Chapter 105 - Like the Eyes of a Lost Child
It had already been six days since Ernest arrived at the 2nd Corps Headquarters in Rübern. Five days had passed since the commissioning ceremony, and during that time, other new officers from various military academies had already been deployed to the front lines in two waves.
"How many this time?"
"Nineteen."
"Damn it…"
Those who heard the number turned pale.
Nineteen second lieutenants had been deployed to the battlefield as new platoon leaders.
In other words, nineteen platoon leaders had died.
Normally, an infantry platoon in wartime consists of thirty-five personnel.
A platoon leader doesn't usually go mad and charge ahead to get killed.
If the platoon leader is dead, that likely means the platoon was at least half wiped out, if not entirely destroyed.
And even when the platoon leader survives, many platoons lose soldier after soldier in succession.
Even using the most extremely conservative estimates, it meant that around a thousand people were dying per day.
"There's no way these casualty ratios are real. Even if they're fighting in the Belliang Forest…"
"High command hasn't disclosed any specific death counts. Maybe the situation's so much worse than expected that they're trying to hide it."
"How did it come to this? What about the Balt guns? The Baltrachers?"
"Belliang must have them too. Instructor Kohler told us so."
"Damn it!"
For the newly commissioned second lieutenants from the Royal Military Academy, the teachings of their senior instructor, Captain Thomas Kohler, were so bitterly accurate that it was driving them mad.
It would've been better if he had just been trying to scare them.
"Producing Balt guns? That I can believe. The structure isn't that complicated. But what about training Baltrachers? You can't even start that unless you've got extra Balt batteries lying around."
"Has someone succeeded in producing Balt batteries?"
"No way. Besides His Majesty, the master Baltracher, who else could possibly do it?"
"Then there's only one answer. Balt batteries were leaked from inside the Empire."
"That's treason."
"But it's profitable. If it were me, I'd bankrupt the treasury to buy Balt batteries."
Robert suddenly cut in on the discussion about Balt batteries.
"Besides, the Empire's already been having supply issues with Balt batteries. If someone diverts them for profit, not only do I get my hands on one, but the Empire's supply line gets hit too. It's a win-win."
"…The other Allied Kingdoms probably wouldn't have stood still either."
"Which is why our supplies are going to shit! The Balt batteries we were supposed to use are now loaded in the enemy's guns, ready to shoot bullets into our heads! Long live our glorious blind Empire and our magnificent deaf Emperor!"
Robert shouted sarcastically in a cheerful tone — a kind of joke that could easily get someone dragged off by military police.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Why aren't they telling us anything about the front lines?"
"Calm down. Let's just wait and watch for now. Panicking won't help anyone. They said we'd be deployed later than the others, so we should hear something before then."
Ernest spoke with a calm that bordered on detachment, and that steadied the others.
Everyone began to regain their composure, except Robert, who looked more uneasy than before.
Robert had quickly realized that Ernest was imitating his father, Haires.
He was copying the man Robert saw as the most reliable adult he knew, using that imitation and the trust he'd built to manage the current situation.
And it was working.
Most of their peers trusted Ernest more than even Ferdinand, the grandson of the 2nd Corps' Chief of Staff.
But that was the problem.
Ernest was relying on mimicry because he couldn't control the situation as himself.
Which meant Ernest didn't trust himself.
Ernest was more anxious than anyone had imagined — and Robert, if no one else, could see it.
Probably only Wilfried would have noticed too, but he wasn't here.
As the room settled into a quieter murmur, Robert stood up.
"Ernest."
"…"
He signaled Ernest and stepped out of the room.
Ernest glanced around like a dried-up old tree before quietly getting up and following Robert.
"What did you and Colonel Hartmann talk about?"
The moment Ernest came out, Robert pressed him for answers.
The hallway was empty, and everyone was too busy to eavesdrop on two new second lieutenants whispering.
"Exactly what I told you last time."
Ernest spoke evenly and softly. Robert threw an arm around his shoulder and glanced back.
Thwack.
"…"
"Don't try to fool me, Ernest. I'm the one who turned you from a wild beast into a person."
Robert punched Ernest's side. His voice held no threat — only deep concern.
Ernest went quiet and stared at the wall.
"He asked me to volunteer for field duty."
"…"
"Colonel Hartmann… was really torn up about it. He's exactly the kind of person we know him to be."
"…So."
Robert clenched his teeth.
"That's why we haven't been deployed yet?"
"Yeah."
Ernest lowered his eyes to the floor.
He hadn't planned to say anything. He knew that once this came out, his friends would struggle to accept it. And if word spread, things could get messy.
But he couldn't lie to Robert.
He knew he couldn't fool him — and part of him wanted to confide in him.
Ernest realized how tired he truly was.
He needed that sliver of comfort.
"Why didn't you say anything? This is the kind of thing people need to know so they can appreciate you."
"I didn't say anything because I wasn't supposed to."
"You're such an idiot."
Robert sighed but didn't press further.
"I'll tell the others eventually."
"When's eventually?"
"Before we get deployed."
"Isn't that a bit early?"
"Watch me, big bro."
"Who says you're my big brother? You're shorter than me."
"Hey!"
Ernest, who had been slightly hunched over, stood up straight — making Robert dangle off his arm like a kid.
They bickered as they returned to the room, and the mood brightened a little — just like back at the academy.
Ernest was still imitating his father, but he managed to find a bit of peace again.
But a few days later, when news from the battlefield finally arrived, that calm shattered.
"They say… that many Baltrachers died?"
In the ongoing battle, which had lasted more than two weeks, every time Baltrachers were deployed, at least half died.
Each company had one Baltracher — a top-priority asset, often protected like a company commander or even more.
But those deployed were coming back as corpses.
The reason: Belliang's Baltrachers weren't the same.
Unlike the Empire's, they were trained assassins — focused on eliminating or neutralizing key targets.
"…Marie."
"…"
Ernest and Robert both thought of Marie.
Since the war began, they hadn't known where she was or been able to exchange letters.
They believed she would survive, that they would meet again.
But the situation was far worse than they imagined.
Time in Corps HQ passed painfully slowly — or in a flash.
The new officers from the Royal Military Academy trained endlessly.
At this point, they hardly felt "new" anymore.
Though this was the Empire's northwest, the rain still came down hard — not enough to prevent movement, but enough to soak everything.
The empire had timed their war to the rainy season, hoping Belliang's gunpowder weapons would be useless.
But with Balt guns in their hands, that advantage had evaporated. In hindsight, they may have done better waiting for dry weather.
Now, the time had come.
Even the Royal Military Academy cadets, who had been spared till now, were finally being sent out.
It would've looked bad if they were deployed even later than officers who'd come from the far eastern provinces.
"Damn. Our turn, huh."
"Well, we held out for a while."
They muttered grimly as they read the new orders. Tomorrow, they would receive their unit assignments and head to the front lines.
"I heard from Robert. Krieger."
"Thank you. I won't forget this favor."
"Don't mention it. We're friends."
Robert had explained to the others why they'd remained safe until now.
Ernest shook his head with a bitter smile at their sincere gratitude.
The next morning, Ernest and his friends climbed aboard transport trucks in the rain and headed to the 5th Division HQ.
From there, they were split again.
Ernest's vehicle was bound for the 13th Regiment.
No one spoke.
Everyone was too tense.
Even the other academy graduates, who once spoke grandly of honor and valor, were trembling silently.
At the 13th Regiment HQ, they were checked against the roster and split off again — no further instructions were given.
Ernest could sense the distrust in the way they were treated — as if no matter what they taught them here, they'd all be dead soon anyway.
"I bet even pigs headed to market get checked more thoroughly than this."
Unable to hold back, Robert spoke in the transport heading toward the 1st Battalion.
Other academy graduates were present, and his words were poorly timed.
"Did you just call us pigs?"
One officer glared at him, furious. But Robert wasn't the sort to shrink from noble brats anymore.
"No, listen closely. I didn't call you pigs. I said pigs get treated better than us. Big difference. Calm down, will you?"
"You! What house are you from?"
"Oh boy, we're doing this now? Asking about houses even out here? I thought we were about to throw down. Got nervous for nothing."
"You—!"
"Go on. Tell us all how noble your family is — noble enough to throw you right into a meat grinder."
"You insulted my house! I challenge you to a duel!"
"Enough."
Ernest shoved Robert back and grabbed the angry officer by the shoulder, forcing him to sit.
Aside from Ferdinand, Ernest was the biggest and strongest among their peers — hardly anyone could beat him in a fight.
"This is wartime. Fights among allies won't be tolerated, and duels are considered disgraceful. You'll pay for it."
The shaking vehicle, the rain-slicked road — Ernest's sheer presence was enough to shut everyone up.
Click!
"Ow!"
Ernest smacked Robert on the head.
"All good now?"
He looked at the noble brat while Robert grumbled but didn't provoke him further.
"…I won't forget this."
"Suit yourself. If you live that long."
Ernest sat back beside Robert.
"Damn. I can't believe I ended up with you again."
"Isn't it better to know someone?"
"Only if I don't have to watch them die."
"Then maybe you'll have someone to pass your last words to."
"Alright then. If I die, tell Major Kirchner to throw flowers on my grave and kiss my headstone."
"You're disgusting."
"What about you?"
"I'll survive. I don't need a last will."
"Oh, of course you will. Then I guess I get to make one up for you if you die?"
"Sure. If it gives you hope, why not?"
"Don't forget. Your last will belongs to me now."
They joked to ease the tension.
Others glared at them in contempt — to nobles, their banter sounded vulgar and unrefined.
Ernest and Robert chatted on like cadets again.
But then, the sound of gunfire pierced the rain and the humming of Balt engines.
Bang! Bang!
"Disembark!"
The truck stopped abruptly, and someone banged on the door.
"…Let's go."
"God, I'm gonna piss myself."
"Don't."
"That's not really something I can control right now!"
Ernest grabbed Robert's shoulder and jumped out first.
Rain poured.
Gunfire cracked.
"This way!"
A soaked, grimacing soldier pointed them toward a nearby tent.
Ernest and Robert stumbled toward it.
From the edge of the Berthagne forest, gunfire echoed non-stop, and flashes of blue Balt energy lit the trees.
It was deafening.
"What's your name!"
Inside the tent, a lieutenant barked over the din.
"Ernest Krieger!"
"Robert Jimman!"
The officer flinched when he looked at Ernest.
Ernest caught the subtle reaction.
"Two of you! Good! You're now assigned to 2nd Company, 1st Battalion, 13th Regiment! Wait here!"
"Yes, sir!"
Their assignment was decided in seconds.
Ernest and Robert moved to a corner of the tent.
Other new platoon leaders were being dragged in, dazed.
Eventually—
"2nd Company, out!"
A hoarse shout.
Ernest grabbed Robert and exited the tent.
They followed a man in a filthy raincoat to another tent.
Once inside, the man threw off his coat and looked them over with a mix of disgust and resignation.
"You two seventeen?"
"Yes, sir."
He wiped his soaked hands and opened a metal box.
"You smoke?"
"No, sir."
"Good."
He lit a cigarette and gestured for them to sit.
"I'm Yuergen Vandermere. From now on, I'm your babysitter and commanding officer."
A captain. The 2nd Company commander.
"Ernest Krieger."
"Robert Jimman."
"Phew…"
Yuergen sighed. His unshaven face was caked in fatigue.
"Goddamn it…"
He stared at Ernest.
"You're that Krieger, aren't you?"
"Not sure what kind of reputation I have, sir."
"Yeah. You're him."
Yuergen rubbed his face and sighed.
"Not your fault. The brass sold your name cheap."
"You want me dead, sir?"
"You're sharp."
Yuergen blinked — surprised.
Ernest realized he was younger than he looked.
Not even thirty, probably.
Yuergen scratched his matted hair.
"They used your name and Ferdinand's. Not for long life. Just long enough to make a show. Then a dramatic death."
"So I fight safe for a while, then die gloriously?"
"Exactly."
Yuergen grinned.
"For now, just pretend to fight. You, and our whole company. Later? They'll throw you into hell and write a nice obituary."
"Sir."
"What?"
"Robert Jimman here."
"Yeah?"
"Should I be hearing this?"
"Of course not."
Yuergen chuckled.
"Now listen carefully, kids."
He bit his cigarette again.
"From now on, do what I say. No questions, no complaints. Do it first, talk later. Got it?"
"Not just about obeying the chain of command, right?" Robert asked.
"Oh, smart one, huh?"
Yuergen laughed.
"Yes, sir."
Both replied obediently.
"You're Royal Academy boys, right?"
"Yes."
"Lucky or unlucky… hard to say."
"Captain, could you tone it down a bit? Your crude speech gives away your low birth."
Someone interrupted, stepping into the tent.
Ernest turned, startled.
"…Senior Johansson?"
"Hey, Krieger. Not that long since we met last, huh?"
Benzen Johansson — Ernest's senior and former fellow training instructor — smiled wearily.