January 22, 1921
Norrlanden, Legadonia
“Harald, we are about thirty kilograms short of the necessary daily food for the exercises.”
Harald Guldbrandsen’s mood soared immediately upon hearing this. Just once, just this once, he had hoped enough had been provided. His green eyes, something the psychiatrist just had to call a mutation, focused on the sub-lieutenant before him. Henrik Bockmann was both the company’s quartermaster and its orbmaster.
“You have double-checked?” asked Harald. Not so much doubtful of the truth as pure dumb hope that a single missed dot somewhere would mitigate this. Henrik was about to speak, but Harald cut him off. “What of the kitchen or the garrison stockpile?”
Henrik sighed tiredly. “I already requested an allowance from the garrison commander. He will provide us with fifty-four hundred crowns.” The sub-lieutenant paused for a moment. “Captain’s also providing a thousand from his own pocket.”
Harald went through the maths in his head. If a quarter kilogram of pork costed about 300 crowns and the equivalent of lamb costed 280, assuming a portion of 270 grams a day, then that’s about… 5.9 kilograms of meat per day for the company. So about 7,080 and 6,608 crowns, respectively. A kilogram of rye is about 340 crowns, daily that translated to 7,480 crowns. Excluding subfoods, then daily they’d require between 14,560 and 14,088 crowns.
“The daily ration was about a kilogram and seven hundred grams, right? What if we cut down the subfoods?” Harald just imagined the exhaustion. “If we ration a single day, it will be enough.” His attention turned to a shift report from one of the guards commanders.
Henrik hummed. “If we hunt, we might not require that.” He looked around the office. “But I fear the nutritious content will bring other issues.”
Harald’s focus snapped back to Henrik. He knew what Henrik was no-so-subtly implying. Discipline. Morale. Unit cohesion would falter. Last winter, they suffered from the same. A squad had broken into a farm and stole a few chickens. The farmer was reimbursed, but the reprimand from the garrison commander certainly hurt their career prospects.
The lieutenant stared past Henrik for a long second. “We can’t cut short the exercise, not this year.” Harald began shuffling the documents, searching for something. His eyes shone in triumph when he found the exact document, and he handed it to the quartermaster.
The ticking of the office’s clock suddenly consumed the silence. Henrik’s eyes moved line by line. He offered the document back with a thoughtful expression. “Another Aanland?” the quartermaster asked.
“I hope not. Besides, we are a Class Three formation. It is neither doctrine nor sound to dispatch us anywhere.” Or so Harald hoped.
It was true that they were a garrison and what amounted to a cadre unit for mages. However, if some senile fool in the brass decided they were to participate in an expedition just because they happened to be sat in operational proximity… Still, he tried to keep up with the news and besides the occasional skirmish with the Imperials in Gothenland, there really wasn’t much fanfare.
Unless they were preparing for something more serious.
“That’s true. Certainly, if the brass was planning something grandiose, we wouldn’t have to use the emergency funds for a mere ten-day exercise,” grumbled Henrik. The quartermaster sighed, tensed for a split-second, and saluted his superior. “This is all I had to report, I have to go arrange the purchases.”
Harald stood up and returned the salute. “Don’t forget, grounds at six.”
Henrik had already closed the door by the time Harald had sat down. He returned his attention to the report he had been reading. The guards had apparently caught a young thief in the act of stealing a… bayonet crate? A smirk broke into his face. He supposed the metal was worth something.
Suddenly, a knock.
“Enter.”
A middle-aged man entered wearing the winter-issue. A fur hat, what appeared to be a cotton scarf, and a fur coat that reached just below his waist. All a shade of white. The colour palette was especially useful when hunting, he mused.
The man saluted and introduced himself, “Vice-corporal Olaf Svensson, Cesar Yellow.” Second platoon. “The platoon is short two people. The sergeant doesn’t expect any more attendees.”
Harald couldn’t decide whether to rejoice the lessening of the logistical burden or to order the detainment of those mages. He must have made an ugly face because the corporal was looking mighty uncomfortable.
January 23, 1921
Norrlanden, Legadonia
Captain Oskar Løken observed as the company methodically loaded the sledges. It was almost seven and the sun was just barely out. His eyes scanned the dozen of snowmen - his nickname of the soldiers for whenever they wore the winter clothing - and their incessant movement.
Oskar was frankly quite excited about the exercise. It had been a while since he had been able to get out of the city. How he longed for trekking the hills, just barely making way through those dense forests, and at the end of it all, feeling the wind beat into his ears at an altitude most his peers would faint at seeing.
It was unfortunate that his ultimate role was of a supervisor. He would observe, direct, note, and then rinse-repeat. At least, after the trekking - that he would do everything possible to experience. Oskar’s face suddenly broke into a smile; he was absolutely certain that his company would rather be anywhere else.
So then, it was unwilling men training and the willing observing. For some reason, he found it humorous.
The reserves gave him a wide berth. That was normal, even expected by him. He was their commander only as much as the sky belonged to the birds. Usually they would meet twice a year if he wasn’t absent. Still… the last time he had attended the exercises in person, there were more people. Were some stricken off the roller? Perhaps their service term expired.
Oskar hummed. He will ask his adjutant later. But for now… for now he simply watched as the sledges slowly piled with necessities.
Speaking of him, thought Oskar. Lieutenant Guldbrandsen moved through the grounds, directing the platoon leaders. Oskar was rather happy such a capable person was assigned to his unit, certainly the lieutenant fulfilled his role as a company adjutant and went beyond. In his eyes, Guldbrandsen was a model aide-de-camp.
The company adjutant made his way to Oskar. He also wore the winter-issue but with an officer’s belt, his model 1917 handgun holstered. Personally, Oskar would rather use a revolver. He was quite aware of the fire rate, but he considered himself old-fashioned in that way. Besides, the punching power was nothing to scoff at.
Harald saluted and said, “Captain, we are ready to depart.”
Oskar returned the salute promptly. He considered what to say to his aide; what was more pressing? The quartermaster already handled the necessary procurement yesterday. They had already gone into detail over the training’s schedule. Perhaps the missing heads?
“Lieutenant,” began Oskar, not unkindly. “If I am not mistaken, we should have more heads present,” Oskar said with a slight edge. He always did when attempting to infer authority. “Did their term end?”
Harald exhaled loudly. Oskar perked an eyebrow. The adjutant evidently mulled over his next words. Oskar had learnt not to rush the man, patience often repaid well with him. Evidently, the lieutenant believed that whatever the case concerning the missing heads is, it would displease him.
“Failed to show at muster. I have already ordered their arrest.”
Oskar merely nodded. It was within the realm of expectations, begrudgingly. The captain clasped his hands behind his back and said, “How many?”
“Two.” An immediate and certain response. “Both from Cesar Yellow.”
Oskar furrowed. Cesar Yellow was supposed to be the avant-garde. “The exercise must proceed with or without them. Have you taken their absence into account?” he asked. If nothing else, they could temporarily reassign someone from Cesar Blue and “even” the numbers.
Harald gave a sharp nod. “At the very least, their absence has helped alleviate the food issue.” Oskar could swear he saw the man’s mouth twitch. “I am unsure how that will affect the platoon as a whole, however. If I may suggest, perhaps special attention should be paid to them?”
The captain’s head moved to the platoon in question, all seven of them. “I will take it into consideration,” he said simply.
Harald marched at the end of the column, ensuring no one is left behind. Captain Løken was at the very front, leading the troop. Harald felt this was a small blessing, those at the front were the most athletic of the bunch - they had to be; they needed to break the ice. For now, a rotation was set in place and with the occasional break, the troop was moving at schedule.
Blatantly unwillingly, but at schedule.
An older reservist before him lost his footing for a second. Harald immediately tried to catch the man, to provide him support. The man was way heavier than he looked, and his momentum sent them both on the ground.
“Halt!” resounded somewhere up ahead. The column stopped momentarily. The reservist spat at the ground and got up, then offered a hand to Harald. The lieutenant grabbed it and got up himself.
“What’s the hold up?” demanded the platoon commander of Cesar Blue, Anders Gilbit.
“Ludvig fell on his ass,” snickered the man next to Ludvig.
The column resumed their march a little later as Anders did a head count, just in case. Not so much if someone had been left behind, but rather if someone had ditched the formation while the watch wasn’t looking his way.
The trek continued unabated for another hour, until they had reached a clearing. The captain had decided they were going to rest here. Harald was going through the baggage along with “volunteers” he had selected from before.
“Lieutenant!” shouted Oskar across the field. Harald was amid reviewing the packed ordnance. He perked, immediately ran to his commanding officer and gave a lazy salute. Somehow, the captain barely looked affected by the trek.
“If I am reading right, we are off-course by…” Oskar’s eyes focused on the map, specifically on the scale. “Three, maybe four kilometres west.” Oskar unfolded the entire map and then folded it onto a neat grid square, but this time showing a different topographic area. “We still might arrive on time at Dulseeng if we double time it.” The captain’s expectant eyes settled on him.
Harald fought back the urge to groan. “I am unsure whether the troop can sustain it, commandant.” The lieutenant’s head slowly moved to the resting soldiers. Oskar followed his gaze and furrowed. “Each day, they are becoming slower, more unwilling to push forward. Perhaps, we could make up for the lost time by flying there?” Harald asked, hints of hope lacing his tone.
Oskar remained fixed on the troop, then he bellowed, “Sergeants!” The two commanders of Cesar Yellow and Cesar Blue, Knut Lundenberg and Anders Gilbit, respectively, immediately dropped whatever they were doing and ran over. Both snapped to attention.
“I trust both of you know the garrison march?” Oskar paused, gauging their reactions. He received positive answers.
Harald presumed it would be so, the march was drilled into conscripts from the first drill. It was a fast pace piece, meant to take off the mind of the soldier from his thoughts. Harald closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, seems like they won’t be flying until after they have reached the village.
“Inspect your platoons for nips. We are moving out in half an hour.” The captain looked at them as if they owed him money. “I want the song out and about, and after it, whatever you can remember!”
