Chapter 85
Chapter 85
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 85
Chapter Title: A County Ahead of Its Time (3)
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In Korea, nobody enlists in the military to climb the social ladder, but in medieval times—or even in some countries up until the mid-20th century—the army served as a stage for turning one's life around.
During the Thirty Years' War, soldiers from Sweden or other nations would rack up merits in battle and occasionally get promoted all the way to ensign or lieutenant, actually becoming nobles.
Of course, they didn't get lands with those titles.
Anyway, in our army, we already had examples like Ensign Mark and Lieutenant Short, former serfs who were practically nobles, and Major Frost, a knight with his own fief despite being a bastard's son.
Thanks to that, even though we were recruiting soldiers in massive numbers at once, the competition ratio in our territory reached 1:5.
And today, to encourage the start of the soldiers' training, I stood at the podium of the training camp set up near Blueport.
Right beside me was Colonel Bierman, a knight who had long served our family and would take charge as camp commandant. Directly below the podium stood the battalion commanders, company commanders, platoon leaders, and various staff officers.
A little farther from the podium, the instructors and drill sergeants were leading the recruits they were in charge of.
Back when I was a baron, our total forces—commanders and veterans included—barely reached 5,000. Now, just the recruits training at the Blueport camp numbered 4,000... It was an overwhelming feeling.
With those emotions, I looked out at them and shouted loudly.
"Recruits who fought through brutal competition to stand here and become honorable soldiers of Kroitel! I am proud of you."
Then, I took a deep breath and continued.
"However, you recruits have only just taken your first step toward becoming soldiers! You lack the strength, courage, and skill to face enemy knights in full plate armor like the soldiers who fought at Sternheim. Right now, you're worth less than a straw dummy in armor."
Unlike an armored dummy, untrained recruits could at least pull supply wagons, stand guard, or handle miscellaneous tasks, so they had some value.
But soldiers without training were nothing but rice burners who consumed food and pay.
In a brutal war like Sternheim, nine times out of ten they'd drop their spears and armor and surrender. Even if they fought on, they'd break formation and lead countless comrades to their deaths.
"And my army has no need for trash worse than those dummies! So if you want to escape your lowly fates like Ensign Mark or Major Frost, run harder and train tougher than everyone else to become strong soldiers. As your lord and commander, I will reward you beyond your wildest dreams. That is all."
With that, I stepped down from the podium and hurried off to my next engagement.
As I walked away, I heard Colonel Bierman, now the camp commandant, start bellowing with a mix of curses.
"His Excellency may have high hopes for you, but I don't expect a speck of dust from any of you! Still, as his knight and your commandant, I'll grind you until you wish you were dead to meet those expectations. That's how I'll turn you into soldiers better than dummies!!! Anyone got a problem with that? Get out now!!!"
I had ordered him to use that kind of tone to instill absolute obedience to superiors through fear, the most vital trait in a soldier...
But I never imagined Bierman, head of a knightly house that had served my family for generations, would go that far.
A moment later, the recruits roared back in unison.
"No, sir!!"
Seeing that, I chuckled softly and muttered.
"Does the position make the man?"
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Bwah, bwah-bwah-bwah, bwah-bwah-rah-bwah-bwah, bwah-bwah-bwah!!
"You brain-dead idiots not even worth the straw in a dummy! Can't even react to reveille after that much training? Get up, get dressed, and haul ass to the parade ground now!"
With that, I opened my eyes and started tidying my bunk as fast as I could.
The other soldiers moved their hands just as frantically.
"Brain-dead morons! You gonna move at this speed when we go to war? In a fight like Sternheim, enemy knights will charge with maces while you slugs are grabbing spears and sleeping!"
Then the drill sergeant, sporting corporal stripes, kicked the ribs of the guy next to me—my buddy—and barked.
"You."
"Max!!"
The moment Max responded, the sergeant got even angrier.
"Didn't your parents teach you to answer when spoken to? Didn't I kindly teach you yesterday: 'Recruit 000!'? You've lost the plot. Recruit Max, drop and give me twenty!!!"
Hearing that, Max next to me thrust his arms forward and hit the deck.
Still unsatisfied, the sergeant yelled right in Max's ear.
"Moron!! Didn't you hear just hours ago to repeat orders from superiors? Forgetting that means you're done. I'll send you packing right now. Your parents might shed a tear, but I can't train a dimwit like you! Recruit Max! Pack your shit and go home!!!"
For us, who had beaten out four competitors with every ounce of strength for a shot at reversing our fates and better lives, dropping out midway was as good as a death sentence.
So Max, prone on the ground, teared up and begged the sergeant.
"Please spare me, Sergeant. If I don't become a soldier, my parents won't be able to show their faces in the village."
His voice suddenly softening but firm, the sergeant replied.
"But from what you're doing now, I doubt you'll adapt. His Excellency will cover your travel costs anyway, so no worries. Pack up and leave."
"Sergeant, please give me one chance. If I'm slower than others, I'll train twice, three times harder. Please... just one more shot..."
With that, Max broke into sobs as wretched as if his parents had died.
His raw grief hit too close to home, making me uncomfortable too.
The sergeant shot back with renewed anger.
"Fine, one last chance. Waste on a dimwit like you, but His Excellency ordered me to turn even trash into men. And what are you slugs doing? Move your asses!! Standing around like this is a playground?"
Relieved that our barracks-mate Max was safe, we hurriedly packed up without a moment's pause.
And in that moment, we all realized.
To survive this camp, we'd have to grind our bones executing orders perfectly.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Our squad double-timed it behind the drill sergeant to the muster point. As we arrived, the ensign instructor bellowed.
"Today, we're doing drill. Drill training is where hundreds of soldiers move arms and legs in perfect unison, without a single error. It's tough, but if you don't want to fall behind, give it your all. The sergeants will demonstrate, so watch close."
Five sergeants stepped forward, and the instructor shouted.
"Forward 20 paces! About face, then 20 paces! Left face!!"
The sergeants marched off with ruler-straight precision: same height, same motion, same speed.
Their perfect sync made the five look like one person.
Grinning, the instructor said.
"Today, I'll drill walking into you until it's perfect. Nail it without a single mistake in 20 commands, and training ends early. No rest for extra time otherwise."
Then the sergeants grabbed us and taught the basics.
Attention stance with arms straight at sides. Arm-leg swings for forward march. Turns.
I picked it up after two or three tries following them. Not so hard, right?
The master sergeant smirked meaningfully and ordered.
"Fall in, five ranks! Forward march!"
My squad and platoonmates rushed to position.
We swung arms and legs as taught and advanced.
Unfamiliar motions made it tricky, but syncing limbs to angles wasn't impossible.
At this rate, morning training might wrap early?
Mid-stride in that hopeful thought, the sergeant bellowed.
"Squad, left face!"
I pivoted left at the hip and marched on.
But one recruit beside me fell out of line.
The sergeant grinned wickedly.
"Can't even march straight? And you call yourselves Kroitel soldiers? Whole squad, back to start—forward!"
This time, over ten of a hundred tangled feet and lagged.
"Ten foot-trippers, forehead to deck! Rest, right face!"
Seeing constant simple fails, fear crept in.
If screw-ups kept happening, this drill would never end.
"Squad, about face! About, then left face!"
I spun back, then left quick.
Twenty more tangled; the smirking instructor hauled us for push-ups.
Me and the others drilled without a breath until lunch.
Slowly, all hundred synced up, but instructors kept yelling corrections.
"Recruit Jeff! Wider stance!!!"
Then a soldier wheeled up a cart loaded with water, brick-hard bread, and salt herrings.
Instructors handed us wide bowls, tongs, firewood, green seaweed sheets, dried noodles, herring, and hardtack bricks.
In fives, we lit fires, set helmets atop as pots, added water, noodles, and seaweed, and boiled.
A rich aroma soon wafted everywhere.
As chow wrapped, our drill sergeant said.
"Smash hardtack with your mace to eat. Tong the noodles and rest."
Starving, I bashed hardtack roughly and chomped.
Hard as rocks.
Others winced, clutching jaws.
"Like chewing stones..."
"Could use this as a weapon, right?"
"Mommy..."
Sergeants, though, ate noodles first, crumbled hardtack into broth.
Looked gross, but they wolfed it down.
"Mmm, that's the stuff. Wakame broth with hardtack—soaks up nice."
"Roger that, Sergeant Salt. Craving salt? Top with pickled herring—chef's kiss."
"Tsk tsk, boil herring with seaweed for fish soup vibes... Hardtack in that broth? Perfection."
"Sergeant Major, doesn't that look kinda nasty...?"
"You gonna fuss over looks at chow time?"
They slurped it up in seconds.
Following suit, I ate noodles, then crumbled hardtack into the helmet broth.
Nutty flavor bloomed as it soaked—delicious.
Like childhood fish soup with bread dips.
I devoured the rest with dry hardtack and herring.
As we finished, the instructor roared.
"Police your areas fast, don helmets, back to training!!"
One thought lingered in my head.
How the hell am I gonna survive the rest of this enlistment...?