Soldiers Must Eat to March (4)
Colonel Michael Falkenheim summoned me to his office. It was a bit nerve-wracking that a mere lieutenant like me had been called by the "Colonel" himself so suddenly, but I hadn't caused any trouble up to now. On the contrary, I'd solved the 12th Regiment's chronic budget woes, so I was firmly convinced I'd get praise rather than a scolding.
"Sir! Lieutenant Albrecht von Wallenstein reporting as ordered, sir!"
The colonel grinned the moment he saw me. He then handed me a scroll sealed with red wax.
"Open it and read it right now. It's not bad news, so no need to worry."
"Yes, sir."
Following Colonel Falkenheim's orders, I unrolled the scroll immediately.
In place of His Noble and Most Honorable Majesty, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, Total Commander of the Imperial Army Giorgio Basta hereby appoints Albrecht von Wallenstein as Major.
The text wasn't long, but that wasn't the point. Until moments ago, I had been a lowly lieutenant—a nobody who could be replaced by any noble youth or veteran grunt. Now, in an instant, my status had shifted to a key figure in the unit. If I stayed with this regiment, it meant I'd take over as supply chief from Trotska, replacing the major.
If this were the 21st-century Korean army, I'd have had to chop off Kim Jong-un's head to get a promotion like this. But this was the 17th century, where even the military hierarchy was barely established. And in wartime, absurd three-rank jumps like this were possible.
Things are going better than expected.
"Congratulations, Major Wallenstein."
"Thank you, sir. For an inexperienced man like me to receive such a great reward is all thanks to you listening to the words of a mere lieutenant."
Colonel Falkenheim shrugged happily at my words.
"Nonsense. I just reviewed the bold new proposal from a young, talented officer who wanted to try something for the Empire and decided to implement it."
"It was only possible because you trusted me, sir. I'll regard you as my lifelong benefactor and repay the favor."
Suppose Colonel Falkenheim and Major Trotska had dismissed my proposal as the ravings of some rookie lieutenant fresh out of enlistment. Would I have achieved this much? Fat chance. And even if I'd done all the work myself, when dealing with superiors or elders, it's best to stay humble if it doesn't harm me. Phrases like "I'm so grateful," "I owe you so much," and "I've learned a lot" cost nothing... but if spoken prettily, they can earn goodwill for big favors later—or at least prevent turning neutrals into enemies. It also leaves a good impression on those around as a polite, respectful young man. In this harsh world, such social savvy is essential for survival. Wallenstein got branded a traitor and assassinated partly because he lacked it, so I'd better master it myself.
"I'd love to fight alongside an excellent officer like you and slaughter those Ottoman Turk heathens, but alas, it won't happen. Total Commander Giorgio Basta himself wants you serving directly at headquarters."
"I see. I'm still so green... I wanted to learn more under you, sir."
I said that, but even in the 21st-century Korean army, promotions differ based on whether you're at corps or division level. Better to be a junior staffer at Basta's Imperial Army HQ than supply officer at a single regiment. The same achievements would catch the eye of a four-star total commander, making promotion easier.
If I'm going to rise, might as well grab as much as I can.
"Sorry, but no helping it."
"It was an honor to serve under you, sir."
"Likewise, having a subordinate like you was a pleasure. Before we part, let me apologize."
"For what, sir?"
"When you were first assigned as supply officer, didn't I look at you pitifully? Now I see I was the pitiful fool with my misunderstanding. Embarrassing."
Instead of replying, I bowed deeply with utmost respect.
And so, as ordered, I headed straight for Brasov in the Transylvania Principality, where Giorgio Basta was stationed.
The moment I arrived in Brasov, I was granted an audience with Giorgio Basta.
"An honor to meet Total Commander of the Imperial Army and Governor of the Transylvania Principality, Your Excellency Giorgio Basta."
"So you're the Major Wallenstein."
Basta eyed me over and sighed.
"You may not know, but our Imperial Army is in dire financial straits. The war dragging on means the Empire hasn't paid my salary in nearly three years."
"That's a serious problem, sir."
In the 21st century, they'd print money or scrape every resource to keep the army afloat. But the Holy Roman Empire—more tribal confederation than centralized state—lacked the power to force-print currency or levy goods. The emperor could only scrape by on taxes from lords who sent troops instead... which fell woefully short. Thus, the emperor's own army starved for funds over three years.
"'Serious' doesn't cover it. At this rate, I can't pay the men, so I'll have to disband nearly half my mercenaries. No other way to manage it."
This era had no standing army. In medieval times, lords might drag serfs into spear-wielding meat shields in emergencies. But now, with matchlocks, mercenaries were the norm—hired pros with baseline combat skill. Farmers could be fed slop and paid pennies since losing their land scared them straight. But mercenaries? Skimp on good food and fat paychecks, and they'd break contracts on the spot.
"Amid this crisis, I heard you'd slashed your regiment's food costs dramatically with your canteen system in Colonel Falkenheim's unit. What I want is for you to work that magic across the Imperial Army and cut expenses to the bone."
"Understood, sir."
"Can you do it?"
Military life has eternal truths, no matter the era. One: superiors' orders must be obeyed, impossible or not. Fail this, and I'd be branded a lucky fluke who'd never get another shot.
"I'll start by rolling out the canteen system regiment-wide to slash food costs first—the easiest target. Then I'll audit every other expense and report back."
"I'll tell Mobilia the baron in charge of supplies that I trust you personally. Just don't fail."
The only reason Giorgio Basta pinned such impossible faith on a fresh major? He knew budget collapse meant army bankruptcy and catastrophe. Otherwise, no commander of 30,000-plus would bet on a nobody. It was do-or-die gambling—like a terminal cancer patient, abandoned by doctors, clutching at a rural prayer house.
"I'll keep that in mind, Your Excellency."
With Basta's do-or-die order and plans for the canteen system underway, the camp followers supplying our food came en masse to protest.
"Major Wallenstein, even with the Total Commander's orders, you can't unilaterally change our contracts with the Imperial Army!"
Of course they'd rage—their profits were threatened. I had two paths: lean on Basta's authority or persuade them politely. I chose the latter.
"You gentlemen know one thing but not the other."