Logistics' First Victory
The camp-following merchants tilted their heads at my words, then sharply countered me as if ready to point fingers accusingly.
"It doesn't seem like something a Major who unilaterally declares the termination of our legitimate contract without cause should say. As you know, sir, we are the camp merchants designated by the nobles of the Transylvania Principality."
"Indeed, thanks to your loyalty, the Emperor's army soldiers haven't starved here and can continue the war. Others might curse you as mere greedy merchants who only sell goods, but I fully understand the importance of camp merchants."
"We camp merchants procure vast quantities of food and supplies for the forces under Total Commander Basta, braving all sorts of threats to buy up local goods and transport them. How can someone who claims to know that hardship suddenly nullify the contract we have with Total Commander Basta himself?"
If this were the 21st century, I could just point out the facts: their goods were overpriced, quality inconsistent, and frame it as a measure for 'improving soldiers' meals.' In reality, these camp merchants here charged five to ten times the price elsewhere for the same pork just because Transylvania was a warzone, and excused rotten hardtack crawling with weevils by citing supply difficulties—while jacking up prices even more.
Does it make sense to forcibly buy that crap at exorbitant rates? That's why we're taking over meal preparation entirely, demanding proper ingredients, and 'normalizing' the excessive profits they're raking in.
One problem: this common sense doesn't fly in the 17th-century Holy Roman Empire. If I argue logically like that, they'll flip out, accusing me of insulting them and their backers, the Transylvanian nobles.
That's the average level of this not-so-holy, not-Roman, not-empire.
I have no choice but to stoop to their level.
"Because if things continue like this, our Emperor's army won't hold out."
"What on earth do you mean by that, sir?"
"You already know, so I'll be frank. Our Emperor's army is suffering from severe financial straits right now."
The merchants tilted their heads again at the mention of our army's financial woes, their eyes protesting, So what? I ignored it and pressed on.
"If these financial difficulties persist, we won't be able to pay soldiers' wages properly anymore. Then they won't be able to afford the expensive food you sell. The rank-and-file who fought on three meals a day might not even manage one later."
"That's not our fault, is it?"
"The Emperor's army's financial problems aren't your responsibility. But does the world always end with finger-pointing like 'it's my fault' or 'it's yours'?"
Sometimes in the world, you have to apologize even when you're blameless. Your boss gives wrong instructions, you follow them to the letter, but to protect his ego, he blasts you with 'it's all your fault anyway'... If you snap back in anger, you could lose your job, so you swallow it.
If you're too busy quibbling over right and wrong, you won't last long.
"The real issue is this: if finances worsen to the point soldiers can't even eat properly... all of Transylvania will go up in flames. Not by Ottoman Turk infidels' hands, but by our own Emperor's army soldiers."
"Are you threatening us right now?"
"Not a threat—just honestly warning of the disaster ahead."
Modern 21st-century armies don't point guns at civilians or burn their property. But 17th-century armies plundered enemy lands freely when needed, overlooked all sorts of war crimes to boost morale. Looting, murder, rape—such things were brushed off as 'it happens.'
Commanders didn't oppose pillaging so much as complain it undermined discipline. Armies of this era were truly monstrous bands of thugs.
Especially if wages stop and meals falter... just as I said, soldiers will start looting even allied territories, turning Transylvania into a sea of fire.
In just a year like this, as in original history, prominent Transylvanian noble Bocskai István would rally forces from the ashes and rebel against the Imperial Emperor.
What's the point of becoming king of a charred wasteland? No subjects left in the fief, no crops, no taxes.
"Once the lands are thoroughly looted, the nobles will take a massive hit too. You'll lose every bit of foundation you've built here."
The Transylvania Principality where we stood was a vassal state allied with the Holy Roman Empire against the Ottoman Empire. Thus, these camp merchants sourced food, weapons, liquor—whatever the Emperor's army needed—from across the principality.
They could do it because all their wealth and networks were rooted here. If it all burned, they'd be penniless.
"So choose."
I looked at them and held up two fingers.
"Give up a bit of your profits to preserve the foundations you've built so far. Or chase short-term gains and lose it all in the end."
I'd presented choices, but they really had only one: yield some immediate profit. Otherwise, the cash-strapped Emperor's army would turn into organized bandits.
Once banditry razed the Transylvania Principality, they'd lose everything. And furious Transylvanian nobles wouldn't sit idle.
They'd pin it all on these guys.
"Understood... We'll step back on the meals."
"Wise choice."
They said it, but barely held back grinding their teeth. I understood their anger at lost profits.
In manga or anime, this is where you'd offer a satisfying compromise for a happy ending... But with the Emperor's army's finances, that wasn't feasible.
"In exchange, I'll inform the Transylvanian nobles that your concessions helped the Emperor's army avert a major crisis."
Not long after resolving the issue with the merchants and meals, the canteen system was implemented. I, handling supply staff duties under Basta, became the canteen chief.
Reasons: decent rank among supply officers, originator of the idea...
And everyone above me dumped the rationing on me...
Whatever the reason, I had no intention of half-assing it. Having latched onto Giorgio Basta—or rather, the Habsburg Empire's dragon back—I had to bust my ass for results to rise.
"Distribute meals as scheduled. Soldiers wanting extras can buy directly from the camp merchants over there."
"Yes, Major."
"Then begin serving."
At my order, low-ranking Emperor's army soldiers and laborers came forward to dish out meals. Per soldier: half a pound (225g) of sourdough bread, a plate of stew, 100g chicken, a slice of cheese, about 500ml beer.
The soldiers receiving it reacted with delight.
"Only 60% of what we paid before, and we get food this good?"
"Before, bottom-rung guys like me could only afford weevil-ridden hardtack from camp merchants... This is fresh-baked, still warm..."
"That new young officer pulled this off—truly grateful..."
They took their food praising me or Giorgio Basta, beaming. From green recruits to seasoned sergeants and warrant-level mercenaries—all raved.
"Twenty years as a mercenary, first time food this good at this price... If merc-ing, better serve the Emperor's army."
Seeing the praise lifted my spirits. Using my knowledge to earn universal acclaim felt so damn sweet—almost like, is this what sex feels like?
"Good to see everyone enjoying it."
From that day, soldiers treated me not as greenhorn Major, but respected staff officer.
Soon after, our Emperor's army clashed with the Ottoman Turk forces invading Transylvania.