January 28, 1921
Oskalanden, Legadonia

Lieutenant Colonel Lars Runeberg read through ‘Daily’, the second most circulated newspaper outside the government sponsored ‘Osko Times’. He was sat within his allocated train passenger cabin. To his right was a window which occasionally glinted when the tree-line broke and let light pass. To his left were his coat, atop his briefcase, and another newspaper - The ‘Gazette’, the Army’s official paper.

Runeberg clicked his tongue. The paper was blowing wind, yet another war scare. He skimmed over that section, setting on the more interesting, to him, topics: the price control bill and rumours of a major diplomatic agreement in the talks with François. The paper read: ‘…among other things, the Republic and the Confederation are days away from ratifying a great financial deal…’.

Runeberg scoffed. No details, just attention-grabbing words. But he knew what those bought-ins didn’t - the Office of the Adjutant General, Main Staff was a cacophony of activity. Section 1/a, the one Runeberg served in as an Inspector, was tasked with field inspections. His job was complicated: he had to determine the cohesion of the unit, the current strength, the degree of training, and through personal evaluation, determine the ‘character’ and ‘spirit’ of the officers.

A purely subjective undertaking that, without as much as a spec of doubt, he eagerly wanted to enact. Runeberg had an ideal model of how a regiment should appear and how its staff should conduct. He briefly glanced to the briefcase. Naturally, Main Staff had provided a guideline.

It was a detailed breakdown of the disposition of both wartime strength and cadre strength. For these purposes of this evaluation, he was supposed to compare the cadre strength with real strength on grounds. The three regiments scheduled for an inspection today were of cadre strength, through Second Quartermaster General reported 21. Infantry Regiment was remained at a reinforced footing - whatever that meant.

Runeberg laid the newspaper to rest, gazing through the window. He picked ‘The Gazette’, a macro report on the major affairs concerning the army. He skimmed across the front page, remarkably, a rather long list of recent officer promotions. Mostly junior and mid-grades being elevated for staff and command positions.

Runeberg opened to the first page, ten-thousand new uniform kits had been delivered, grey overalls and coat with this nonsensical tricorne hat. He moved to the next page, new artillery order placed for sixty-eight 80mm guns and twenty ‘Drummers’ - howitzers of 105mm and above calibre. Runeberg hummed, the deliveries were scheduled for 1923.

He flipped to the next page, read the provisional schedule for the annual Union Day, and moved past it. Budget, debates about the budget, debates about salaries and pensions, competitions, vacancies, and more.

He noted the vacancies, should the inspections proceed well, he might be able to obtain a recommendation from the Adjutant General and transfer to the Secretariat, and possibly compete for a position in the First Quartermaster General, possibly planning.

The terrain gradually lowered its speed, but considering he had not heard the staff announce his stop, he simply turned to the window. Soon, the terminus came into view. Runeberg’s eyes shot as he watched dozens if not hundreds of soldiers waiting. They wore the old dark green uniforms, much alike his own, if lesser in quality and ornaments.

Runeberg felt a smirk form on his face as the officers began shouting orders. His smirk began dissipating when he found the discipline utterly lacking. Sighing heavily, he threw aside the newspaper, got up and put on his coat. A second-long second-thought flashed in his mind, but he was already moving.

He left his cabin, making sure the door was closed. Runeberg proceeded along the passenger wagons until he found a suitable exit. There were some soldiers boarding, but they paid him no mind.

He coughed into his fist to gather their attention. One of the men turned to him, looked at the lieutenant colonel’s silver epaulette, bearing similarly coloured fine braids. Runeberg noticed the man’s eyes snapping to his neck cuts, denoting his rank.

“Colonel on board!” shouted the soldier, executing a sloppy salute. Runeberg inspected the man’s uniform, it was unkempt. At least, he appreciated that they were taught how to properly address the officers.

A lieutenant colonel was referred to as ‘colonel’, and generals of rank as ‘general’ for simplicity’s sake.

“What’s your unit?” said Runeberg, eyes trailing behind him as the other soldiers snapped to salute.

“Seventh Lowlands, Mister Colonel,” offered the soldier.

So 7th Regiment, noted Runeberg. “Who’s your commanding officer?”

“I can lead you to him, Mister Colonel.”

Initiative, that was good. “Do so,” he said, then looked at the rest of the troop. “Do not pester the civilians and maintain dignity,” he demanded. “Fix those shabby collars and belts!”

Runeberg turned to the soldier and motioned for him to move. Runeberg stepped outside. The fresh, cold air crept across his face. Runeberg instinctively brought his hand along his vandyke beard, then looked around. The soldier was already moving, however. The lieutenant colonel made a quick stride to catch up until he spotted one of the officers from before shouting orders.

“Lieutenant,” said the soldier, loud and slightly trembly.

The lieutenant turned around, looking first at the soldier, then to Runeberg, and immediately saluting. “Attention!” the lieutenant shouted, voice gruff. “Colonel at grounds!”

The soldier from before stepped out of the way, mousing his way among his comrades. Runeberg could hear the stomping of boots and clanking of kits. He looked around, at the soldiers, at the lazy ones, at the stiff ones - he took in all of them.

Runeberg’s attention returned to the lieutenant, returning the salute, he said, “Lieutenant.” An acknowledgement. “What’s the hold up here?”

The officer looked torn between ratting out his men and taking full responsibility.

Runeberg made the decision for him.

“Form single lines at the entrances!” he ordered. “See that it is carried, lieutenant.”

“Understood!” The officer turned to the men closest to him. “You heard the Colonel! On the double, moose-shits!”

Runeberg looked around as they assembled quickly. He then turned around and walked back to his cabin. This regiment will be included in an addendum to the report, he decided. The lieutenant colonel settled in the cabin once more, removing his coat, and picking the civilian paper.

It had a ‘magique diabolique’, a magic square puzzle.

Something to occupy his mind until his stop.

Just as Runeberg had filled out two of the nine three by three squares, someone had knocked on the door.

“Enter,” said the officer. He watched as a fellow officer opened the door, the man lowered his cap. Runeberg immediately recognised him as a major. They were de facto off-duty, and the officer before him seemed to think as such, so Runeberg did not bother with saluting. He did, however, stand up - etiquette was important.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” said Runeberg.

“Carl Palmstierna,” offered the man. Runeberg took in his facial feature, he sported a well-kept moustache and a low side-comp. “May I?”

“Of course.” Runeberg motioned to the cushioned bench before him. “Make yourself comfortable, Mister Palmstierna.” Runeberg stood up, straightening his uniform. “I am Lars Runeberg.” He extended a hand.

They extended a handshake, firm but not competitive.

Palmstierna took a seat after that and began, “I must thank you, Mister Runeberg.” The man crossed his legs so that his left rested on his right halfway across his calf. “Had you not shaped up the men, the battalion would have been behind schedule.”

Runeberg could hear the relief in the man’s voice. “I apologise for intruding in your command,” said the lieutenant colonel. It was distasteful and potentially harmful to the unit’s hierarchy. “Though, yes, I saw your lieutenants struggling to up the conscripts.”

Palmstierna’s chest inflated and deflated heavily. “Usually it’s not this difficult.” The major briefly gazed at the briefcase. “My staff presumes this… demotivation is caused by a loss of spirit.” He paused, deliberating his next words. “However that might have happened.”

Runeberg shifted in his seat. “Does your battalion have difficulty in maintaining the esprit?” He cleared his throat. “Is there a… drift, a divide that battalion or regimental pride and tradition can’t mend?”

Palmstierna looked at him, a complex gaze. He was mulling. Finally, he said, “I believe the financial difficulties have more to do than a social rift.”

Runeberg hummed. “If I may, and I mean no disrespect in my question?”

“Yes?”

“Are you passive, Mister Palmstierna?”

Palmstierna blinked. “Pardon?”

Runeberg made a face, thinking. “What I meant to say…” he began. “How have you begun, if at all, to address that crisis?” Runeberg knew he was testing boundaries here, practically insulting the competence of the man before him. He thought that he must know this.

“Mister Runeberg, you must understand how insulting this insinuation is,” said the major, voice taking an edge.

Runeberg did not respond immediately, rather, he leaned into the cushion. “I apologise, my inquiry was purely professional,” he began, trying to placate the man’s ego. “I am with the Inspectorate,” offered Runeberg, hoping this will diminish the tension. “I wish to learn how professionals such as you-” He motioned, though not disrespectfully. “-deal with such challenges.”

The major maintained a silent few seconds before nodding. “We have begun works on improving the barracks and loosening the strictness on the unpaid leaves.” Palmstierna paused for a second or two, observing Runeberg’s reaction. “We have opened a communal kitchen for… less fortunate soldiers and their families.”

Runeberg’s eyebrows shot up. He was expecting more severe disciplining, possibly executions. He was not expecting something this humane. “Are you a believer, Mister Palmstierna?”

“Yes,” began the major. “In fact, the kitchen was an idea of our Chaplain.”

“I must admit, this is beyond what I expected,” said Runeberg, his tone warming. “How has it affected the men?”

The major sighed - he appeared to do that a lot - and massaged his temple. “Initially? Well enough, then we were selected for field exercises.” He looked at Runeberg. “I must admit, I fear our efforts will go to waste should the exercises go poorly.”

Runeberg nodded slowly. “That’s possible, but I still don’t understand why you would tolerate the men dragging their feet before your lieutenants?” Runeberg realised too late he blurted this without smoothing the edges.

“The problem is that they only act as such with the lieutenants,” said Palmstierna, strained. “To my understanding, there is no respect left between them - not even professional.” Palmstierna, however, was not enough and interrupted before Runeberg could speak again. “This is your competency, no? How would you handle it?”

Runeberg could hear the challenge in the major’s words. Touché. The lieutenant colonel began thinking. “What is the core issue? Treatment?” The major nodded, Runeberg thought once more about solutions. “I would propose a rotation with another battalion.”

Palmstierna hummed. “That makes for new faces, I concur, however,” said the major as he leaned in. “All officers are taught alike. There is a professional rift… I believe that was the word you used.”

Runeberg realised the implication. To remedy this, one would need to either alter the officers’ philosophy or be forced to select one over the other. Still, he felt the need to respond. “Then why do you not issue a battalion conduct guideline?”

“We have tried,” said simply the major. “The Colonel, however, does not agree with our assessment.”

Runeberg reached into his briefcase and protruded a pencil and a sheet of paper, which he folded once then twice, then tore it into a clean little square, and began writing. He then handed it to Palmstierna and said, “My postal address, please, if possible, send me a quantified report on the effects of your… humane reforms.” He looked into Palmstierna’s eyes. “I would also like to read about your thoughts on the social dynamics, articulated on paper.”

The major hesitated before picking it. The train began slowing. One of the train staff began announcing the stop. Runeberg looked outside the window and noticed a number of officers outside.

“This is my stop,” said Runeberg. He put on his two-breasted, high-fastened coat and began fastening it. The major stood up. “It was a pleasure,” said Runeberg and offered a slight bow.

Palmstierna returned it and said, “Likewise, Mister Runeberg.”

Runeberg picked his briefcase and left. He stepped onto the terminus’ raised platform and was immediately met by a jogging captain of the line. “Colonel Runeberg?” the captain probed, saluting.

“That is correct,” offered Runeberg, returning the salute and extending a handshake.

The captain took the hand and bowed slightly. “I am Erik af Liebelitz, quartermaster of Twenty-first.” He straightened. “The rest of the staff is awaiting introductions.”

“Well met, Captain,” said Runeberg, just before the captain turned around and began walking to the officer circle observing them. Runeberg went through the salute formalities by automotion. So far, the officers were conducting exemplary.

“This is Colonel Axel Nordenssen,” introduced the captain. Runeberg observed the Colonel appeared every line of a model officer. Pristine uniform, heavy gaze, and a gait that commanded your attention.

Runeberg bowed slightly. “Well met, Mister Colonel. I expect great results from your regiment.”

Nordenssen looked at him warily. “I hope your travel was light.”

Runeberg straightened and said, “Light and eventful.”

“This is Major Hugo Jungstedt,” said the captain, motioning to a slightly older officer. “Commander of first battalion.”

“A pleasure,” offered simply Jungstedt, extending a handshake and a slight bow. Runeberg turned to him. Hugo was older than the Colonel, yet something told Runeberg that was hardly a reason of competence but rather that the officer simply preferred his current post.

“Likewise,” said Runeberg. He noted the older officer testing his handshake’s grasp. “I expect good conduct from you.”

“This is Major Ludvig af Dadrel, commander of second battalion.” The major bowed, holding his sabre. If the two officers before him were clean shaved, Ludvig sported a ducktail beard. He appeared slightly anxious.

Runeberg recalled the man was one of the promoted from the front page. “Congratulations on your promotion, Mister Dadrel.” He extended a handshake.

The major appeared surprised, then grasped his hand. Solid, slightly deferential. “I thank you for your kind words, Mister Runeberg.”

The colonel cleared his throat to gather their attention. “We had best moved.”

Runeberg moved to the colonel’s right and began, “How would you characterise your regiment?”

The colonel did not respond immediately. “The regiment itself is a proud institution,” he began, neither disinterested nor overly interested. “I strived to recreate a Life-Guards regiment in the common infantry.” His head moved slightly to his right. “I, and by extension the regiment, emphasise assertiveness, aggression, and a sense of duty.”

Runeberg felt trepidation. “I admire those qualities.” The colonel’s posture shifted slightly. “May we begin the inspection with the barracks?”

“Officer or commoner?” asked Nordenssen.

“Ranks, then the officers’ housing.”

The inspection proceeded with lighting speeds. Runeberg found the ranks’ housing poor and overcrowded. The officers’ housing was only better in that it was more spacious. He attributed this to constrained funds. They moved to the depot, evaluating the matériel, evaluating the accountancy’s ledgers, then observing a bit of the daily drills. The drilling was aggressive, but it appeared as though the ranks’ mentality had been shaped by the atmosphere.

By the end of it, they held a short parade in his ‘honour’. The showcase let him see a brief of the tensions, however. The occasional glare, the barely held back order from the officers whenever someone so much as stepped out of some imaginative line. Yet, the field officers also marched along.

Perhaps, a shared hardship was crucial to maintaining the cohesion that 7th Lowlands lacked.

By the end of the first inspection, when the next train arrived, Runeberg and Nordenssen had exchanged ideas. Runeberg emphasised the material conditions of the ranks was below regulations, and that the declared expenditures and the accounted expenditures were mismatched. Nordenssen in turn shared some wisdom about his methodology - how he would nurture officers with innate drive and aggression, and how he would force them to march along the ranks. The colonel had confessed that the barracks were in such a condition because he believed they built a character and humility.

Runeberg boarded the train, paid his ticket, notified the staff of his next stop, and settled into the diner wagon. Removing his coat, he ordered scrambled eggs and a light scotch. He retrieved another paper from his briefcase, and thought over what to write.

He decided to create a list of the key happenings in the 21st Regiment, the philosophy of the commander, and material conditions. Most importantly, however, he stressed the budget mismatch. The statistical section was bound to handle that. On the backside of the paper, he wrote about the 7th - a few points, moreso as a reference point for the next inspection.

Runeberg gazed out of the window just in time to see a cargo train in the opposite direction. He blinked, watching as the train moved quickly past his gaze. He saw at least eleven open platforms - wagons, each housing a number of field guns, howitzers, and siege mortars. They were covered to protect them from the elements but to him the shapes were unmistakable.

“Hello,” said someone. Runeberg turned to see a man in his early twenties with an unkempt beard that somehow read as deliberate. “May I sit here?”

Runeberg briefly glanced at the nigh-empty section. He wanted to shoo him away, but rather, he glanced at his paper and found he had written what he wanted. He turned to the man and motioned with a hand to take a seat.

“Thank you,” said the young man.

“Think nothing of it,” said Runeberg, calibrating to match the casual, yet respectful tone he used. “Lars Runeberg.” Runeberg extended a hand across the table, careful not to knock over the glasses.

The man took the handshake, grasping tight. Runeberg concluded the man wanted to prove himself somehow. “Fredrik Wikiman.”

Runeberg looked at him curiously. “Imperial?”

Wikiman shook his head. “Father’s from Ildoa, mother’s from Agnafit.”

Runeberg saw a staff approaching, and began retrieving the paper into his briefcase. “I take it he moved here to pursue her hand?” Runeberg was no romantic, but he could understand the notion.

Wikiman nodded. “So…” he began, but stopped after the staff placed the food before Runeberg. The staff turned to him, and he said, “Nothing for me.” Runeberg had already begun eating his dish. “I wanted to ask, what is it like serving?” said Wikiman, slightly anxious.

Runeberg chewed and swallowed, then said, “Taxing on the body and mind.” He raised the scotch and sipped. “More the body on the ranks.”

“Ranks?” asked the young man, not understanding the jargon.

“Soldiers, the non-officers,” offered Runeberg. “Say, Fredrik, do you have any education?”

Wikiman nodded. “Compulsory, from when I was a bebe in Ildoa, mister,” he said, trying and failing to not look at the eggs. “After we moved, I had to put my good hands to work.”

Runeberg hummed in thought. “You are a bit older than the norm, but I believe the gymnasiums will accept you.” He noted Wikiman’s gaze. “You might graduate as a non-commissioned officer, and then pass a probation for a sub-lieutenant.”

“What’s that?” asked Wikiman. Runeberg simply stared at him. “What’s a non-commissioned officer?”

Runeberg considered how to best put it for the young man. “The men entrusted with carrying out the officers’ orders.”

A short silence consumed them, Runeberg proceeded to eat slowly. Wikiman decided to ask his curiosity away again. “How much will that cost?”

Runeberg set down his fork. “Nothing if you qualify in the exams.” Runeberg’s face morphed in thought. “A literacy exam, a basic arithmetic - maths, and I believe logic.” Runeberg focused on the man’s face and decided to elaborate. “It’s simpler than it sounds. Literacy is functionally asking if you can read orders, arithmetic is asking if you can deduct and add, and logic is largely situation-based.”

“How do they determine that?”

Runeberg furrowed his eyes trying to remember. “A commission, I believe. They will give you a scenario and depending on your answer they will score you.”

Suddenly, the train began slowing and Runeberg heard a staff announce his stop. He looked at the man and said, “I noticed you staring at the food, finish it.” The man blushed red. “This is my stop,” added Runeberg hoping to rest his anxiety.

“Thank you,” said the man, slightly quieter.

Runeberg carefully moved the plate to him along with the fork. The scotch, however, he sipped once before handing. Then, he got up, put on his coat, picked his briefcase and left the train. On the terminus the lieutenant colonel noticed a single officer smoking, who upon noticing him, put out the cigarette and walked up to Runeberg.

“Lieutenant Colonel Runeberg?” asked the officer, saluting. Runeberg noted the man’s rank - artillery captain - and nodded, returning the salute. “Captain Gustaf Ros.”

“Well met, Captain.” Runeberg scanned the terminus again. “Where is the rest of your command?”

“Conducting a preparatory bombardment exercise, Mister Colonel,” said Ros, slightly shameful. “Your arrival was delayed by over am hour and the exercises had already been scheduled.”

Runeberg hummed. “Very well, let’s move so that I can at the very least catch a glimpse of them.”

“Yes, Mister Colonel!”

What followed was slightly unconventional for Runeberg. He climbed on a cart that the captain manned and rather quickly they moved outside the town, across some dirt roads, until they arrived at the presumed fields.

The captain moved first, making a ruckus to gather the command’s attention. Then, a guide was sent Runeberg’s way and as they say, ‘willing, unwilling’, he was in the command tent. First thing he noticed when he walked in was they were all tense.

“Mister Colonel, the Inspector has arrived,” reported the faithful Captain Ros. The colonel in question bore the insignia of the artillery corps and wore glasses. He was currently overseeing a rather detailed map of the area. The colonel motioned to Runeberg to come closer.

“August Ehrensvärd,” he offered, simply.

“Lars Runeberg.” The lieutenant colonel tried not to show his displeasure at the gross violation of etiquette.

“Mister Runeberg, what do you see on the map?” Ehrensvärd made space for Runeberg to obtain better view.

Runeberg took in the terrain, he saw two hills in proximity. Based on the pins and cubes atop the map, he presumed one of the hills was currently occupied by them. He saw the terrain was overwhelmingly forested, at least on the map. He turned to the colonel and said, “The terrain is completely hostile to direct fire.”

Ehrensvärd nodded. “This is the purpose of the exercise, Norden is just like this.” The colonel pointed to the cubes. “Each denotes a battery.” There were eight such cubes. “All direct line of sight.” He turned to Runeberg. “So, Inspector, what would you do so that the infantry has artillery support during their advance?”

By this point, Runeberg had forgotten the lack of manners. So engrossed had he become in the challenge that he didn’t realise he was tapping a finger on the table. “I presume you have tried elevating the guns themselves?”

Ehrensvärd nodded. “We have dug platforms to both increase their range and create indirect fire in effect. However, the recoil can’t be managed then. We also put them atop the hills. But-”

“But that does not improve neither their accuracy nor effective range?” Runeberg interrupted.

Ehrensvärd shook his head. “It does, but presume there’s a forest, there’s little an observer can spot among the trees.” He swept his hand across the mapped forest. “Now we have sitting ducks that enemy reconnaissance can spot and direct fire towards.” He looked back to Runeberg. “So, what do you do?”

Runeberg thought. Ideas such as using the artillery to fire incendiary shells at the forest and burn it, deploying a smoking screen, to just using them in prepared kill zones. But none answered what the colonel tasked him with.

Runeberg sighed. “I… can’t think of anything.” He turned to the map and then back to the colonel. “At that point, it’s best the infantry move into the forest and prevent concentration.”

Ehrensvärd said, “I concur. I can’t think of anything that won’t damage the guns.” The colonel then motioned for Runeberg to follow him as he went outside. Ehrensvärd put his hands into his tunic’s pockets and said, “Until I can think of something, or until I obtain a foreign manual, I have settled on training the crew’s coordination.”

Runeberg watched as the crews went through motions in the distance. Cleaning the barrel, loading empty bombshell cases, simulating fire, then going through it again and again. Ehrensvärd inhaled sharply and said, “We have raised our fire rate to seven shells per minute.” He turned to Runeberg. “I will be trying any methods to turn those old guns into something useful for when the war comes.”

“Pardon?” asked Runeberg incredulously.

“What?” asked Ehrensvärd, surprised. “You of all people should know better,” he grunted, then puffed. “Well, whatever. I’m afraid I can’t offer to hold a parade nor a formal inspection, Mister Runeberg.”

Runeberg blinked. “I need to review your ledgers at least,” he said unwilling to bulge on that.

Ehrensvärd nodded. “I know, this is not my first inspection.” He put two fingers between his lips and whistled. Captain Ros came out of the tent. “Get me the ledgers on the chair in the far left corner.” Ros saluted and soon returned with the papers, handing them to Ehrensvärd, who then handed it to Runeberg.

Runeberg walked inside the tent and occupied a free table, then he pulled a summary report on the regiment’s expenditures from the Main Staff. He began comparing the ledgers with the officially declared data. There were some minor mismatches, an odd thousand crowns in additional revenue, but he presumed those were emergency funds. He concluded the unit was operating with minor mismatches on the declared and de facto expenditures.

He left the ledgers on the chair the colonel had spoken of and made his way out, the captain from before tailing him. Ehrensvärd was still observing the training below the hill. “My job is finished here,” said Runeberg. Ehrensvärd turned around and offered a handshake. “In the future,” began Runeberg, taking his hand. “Ensure the Inspector can review the barracks and base premises.”

Ehrensvärd blinked, then nodded dumbly. “I can arrange for you to have a look.” The colonel looked at his watch. “It’s late, you won’t be able to catch the next train until morning.”

Runeberg checked his own watch - the colonel was right. It was about to become dark within the hour. “Is there a hotel in town?”

Ehrensvärd shook his head. “No, but you may sleep in the officer barracks.” He turned to Ros. “Ensure the Inspector is given a separate room after he concludes the living units’ inspection.”

The captain saluted, waiting for Runeberg to give the order. “Thank you,” offered the lieutenant colonel. “Captain, if you will.”

The drive to the barracks was quiet, Runeberg was too occupied in his thoughts. His mind flashed back to the newspapers - the new artillery deliveries, then the train. Indirect quick-firing guns? Or perhaps they were on elevated platforms, giving them this profile. Runeberg found he did not know.

If the artillery was in such condition, arguably the most prestigious posting after the Life-Guards, then what of the Service Troops? What of the Hunters? The infantry? Runeberg had already begun creating a general idea of the situation: there was neither standardisation of practices, nor uniform principles.

He chewed on his cheek. No, there was a uniform principle - they were training for the offensive.

Soon they reached the barracks. They were of stone, the central office was unceremoniously functional. The captain led him through, Runeberg used the chance to inspect their archives, verify what the colonel had provided him was in fact the truth. Runeberg went through the statistical audit, then delved into the regimental history. He noticed a recent surge of junior officers attached to the unit for training.

Then they moved to the sleeping units. He was shown the soldiers' compartment, it was clean, and the furniture appeared well maintained. He briefly looked through the guide from the Main Staff because the difference between the artillery and infantry was like day and night. He found out that, yes, the artillery had better accommodations.

Before moving to the officers, Runeberg requested to see the depot. The captain obliged and first showed him the closed-grounds dump - where the artillery, carts and the occasional automobile would be parked. They then moved to the subterranean deposits, where they held the gunpowder, ammunition, equipment, and spare uniforms.

He once again used the guide, concluding they appeared to be following the regulations. After that, they moved to the officers, each had his own cabin. With the exception of two, they were all tidied up. Runeberg made sure that the captain would report this to the colonel.

By the end of it, the captain had led him to an unoccupied cabin and informed him that breakfast will be served at six thirty. Runeberg thanked him and settled inside, it was dark outside already. He used the time to write down what he had seen and fill in the data from before. Only after that did he go to sleep.

January 29, 1921
Norrlanden, Legadonia

“Mister Runeberg?” shouted someone at the station.

Runeberg and saw a boy, then he raised his hand. “That’s me!”

The boy ran to Runeberg and said, “Mister Jung sent me to lead you to the building, mister.”

The boy did not meet Runeberg’s eyes. “Who’s Mister Jung?”

The boy made a smart sound, then said, “The leader of the army, mister.”

“The commandant of the garrison, boy,” corrected Runeberg, with a patient tone. “‘Commandant’ is the specific term for garrison officers.” Runeberg could see it in the boy’s eyes he did not understand much but decided school would correct that at some point. “Well, lead the way.”

The boy was entirely too eager to get moving, easily outpacing Runeberg at some places. They passed a number of streets, Runeberg took in as much as he could from the town and its sights. There was a heavy snow, yet the cafés and stores continued business with the persistence he had heard northerners had cultivated throughout centuries.

They passed the postal office and at a crossroad, they turned right, following a moderately wide street until the boy stopped before an office of sorts. Runeberg expected guards but judging by the temperatures, he shoved that thought aside. The boy bowed deeply and said, “T’is the building, sir.”

Runeberg nodded and offered a simple ‘Thank you’. He then walked inside, noting a sentry inside behind a cabin of sort. Runeberg stopped before him, the man saluting. “Good day, I am Lieutenant Colonel Lars Runeberg,” said Runeberg, preparing to disarm himself. “The assigned Inspector, may you lead me to the commandant’s office?”

“Yes, Mister Colonel,” began the man, with slight hesitation. “But you must deposit any weapons here.”

Runeberg removed his pistol from the holster on his belt. “The sabre too?”

The soldier looked at the sabre then at the man, hesitated slightly and then said, “I am afraid, yes, Mister Colonel.”

Runeberg did not like parting with the sabre, but he was not going to cause a ruckus here, so he detached it and presented it to the sentry. The man placed them carefully somewhere below the opening through which Runeberg handed them over. A few seconds later he went out of the cabin and motioned for Runeberg to follow him.

Then, on the third floor, they reached an office marked simply as GS. The sentry knocked twice, then said loudly, “Mister Inspector Runeberg has come, commandant.”

“Enter!”

The sentry opened the door, Runeberg nodded in thanks and entered, saluting. The sentry then closed the door and presumably went back to his post. Runeberg observed the cabinet, it was decorated but not lavishly so.

The Colonel stood up and returned the salute. “Victor Jung,” he said, voice coarse. “My voice is not well…” he began, coughing. “Please, let’s be concise.” He coughed again in his fist and motioned for Runeberg to take a seat.

“Lars Runeberg,” said the lieutenant colonel. “I understand.” He took a seat. “May I have access to your ledgers and archives?” It was not a request.

The colonel merely opened a drawer and protruded three books. The first, Runeberg saw, was statistical ledger. The second was about the regimental history, it was large. Curiously, the third was unnamed.

“Mister Jung, how would you characterise the garrison?” said Runeberg as he procured a directory to compare the ledger.

The colonel turned his head sideways, then coughed before speaking, “Adaptive,” he said simply. “With a history of independence.”

“Independence?” Runeberg saw discrepancies in the foodstuff procurement. “Do you have your own shop?”

“Yes… We have arrangements with the locals and have created a supply chain.”

“Food?” began Runeberg. “Ammunition? Refined metal?”

“Industrial parts-” Another cough. “Food we rely on inadequate deliveries from the Services.”

Runeberg hummed, turning the most recent excerpts in the regimental history. Logs of exercises, promotions, ceremonies, and whatnot. “I see you have held an exercise recently.”

The colonel tapped on the unnamed book. “The mage cadre unit held a trek. Records are inside.”

Runeberg found he appreciated the man’s foresight, he began reading through it. He grimaced slightly, from the get-go the unit suffered from inadequate stockpiles. Runeberg noted the unit’s commander and the garrison commandant both paid from their pocket. The picture only became uglier after the fact, insufficient treatment resulted in cases of nips, muster failure, faulty equipment. For mages? Runeberg was incredulous.

“Commandant, do you have a copy of this?” The man shook his head. Runeberg groaned, this was primary account of structural failures. “Then, may I request a copy or a summary be created today?”

“Of course,” said Jung weakly.

“…I need to proceed with the inspection, may an aide take over?” asked Runeberg, quickly adding, “I fear your health may worse.”

Jung appeared reluctant to comply, but then leaned back in his chair. For a few seconds, he did not say anything. He then picked a small bell and began shaking it. He shook it again after a bit. Then a captain appeared. After being instructed, the captain led Runeberg on a tour. The lieutenant colonel saw the conditions of the garrison were closer to the artillery than the twenty-first. The barracks were also fun, so Runeberg could see how they looked in real time.

The captain informed him that the mage section was a few streets away, but at that point Runeberg decided he had seen enough from the reports - anything else would be a show. Then he remembered it would take a time until they produced a copy of the reports, so he requested the captain to show him the way.

On premises, they were met by a lieutenant - Guldbrandsen - and Runeberg concluded that had to be the chief of staff of the mage unit. He was quickly informed they were a Class Three formation - cadres, a mobilisation formation. Guldbrandsen led them on a tour. Runeberg learnt only ten officers and men lived on the premises, mostly officers. The rest of the troops were called for musters when it came to inspections, exercises, or ceremonies.

Runeberg found no guide for the mage unit, but that didn’t sound right to him. It sounded like the unit was a reserve formation first. Guldbrandsen had informed him that they were a de jure active unit, however he stressed they were a skeleton force that would be bolstered during mobilisation. The lieutenant also informed Runeberg that all of their ranks were locals and lived close.

Apparently, this helped with morale and finances.

Runeberg was not convinced.

They discussed it more, then a porter came to inform Runeberg the copy was ready, and he bid a farewell. Within the hour, Runeberg was back to the terminus, and within another, he boarded a train to Osko.