supply staffer fixing the regiment's finances should at least fake some joy. Supply was a dead-end job beyond graft, but still—this was too much.
Whatever. He joined to eat well and live well, like me. Losing income pissed him off. Confucius said even clear water couldn't sustain life without some compromise with corruption. I wasn't some eternal loyalist; my goal was promotion, proving myself, and enjoying every luxury this world offered.
Some compromise is necessary.
"Sir."
"What?"
"...Hate to bring it up, but the 1,200 florins per company already includes generous kickbacks for you, me, and the supply officers."
"How much?"
"About 60 florins for us out of that. Regiment-wide, 720 florins a month. Not bad, right?"
Only then did a smile crack his face.
"...That's decent. Very decent. Smart guy—college boy for a reason. Knowing our finances are tight and coming up with this? Young nobles chasing glory are half as good as you—no, a quarter."
He patted my shoulder.
"I'll take your proposal to Colonel Falkenheim myself."
Trying to spoon off the credit? Fine, do what you want. Even if he did, I'd be the one known for this oddball policy amid the rumors.
Major Trotska headed straight to his superior, Colonel Falkenheim. To implement Lieutenant Wallenstein's canteen system ASAP and fatten his pockets a bit more.
"Supply officer or not, promotion in the Imperial army is done. Time to grab extra cash and retire."
Born third son of a Russian baronial family, he'd rolled the dice for decades on mercenary life. Europe was full of noble seconds and thirds like him, building careers in condottieri bands. Even Imperial generals hailed from France, England, Sweden.
Scraping by as a merc had gotten him this far, but the Empire offered no further path, and he'd saved enough. Post-war retirement beckoned.
One big score before bowing out.
"Colonel, sir, I have a new policy to propose."
"You, proposing policy? Sun'll rise in the west tomorrow."
"It's from Lieutenant Wallenstein under me. Seems solid."
He'd have loved claiming it himself, but Wallenstein's flashy supply efforts were too public, while he'd always seemed apathetic. Lies would backfire, so he'd give full credit.
"Oh? What is it?"
Falkenheim had lost interest when Wallenstein volunteered for supplies on arrival. Young nobles should fight upfront for glory, not hide shuffling papers—that wasn't manly. But unlike glory-hounds, he'd prioritized Imperial service, staying cool-headed over hot-blooded. Impressive.
Just wished he wasn't shy of the front lines.
A little polish, and he'd be a fine officer, commander—a real talent.
"It's called the canteen system. Implement it, and we maintain food quality while saving 6,000 florins monthly on rations. Plus, collect 3,600 more from the men."
"...Save on food and make money? How?"
Trotska explained the whole thing.
"Fascinating. So the unit provides meals and bills the soldiers?"
"Yes, sir."
"With the war dragging and pay from the homeland drying up, we need to cut costs like this. Approved."
Soon, the canteen system rolled out, vastly improving the 12th Regiment's finances under Falkenheim. Views of Wallenstein as an eccentric shifted dramatically... and word reached Giorgio Basta, overall commander of the Imperial army fighting the Ottomans.
"Thought Falkenheim was skimping maintenance costs with the funds I gave him last time, even saving on food. Guess not."
Food costs were the hardest to cut—but easiest to fake. Weapons or armor showed shoddy work quick; rations? Weevil bread and weak beer got you by.
"Some Lieutenant Wallenstein from Bohemia devised this canteen thing, solving our biggest headache. Actual savings: 6,000 florins, plus 3,600 profit from the men—9,600 total monthly."
That was 115,200 yearly. With 20 regiments under Basta, over 2.3 million florins saved annually. In Wallenstein's terms, trillions.
"College boys strut like gods and get burned. This one's self-aware, excels in his lane—good stock."
Basta's mercenaries hadn't seen Imperial pay in three years, drowning in debt...
I need this guy.
To escape the crisis.
"Promote him first. Big time."