by Carlo Zen
We’re up against soldiers instead of farmers, but in terms of governing theory, the result is the same. Well, no, I’m actually much more comfortable doing it to civilians.
We could also tap them lightly with the flat side of a shovel. If you swing a shovel sideways, it slices, but if you hit with the flat, that’s one down. They really are convenient—so much so that I’d almost like to have all the recruits participate armed only with shovels.
But what do we do once we capture our guests? If the warning trench sends out an alert, our only options will be to fight or run. As long as our objective is to take prisoners, fighting is pointless. When all you’ve got is the muscle of a group on force recon, dealing with the counterattacking unit in a trench fight is a completely futile battle of attrition. And if we were to miss our chance to pull out, we would literally die in vain. That’s why after we achieve our appointed objective, there’s no reason to stick around.
When your work is done, there’s nothing better than going straight home.
Which is why we can prioritize speed without fretting over the mana signals we’ll have been concealing up to then and go literally flying out of there with flight formulas. There is no better way to let your mana signal loose and hightail it away from the battle lines than a flight formula. Hooray for flight formulas.
We’ll have to run for our lives for a couple minutes, but if we can’t get away, we’ll get blown up in a hail of SOS fire.
Well, another way to look at it is that as long as whatever gets us makes a clean hit, we won’t have to suffer.
That said, everyone wants to enjoy life.
Even suicidal people aren’t born in such a passionate state of despair over their existence that they want to kill themselves. If they are able to believe in the future, humans all have the wonderful potential to build a bright, peaceful tomorrow. Humans are irreplaceable; we’re all unique.
At least, I don’t know about other people, but I have no substitute. That’s why I want to survive, no matter what it takes. No, I will survive. To that end, I’ll even praise the devil as God for those couple minutes to go full throttle.
I’m saying that we’ll keep an eye out for each other as we withdraw, but I’m definitely not stopping. Falling behind means being taken prisoner if you’re lucky or death in battle if you’re not.
“…Well, seems like you’re appropriately nervous.”
Apparently, all my subordinates have screws loose. I mentioned a concern, so why are they talking about “appropriately nervous”? Was it a mistake to gather a bunch of war addicts when I formed my unit?
I want to take a little space. I hunt for someone with some other—some normal—opinion. When I scan my troops, I see Lieutenant Serebryakov raising her hand.
“Major, the last few minutes are the dangerous part, although we do have to give the new recruits support on our way over as well.”
This is a much more sensible viewpoint. We’ll be fine on the approach unless someone makes a sound or some numbskull gives off a mana signal.
“Lieutenant, you and I have seen enough newbies screwing up on the Rhine to make you sick. You can handle them, right?”
“…If need be. But, Major, I’m going to do my best to cover for them so that won’t be necessary.”
“Hmm. Well, let’s go over the opinions we’ve presented.”
Let’s round up the most sensible conclusions we have.
1. Do all we can to avoid combat.
Peace is best, of course. No reason to oppose that.
2. Send the strongest unit.
This is irritating, but in terms of military sense, I can’t argue with it. Accepted for its prudence.
3. If we don’t get discovered, the approach is possible. Withdrawing will be dangerous.
These are the points we collected. It’s probably the safest plan. That is, if we arrange for a steady advance and a swift withdrawal, I guess we shouldn’t have any problems. And if the troops make a mess of it, they’ll have officers and NCOs with plenty of Rhine experience to back them up. Lieutenant Serebryakov and the others who have come up through the ranks will probably do a proper job of that.
“Good. I’ll notify them of the plan.”
Now, which of the fresh mages will I take on our first picnic?
Dinner was potatoes. And a little bit of fresh meat. Everything else was canned. Mages are usually treated well, and I’m even an officer, but this is what I get. This is still the rear base, so I’m told it’s on the good side; I wonder what the situation is on the front line. I hear the Great Army is putting pressure on the enemy lines, but Logistics is probably still struggling.
With those things on his mind, Magic Second Lieutenant Warren Grantz, who had finally just been commissioned, ate his food quickly like soldiers do. The meal was better than the rations at the field exercise grounds.
At least it satisfied his appetite, and his tongue didn’t reject it. But even if the food was better, he’d actually been feeling depressed for a few days. After all, he was being sent to the district with the fiercest fighting.
No, when he left the academy, he even trembled with excitement at being sent to the Rhine sometimes. He even thought he’d rack up brilliant exploits and become a hero.
But that enthusiasm withered the closer the military train got to the Rhine district on the way to the front.
What he saw were shell craters and burned, blistered things. Everything in his field of vision was gray. All of it, scorched fields. By the time the pungent odor began invading his nose, his spirit was deflated. And the thunder of a large gun, maybe an imperial railway gun, intensified his worries.
Before he knew it, he and the others were restlessly glancing around, noticing that many of their fellows wore the same anxious faces.
During that journey, one of the few ways to pass the time was sharing rumors. As he’d heard, the old stagers either slept, played cards, or spread rumors. Grantz dozed now and then, otherwise chatting as the train rocked along. He heard some rumors he knew of, too.
For example, one legend at the academy said a second-class student had once murmured that Cadet Degurechaff was more terrifying than the battlefield. She certainly is scary. Such were the thoughts running through his mind as he presented himself at Rhine Command.
When he arrived, he heard he would be attached to an instructor unit, which was a relief.
According to Command, he’d be retrained as a replacement before getting his assignment, so the first thing to do was get used to the front lines.
Maybe I can do this! It was several days ago that he had thought that.
“Gentlemen, welcome to the Rhine front!”
If the devil exists, it has to be our instructor, the commander of the 203rd Aerial Mage Assault Battalion, the legendary Major von Degurechaff.
The way she smiled. The way she looked at us like we were maggots. The way she seemed thirsty for blood.
I’d believe she had tried to kill a rebellious underclassman or crack his skull open. If I screw up on the battlefield, she’ll definitely kill me. That’s how threatened I felt by the instructor who just had to also be my advisor.
…I wanna cry.
Out of all the replacements, I was the only one who had been through the academy. In other words, everyone either didn’t know the rumor that she was a demon in the guise of a little girl or laughed it off. The ones who figured they could handle war if that little kid could were on the safer side.
Just the thought of what the ones who underestimated her might do made my stomach hurt. I’ve never hated the words collective responsibility so much.
Tonight, I’m off duty. I should go to bed early. It happened just as I thought that.
We were summoned. The 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion was ordered to appear in the briefing room, grouped by platoon, within three minutes.
“Hurry up! Run!”
I urged my platoon, who had been finishing dinner; raced over to the briefing room; and just barely
made it at two minutes and fifty-one seconds. No other platoons had arrived yet. Well, no, in ran Seventh Platoon; they’d been competing with those of us in Fourth Platoon. That second, the three minutes were up.
And the next second, the superior officers broke into broad grins and went to go get the tardy platoons. Did the others even feel bad for being late?
In any case, we all assembled quickly. And our smiling battalion commander announced a night picnic plan. Not that it involved anything like a picnic.
“Unfortunately, gentlemen, I think that aside from Fourth and Seventh Platoons, you deserve penalties.”
This was the major who had once said during a speech at the academy that deadweight should be killed. I pitied the groups who hadn’t been able to make it in three minutes because I figured they would be thrown into hell, but that wasn’t right.
“In order to teach you the importance of haste, I’m sending you to the trenches. Since you don’t seem to understand when I tell you, you’ll experience firsthand what happens to slowpokes.”
They’d actually be buried in the depths of hell. The shocked mages were immediately assigned to the warning trench. The warning trench on the front lines of the district with the worst fighting… They would be what are commonly called “canaries,” the first to get attacked on the forward-most line. The mortality rate was naturally the highest; it was a position where you couldn’t rest for even a moment.
By the way, they’re called canaries after the caged birds that are taken into mines. The comparison is made because of the criticism that the raison d’être of anyone in this post is to stop responding.
But I shouldn’t have been relieved.
“Now then, you fine, punctual fellows, I have a reward.”
She looked at us one by one as if she was going to tell us something wonderful. My platoon mates next to me seemed to be expecting a reward, but I wasn’t.
I had a really bad feeling.
“You get a little amity-building recreation. We’ll go on a picnic, make a toast, and invite some new friends to come back with us. I guess you can call it a party.”
As soon as she said that, someone handed us a pamphlet that said Field Trip Guide. Picnic procedure?
“First, equip hand grenades and your shovel; then ready your rifle and computation orb. Dress in night camo for CQB. By the way, if you use your computation orb or rifle without permission, you’ll be shot or beaten to death. Republican soldiers are people, too. That means you can make friends with them”?
Then why did we have to knock them out with shovels?
“…In ancient times, people made friends by talking with their fists”?
“Civilized people of the present use the implement born of civilization, the shovel…”?
This is crazy. No one said it aloud, but it was the look on everyone’s faces. This was a nighttime mission to abduct enemy soldiers—a so-called intelligence-gathering mission but extremely dangerous nonetheless. If we were going to drag enemies back with us, it went without saying that we would have to approach the enemy trenches.
Basically, we had to sneak up to the enemy position—where machine guns, all types of heavy artillery, infantry guns, snipers, and tons of soldiers were waiting—and abduct enemies out of the warning trench, which was the place that was on highest alert.
“…We’re gonna die.”
It was from there that things would get really intense. “After using your shovels to mingle with lots of friends, let’s invite some to our house. But I think all our friends will try to keep us from leaving in various ways. The field trip lasts until you shake them off and make it home”?
“Incidentally, I’m not too worried about you punctual fellows, but one thing…” She beamed. Oh God, please save us. “If you’re too slow, we’re leaving you behind. Yes, anyone who wants a quick double promotion can stay out there. We wouldn’t want to hinder your success in life.”
She said the same sort of thing when I first met her. I didn’t realize it was word for word the truth!
Magic Second Lieutenant Warren Grantz realized he was shaking.
My survival instinct was screaming. I wanted to avoid the war, the combat, the killing. I was hesitating.
But one glance from Major von Degurechaff was enough to subjugate that instinct. She was far more terrifying. We sallied forth like lambs being herded by a sheepdog. No one raised so much as a groan. We advanced under the cover of night, crawling in silence.
The commander was the first to strike. We heard the thudding of her shovel followed by the grunts of several people. We whacked the enemy soldiers caught with their guard down, too, as if our lives depended on it.
How much time passed after that?
It felt like the experience lasted a lifetime, but in reality, it was only a few dozen seconds.
It was a short moment. During that tiny amount of time, all the enemy soldiers in the specified area of the warning trench were either incapacitated or deep in a sleep they would never wake up from.
I could still feel the shock of the shovel impact in my hand; it was different from the recoil of shooting like we were taught at the academy. That particular feeling, the sensation of crushing something, was still impressed upon my body.
If I had been left like that, I wonder what would have happened to me.
“It’s time. Company, carry the prisoners. Newbies, you’re support. In thirty seconds, the magic ban is lifted. We’re flying outta here. Sync your watches—three, two, one, start.”
But the orders delivered in a calm, unruffled whisper brought me back to reality. Combined with my training, they slowly got my body moving. That’s what I had been drilled for. My training saved me.
As instructed, thirty seconds later I started up my computation orb at full throttle and took off.
We really hightailed it back to our own defensive lines. It only took a few minutes. All we had to do was fly—simple. But it was horrible. My heart raced with every artillery shot. It hurt to breathe.
I was so terrified I hardly felt like myself anymore.
When we climbed up high to avoid being shot accidentally and set a safe course for the rear base, all the stress left my body at once, and weariness washed over me.
…How could the major just calmly sing a hymn?
Today, after completing her morning exercises and eating breakfast, Major von Degurechaff reaches for her pen as if she’s made up her mind.
In the rear base, the mail can get through. Naturally, it’s possible to send a letter if necessary.
It’s military mail, so sometimes there are delays, but in general, things can be sent and received like any normal letter.
Of course, someone like her with no relatives doesn’t have any personal letters to write.
She only ever writes on official business or unofficial business.
What she’s writing this time is official. That said, in a rare case, she takes out her stationery hesitantly, and her pen moves over the paper awkwardly.
She’s already written a pile of these documents. She just accepts that they’re work and gets them done. But today the tip of her pen feels heavy.
Well, it would be stranger if a person could write it without trouble.
To the dear family of Warrant Officer Anluk E. Kahteijanen,
I am Magic Major Tanya von Degurechaff, his superior officer.
I regret to inform you that your one and only young Anluk E. Kahteijanen is being discharged with a disability.
He became abruptly ill during an operation, and the surgeon has judged that it would be difficult for him to endure lengthy military service.
His recovery will most likely require a long recuperation period at home or in a military hospital.
The Personnel Division has agreed to go ahead with this treatment plan.
Please speak with him and ensure he has a restful convalescence.
And please forgive us for returning your child in such a condition.
He is a
n outstanding mage, our irreplaceable brother-in-arms, brave and trusted by all.
We are deeply saddened to no longer have Anluk E. Kahteijanen in our ranks.
Small consolation though it must be, I recommended him for the Field Service Badge First Class and the Disability Medal, both of which were approved.
I hope he makes a full recovery.
Sincerely,
[xxx] Unit Commander, Imperial Army Magic Major Tanya von Degurechaff
…To think the day would come when I’d lose a man to some bad potatoes. Apparently, the legendary remark from an American Thunderbolt pilot that even a veteran can’t beat food poisoning wasn’t a joke.
So those potatoes really were rotten after all. Tanya puts away her pen, irritated by the worsening logistics situation.
Sending a letter to the family when something happens to a subordinate is the superior officer’s responsibility, and I’m not against writing…but food poisoning from potatoes? Tanya has finished the letter, but she has complicated feelings about the incident and can’t get over it.
He had eaten, participated in a night raid, and shocked me upon our return by throwing up and complaining of an awful stomachache. I was dumbfounded. A veteran writhing about like that, I was sure he had to have been hit by an NBC weapon. Those work even on mages. I hurriedly cast a medical formula, but it only eased the pain. Protective films provide comprehensive NBC coverage, and I remember we were on the verge of panicking that some new weapon not on that list had been developed.
When the surgeon rushed over and examined him, we were finally able to sigh in relief. In other words, it was just sudden, acute food poisoning. And it only hit unlucky Anluk E. Kahteijanen.
He was a good mage, damn it. I never thought I would send someone away from the front like this.
But it’s really great that Personnel treated his condition as a disability. This way, he gets his pension, and his honor as a soldier remains intact. And I, as an officer, won’t have the blemish on my record of a dishonorable subordinate.