Chapter 108 - Like the Eyes of a Lost Child (4)
Ernest woke at dawn.
But he couldn't tell whether he'd woken up… or simply hadn't slept at all.
The unending sound of rain and wind had stitched all time together into a single thread. He couldn't even place when the sounds he was hearing came from—he was simply drifting through the night.
Ernest tried to act as usual. He got up, lit the balt lamp, drank water from the kettle, and attempted to shave using the leftover water and soap.
But a cheap, fragile mirror was a luxury not afforded to a mere platoon leader's tent.
And Ernest wasn't skilled enough to shave without one.
Even with a mirror, he often cut himself—shaving blindly now would only end in peeling off his face.
He couldn't even shave like he usually did.
A small metal mirror would be useful.
A glass mirror would be nice, but too fragile and expensive to carry in a place like this. Even a bronze mirror—not silver—would suffice.
After finishing his morning routine, Ernest stepped outside, rubbing his rough stubble.
Swaaah...
Outside, the rain hammered his raincoat so loudly it felt like it might deafen him. Ernest slowly took in the unfamiliar encampment, feeling like he'd lost his way. The sun had risen, but thick clouds kept everything dark. He spotted soldiers standing guard near a brazier and slowly approached them.
"Lieutenant."
The soldiers saluted upon seeing him, and Ernest returned the gesture. A makeshift roof had been set up above the brazier to keep the rain out, and as he approached, the warmth washed over him and the sound of rain receded.
"Was the night quiet?"
At his question, the three soldiers exchanged nervous glances.
"Y-yes, sir. No issues."
"..."
Ernest caught the subtle glances they traded.
He watched them in silence, chin tucked.
"…Well, one guy tried to desert, but we caught him…"
Thunk.
The soldier cracked under the pressure and blurted it out. Another nudged him with an elbow to shut him up. But it was too late—Ernest had heard it.
"Which squad?"
"…Second squad."
"Understood. Carry on."
Ernest didn't press further. He simply adjusted his raincoat and walked away.
Dawn was breaking. One by one, people were waking and moving about.
Guards roamed, waking others.
"Sergeant Kol."
"…Lieutenant?"
Ernest visited Sergeant Kol, leader of the 2nd Squad. Kol had just woken up and was changing in a daze.
Flustered, he hurriedly dressed and let Ernest in.
"I heard there was some commotion last night."
Ernest got to the point without trying to pressure Kol into confessing.
Unlike how he used to imitate his father to suppress the NCOs, he spoke in a more relaxed tone now.
"Well… yes, a little…"
Kol looked awkward and nervous.
He remembered how Ernest had demoted Ralf to private the day before.
To an officer, a soldier and an NCO might seem like a minor distinction.
But to a common-born soldier, a sergeant was practically a minor noble.
Even the lowest sergeant commands nine men.
While that might seem trivial to academy-trained officers, to a commoner, it's a position of real authority—like a village chief.
"If something like that happens again, Sergeant, report it immediately. Even if it's in the middle of the night."
Ernest's voice was soft, face expressionless—but his voice carried understanding, and his eyes conveyed tolerance.
"…I'm sorry. I'll report it right away next time."
Kol realized Ernest had figured out he tried to cover up the desertion—and had chosen to overlook it.
Instead of reprimanding him, Ernest had made it seem as though Kol simply intended to report it in the morning.
"I persuaded the soldier and brought him back. I'll confirm again and report it properly."
"Very good. Thank you."
"Sir."
Ernest left the tent and returned to his own, walking through the rain. Along the way, he saw the cooks preparing breakfast.
Later, Gustav and the squad leaders arrived and gave brief reports.
Afterward, Ernest visited Yuergen.
"There was an attempted desertion during the night, but the squad leader handled it well and resolved it."
"That little shit—how is desertion 'no big deal'?"
"Depends on the situation."
"I guess that's true."
Yuergen seemed satisfied with Ernest's decision not to punish the deserter harshly.
Today, they were to attack a rain-drenched forest, likely crawling with prepared enemies.
Any deserter would be caught quickly—beyond the forest lay only open plains.
Even if they escaped, what could they do?
Cavalry patrols were out.
Wandering the plains in the rain risked hypothermia.
No sane soldier would try to desert now.
That man had been consumed by fear.
Punishing a deserter in this moment would only deepen fear and dissatisfaction.
Gentle handling was best.
Still, if Yuergen ordered a punishment, Ernest would have carried it out.
That's why he gave an honest report—knowing full well that Yuergen wouldn't issue such an order.
Ernest had been the only one to personally check on the platoons at dawn.
Benzen and Robert arrived later.
After their reports, Yuergen went to report to the battalion commander.
"This place's gone to hell in just one day."
Benzen chuckled as he looked at Ernest and Robert.
Both hadn't shaved or washed properly.
Though, Benzen himself—after days of rinsing off in rainwater—looked worse.
"How do you shave?"
"If it gets too long, I just trim it with scissors. No time to shave."
"I need to shave."
"I used to think so too. Want a mirror?"
"Would that be alright?"
"I don't even remember the last time I looked in it."
Benzen promised to lend him a mirror.
"What about you, Robert?"
"You know me—I calculate fast."
Robert had given up on shaving after just one day.
Better to sleep one more second than bother with it.
"For hygiene, we should shave regularly…"
"Cut yourself shaving, get infected—that's worse. Just don't let it grow too long."
Ernest brought up hygiene, but the truth was—he just wanted to shave.
Benzen wasn't convinced. Trimming with scissors was enough.
The academy platoon leaders stood in Yuergen's tent, idly chatting. It felt like being back at the academy.
"About Instructor Luther…"
As Benzen listened to Ernest and Robert describe the day war was declared, and the story of Norman, a faint smile appeared.
"Someone did speak up for us, huh."
He recalled the overly kind, cheerful instructor. Since the war started, all Benzen had heard was "fight bravely, die with honor." Even his father said that.
Only Yuergen, the company commander, had told him to survive. And now, even from far away, someone had remembered him.
Even if Norman probably barely remembered Benzen as one of many cadets—that was enough to be comforting.
"Damn it…"
Yuergen's voice interrupted their quiet talk. Benzen flinched.
"Even my groin's soaked."
"…."
Yuergen had skimped on properly putting on his raincoat and gotten drenched. He stomped into the tent and threw off the raincoat. Benzen sighed—half relieved, half annoyed.
"They say we're moving out right after breakfast. That bastard just barks orders 'cause he's not the one running."
Yuergen cursed the battalion commander who ordered an immediate assault.
"Feed the men lightly. Bring biscuits and jerky—eat after we take the trench. We'll need to hold until sunset anyway."
"How do we eat that stuff out there?"
Robert asked, confused.
Biscuits needed boiling in water or milk—hardened like rocks. No joke, you could kill a man with one. Jerky was just as bad—rank and tough.
"Soak the biscuits in rainwater, break them apart, soften in your mouth."
"And if we run into the enemy mid-bite?"
"Spit it out. Do I have to tell you everything?"
Yuergen wasn't big on precision. As long as it worked, he didn't care how. Better to suck on soggy biscuit than follow a strict schedule and suffer.
"We'll hand out water, but just drink rainwater. Don't bother pulling out canteens."
It was raining hard—no need to stress water logistics.
"Go eat. If you're late, you'll suffer."
"Yes, sir."
Ernest returned to 2nd Platoon, informed them they'd move out after breakfast, and warned them not to eat too much. Take biscuits and jerky.
Then he ate in his tent.
Phew…
Boiling biscuits, jerky, and veggies in water didn't make for a tasty meal. As he listened to the rain in his tent, it felt like those rainy field training days with his friends.
Trying to anchor his fading grip on reality, Ernest finished eating, checked his gear, and quietly watched the rain, waiting.
"Lieutenant. It's time."
"Right."
Gustav came to fetch him.
Ernest replied calmly and stepped out.
Everyone else was already gathering.
Their faces were eerily alike. Despite the Empire's multiethnic army, fear had molded every face into the same mask.
Ernest took it all in, then walked with calm, unshaken steps—just like his father taught him.
Under his hood and heavy helmet, Ernest's blank face no longer resembled a seventeen-year-old. It wasn't the faint stubble—it was because he was channeling the man he'd seen most in his life: his father.
He knew the fear he saw on others' faces was also etched onto his own. So he chose, once again, to act like his father.
Maybe it wasn't good for him. But as a junior officer responsible for his own life—and the lives of others—there could be no better response.
The 2nd Company's advance began in the pouring rain.
The order of march placed the 1st Platoon at the front, followed by the 2nd Platoon, and then the 3rd Platoon in the rear. Captain Yuergen, as usual, stayed in the middle, where he could see and respond to the overall situation.
Ernest led his platoon through the muddy forest.
There was no path.
Even if there had once been one, the rain had erased all signs of it. Thick undergrowth and slanting tree roots slowed them down. The endless pounding of the rain masked their footsteps, but it also muted their surroundings. Visibility was poor, and sound was distorted.
Everyone was tense. Not just from fear of enemy attack, but from the oppressive weight of nature itself.
The forest in rain was not beautiful.
It was dark, soaked, stinking, and utterly still. And as they trudged deeper, even the rain seemed to fade into silence.
"Platoon Leader."
Gustav whispered.
"They say the trenches are just ahead."
The trenches weren't manned by the Empire. They were captured Bellian positions—dug into the forest like a disease, long and winding, shallow yet sharp.
Taking them had been a bloodbath. Now the 2nd Company was ordered to hold them.
Ernest signaled to halt and moved forward alone.
The path ahead opened slightly. A tangle of muddy dirt and poorly dug ditches greeted him. This was their defensive line.
It was not what he had expected.
The trenches were shoddy and poorly maintained. Rainwater had pooled in many places. The footing was uneven, and even a slight misstep could send someone tumbling into the muck. There were sandbags and a few makeshift barriers, but it was hard to believe this place had seen fierce fighting.
More than anything, it looked… abandoned.
"…This is it?"
Gustav caught up and muttered in disbelief.
Ernest didn't answer. He simply scanned the area.
The trenches had no firing platforms, no drainage, and no cover from above. A single grenade lobbed in would turn any section into a death trap.
He walked down the muddy line, his boots squelching with every step.
"Squads one and two, hold the left. Squad three, the right. Squad leaders, divide your men and assign observation points."
"Yes, sir."
The soldiers moved sluggishly, tired and cold.
Ernest helped them settle in, inspecting each squad's position. He didn't speak much.
He just watched and memorized—who worked fast, who grumbled, who couldn't stop shaking.
He made no complaint when water seeped into his boots.
He just endured it, face blank, moving from one end of the trench to the other.
After checking on everyone, he returned to Gustav.
"We'll rotate the sentries every two hours."
"Yes, sir."
"No one eats alone. No one sleeps alone."
"Yes, sir."
"And I'll do the first watch."
"…Lieutenant."
"I said I'll take the first watch."
Gustav didn't argue further.
They set up as best they could. Ernest gave his biscuits and jerky to the younger soldiers and sat quietly near the center of the line.
The rain didn't let up.
There was no enemy movement. No gunshots. No artillery. Just endless, gray silence.
Hours passed like days.
Ernest didn't speak.
He just sat there, rifle across his knees, eyes fixed forward—so still he might've been a statue. Even as his uniform soaked through, even as the cold burrowed into his bones, he didn't flinch.
He thought of nothing.
Because if he thought, he would fall apart.
He had long since stopped believing that officers needed to act strong for the sake of morale. Now, he simply acted because he didn't know how else to be.
He didn't know how to fear anymore.
Not because he was brave—but because the fear had already rotted him hollow, like a tree eaten from within.
There was nothing left to feel.
He looked like a young man staring into the void.
But in truth, he was clinging to sanity by mimicking his father—stoic, immovable, enduring.
That was all he had left.
And so, he stayed there—just like that—while the rain fell, while the forest breathed, while the war held its breath.
That night, the enemy did not come.
But the silence was more terrifying than bullets.