Chapter 137 - Death and Honor Are Not the Same
"Oh… oh, I'm dying… I'm really dying…"
Robert, a graduate of the Imperial Military Academy, quickly abandoned his dignity and collapsed on the ground, muttering to himself.
The commoners, who rarely had to endure such hardship, weren't faring much better, and Billim was lying on his side just like a tragic heroine in a romance, unable to utter a sound, as if moments away from a pitiful end.
"What kind of lunatic… would do this… fighting… in a forest… like this…"
Robert waved his hand weakly as he spoke.
Among the 2nd Company members, there were only a few who could answer him.
"If you can't make a proper frontline, you have to fight like this."
Ernest, controlling his ragged breathing, answered calmly.
"Of course, if it ever comes to that, it would mean a tactical mistake at least at the battalion level, so we'd basically be facing total annihilation."
"Do you think I'm asking because I don't know that…?"
"Oh, my mistake. I thought you didn't."
Despite his nonchalant words, Ernest was looking at his fellow company members with concern.
Robert is an exception.
If this bastard starts mumbling, you can just leave him be.
"This is too harsh…"
Ernest murmured quietly.
The newly appointed 1st Battalion Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Bailey Hoffman, began training the very afternoon after he took his post.
At first, it started with the basics—concealment and cover, charging and retreating, the simplest things.
All afternoon, the infantry companies took turns going through the motions, so it was tiring, but not bad.
It made sense to train before a battle, and with a new commander in charge, it was necessary to set the tone for the unit.
But starting on the third day, the nature of the training began to change.
Bailey had the soldiers running and crawling on all fours—not just aimlessly, but following proper tactics.
Thanks to the abundance of Balt Battery supplies, they fired as much as they wanted.
The soldiers were exhausted.
Then he took it a step further, saying they needed to prepare for fighting in the forest, and pushed the men into the woods, making them run and crawl all day long.
Actual combat does drain your stamina quickly because of the tension and fear, but unless you're in a truly special situation, you don't run as much as you might think.
Even from Ernest's perspective, having fought in forests himself, this training was more physically demanding than real combat.
They'd been at this for over two weeks now.
The men needed at least a day off, but relentless, grueling drills were wearing them down.
"At my age, tough training doesn't build you up—it just breaks you down…"
Gustav, now in his forties, took good care of himself and wasn't lacking in stamina.
So for him, this training did nothing but push his aging body past its limits without providing any real benefit.
"Bruno... are you still alive?"
"...."
"Yeah... looks like he's dead..."
Isaac pronounced Bruno dead when he got no response.
For the Baltrachers, this training was nothing short of a disaster.
Baltrachers don't usually rush in or tussle even during combat.
As long as you maintain a basic level of physical fitness as a soldier, that's enough.
That's why Baltrachers generally weren't particularly fit, nor were they prepared for this kind of grueling training.
In the 2nd Company, only Ernest and Simon were able to keep up with the training Bailey had planned.
In truth, even Simon was struggling.
Less than twenty percent of the 1st Battalion could really keep up with Bailey's regimen.
"Isn't this just him taking out his frustration…?" Robert whispered in a low voice.
No matter how you looked at it, this didn't seem like an effort to train the soldiers, but rather Bailey venting his annoyance after having to serve under someone younger.
"I don't think that's entirely it."
Ernest, meanwhile, was skeptical about the intensity of the training, but as for the training itself, he saw it in a positive light.
"It's definitely harsh, but the more training we get, the better. There's no downside to having more stamina."
"If I keep trying to improve my stamina at this rate, I'll end up a wreck crawling around like an idiot."
"Plus, it can help us stay calm and not freeze up in actual combat."
"Do you really think it'll work?"
"It's certainly better than doing nothing. Even if it only slightly increases our chances of survival, that's worth it."
"Damn it. You're right…"
"The training is a bit over the top, though."
"Exactly! Couldn't agree more!"
While Ernest was talking to Robert about the training, he kept looking around. Sometimes Bailey would come into the forest himself, saying he wanted to observe the training firsthand.
"Let's rest just a bit longer and then get moving. Looks like he's not coming today."
"That's our Captain Fox for you. Always sly and cunning, isn't he?"
"Second Lieutenant Jitman, resume training with the 1st Platoon."
"Aaaah!"
"Ooooh! Oooh!"
Because Robert spoke out of turn, Captain Fox became furious and the 1st Platoon members found themselves having to restart training early.
The platoon members booed Robert.
"My bad..."
"Alright, just do better next time. Let 1st Platoon rest a while longer."
"..."
While lying flat on the ground, Robert glared fiercely at Ernest.
But Ernest, as his superior and empowered by the authority to tease the Worst Guy Robert, only smirked back at him.
'I'll have to bring this up.'
Deep down, though, Ernest knew that this harsh training couldn't go on much longer, and was planning to suggest to Bailey that they ease up.
Before long, the 5th Division would cross Bertagne Forest into the plains.
If they kept up this regime, the men would be completely worn out before they even saw battle.
"The soldiers barely get any rest, since they have to alternate between training and logging work. While the logging does help build stamina, I think we should reduce the intensity of the training a bit."
As soon as Ernest finished speaking, an intense silence fell over the Command Post, despite all the officers of the battalion being gathered for the morning meeting.
Bailey stared coldly at Ernest, and the battalion staff officers nervously watched Bailey's reaction.
Ferdinand, the other infantry company commander, looked completely unbothered.
In contrast, Andersen, though also an infantry company commander, looked deeply troubled for once.
He had always paid close attention in meetings, but today, he folded his arms and leaned back in his chair before Ernest even finished speaking.
'Ugh, damn it. I give up.'
That was exactly Andersen's attitude.
Even if it hadn't been Ernest, someone would have brought it up—whether it was Ferdinand or Andersen.
They had done everything that could be done, and endured all they could endure.
Any more of this wasn't training, it was just punishment.
But the fact that Ernest was the one to say it—that was the issue.
If it had been Ferdinand or Andersen, it might have been different.
"So the 2nd Company can't keep up with the training, is that it?"
Bailey asked in a low, menacing voice.
Ernest immediately realized from Bailey's reaction that things were taking a very bad turn, but he couldn't tell what the exact problem was.
"We're doing our best…"
"Doing your best and getting results aren't the same thing, Company Commander of the 2nd Company."
"The men have improved a lot, physically…"
"If they're in such great shape now, shouldn't we make the training even tougher?"
"..."
Ernest fell silent.
With calm, deep, and somber eyes, he studied Bailey.
Bailey's brow furrowed.
"So now you won't even answer a superior's question?"
"I'm sorry."
"I asked if we should increase the intensity of training."
"I think we need more time to adjust."
"Answer clearly. Should we increase the training? Or should we ease up?"
If Ernest said to increase it, he'd be contradicting his earlier point about needing to lower the initial training intensity.
If he said to lower it, Bailey might take things to an unpredictable extreme.
"I think it would be best to make a decision after considering both the unit's overall operational plans and the training levels of every company in the battalion."
"..."
And so, Ernest stated the sensible, by-the-book answer, skillfully brushing aside Bailey's pressure.
It was an answer Bailey couldn't easily challenge, and given that the company might soon have to march out to fight in the plains, pushing the soldiers any harder wouldn't make sense.
On top of that, he couldn't just ignore the opinions of Little Hartmann and the experienced Andersen.
It was the perfect response—one that both fended off Bailey's unreasonable pressure and backed up the view that training shouldn't be made any more intense.
But that made it an utterly unsatisfactory answer.
Andersen didn't even bother hiding his growing irritation, rubbing his smooth head and then running a hand down his face.
Bailey was extremely displeased with Ernest.
First off, he hated that this brat, this completely green kid, would have the nerve to talk back to him without hesitation.
Just because he was the Son of a Hero, they'd let him flaunt his name, bump him up to Captain, and now he acted as if he were some great hero himself.
Appointed as a platoon leader at seventeen, promoted to Captain and company commander within a month after being awarded the Medal of Merit and the Bronze Star Medal—it was clear he was full of himself.
Bailey wanted to put this cocky greenhorn in his place and teach him some proper etiquette, but seeing as he'd graduated top of his class from the Imperial Military Academy with no apparent shortcomings, there wasn't even anything concrete to criticize.
What's more, Bailey was convinced that the despicable coward Levin Ort had made Ernest the 2nd Company Commander just to torment him.
He believed Levin had appointed that hero-obsessed greenhorn as a company commander to turn him into his own follower, so that even after Levin left the 1st Battalion to become Regimental Commander, he could continue pulling strings in the 1st Battalion through Ernest and sabotage everything Bailey tried to do.
To think that, just because Bailey had offered some harsh words as a senior when Levin was newly commissioned, they would stoop to this kind of petty revenge now—really, the pettiness was as boundless as the sea.
Of course, this was only Bailey's take on things.
Ernest Krieger was a truly steadfast person—then as now, he simply said what was right, nothing more.
In other words, whenever Bailey did something wrong, Ernest couldn't help but speak up.
Back when Levin was Battalion Commander, Ernest never voiced his own opinions while serving dutifully as Acting Company Commander.
Levin's decisions were always right, so all Ernest had to do was follow orders without question.
Yet from Bailey's perspective, even this consistent behavior seemed like the actions of Levin's loyal follower trying to undermine him.
After all, Ernest always butted in and replied back whenever Bailey did something.
Andersen, who had served as an officer in the military for over a decade, was well aware of the problems and incidents such interpersonal frictions could cause.
That's why he'd planned to wait for Bailey to wear himself out and cool down before quietly stepping in.
But while Ernest was a remarkably capable soldier, he was hopelessly bad at navigating human relationships. He didn't consider Bailey's feelings as his superior in the slightest—he just kept saying exactly what was correct to improve things.
"Hopeless."
Recognizing that the rift between Bailey and Ernest had now reached a point of no return, Andersen simply gave up.
Even if Ernest tried to appease Bailey now, Bailey wouldn't stop.
So, Andersen resolved not to get involved in their relationship, but instead to deal with Bailey, his superior, and Ernest, his colleague, each in his own way.
As an experienced captain who'd missed out on promotion to major because of the war, Andersen was more than capable of making wise decisions.
"We'll keep training as we have up until now."
Bailey spoke in a firm voice.
If he said they would intensify the training, he'd look like a reckless commander; if he said they would ease up, it would look like he'd lost to Ernest's arguments—so from Bailey's perspective, there was really no way out.
Ernest actually had enough to say about Bailey's decision that he could have talked nonstop for three hours, but he read the room and decided to keep quiet.
Even though Ernest was clumsy with people, he could at least tell that nothing good would come from pushing further here.
After his argument with Ernest, Bailey regained his composure and continued with the meeting.
But since everyone was busy gauging Bailey's mood, the meeting dragged on in a rather tense and unenthusiastic atmosphere.
In the end, almost every decision that required discussion ended up being resolved either by maintaining the status quo or by going along with Bailey's judgment because no one spoke up.
Bailey was dissatisfied with how passive his staff officers had become.
After the meeting, he called Captain Hans Schum, the operations officer, for a private conversation, after which Hans gathered the staff officers for another talk.
The tongue-lashing they received from Hans, as if they were being thrown off a cliff, left everyone feeling like they were about to snap.
They needed somewhere to vent their frustrations, and Ernest, who always said the right thing, was the perfect target.
From the staff officers' point of view, no matter what, Ernest was still a captain and, as a company commander, had far more authority within the unit.
This made it difficult to confront him face-to-face—they tried to pass their message through Andersen instead.
"Hahaha, why are you telling me?" Andersen asked. "Come on, 3rd Company Commander. Can't you at least drop a hint to the 2nd Company Commander? Please."
"Why don't you talk to him directly? Or have the 1st Company Commander say something—they're friends, right? They were in the same class."
"No way…"
But the experienced Andersen had absolutely no intention of getting involved in this issue.
Ernest was hopeless when it came to social interactions, but he wasn't stupid enough to burn himself twice on the same fire.
Even if left alone, he wasn't going to create any more problems, and besides, as a company commander, Ernest was a dependable colleague.
If Andersen were to criticize Ernest at the staff officers' request and that soured their relationship, he'd be the one in trouble.
At times like this, the best thing to do was to play it cool and step back.
Ferdinand was the perfect shield in situations like this. No matter how hopelessly naïve he might be, no one was going to ask Ferdinand—eldest grandson of the Corps Chief of Staff, eldest son of the Corps Operations Section Chief, and Ernest's friend—to stop Ernest from making good points.
So in the end, the staff officers' dissatisfaction had nowhere to go but stay bottled up inside them. It was enough to drive anyone crazy.
"We're doomed."
"Oh, what now!"
"They're going to keep doing the training as before."
"Agh! Seriously! Why! Whyyyy!"
When Ernest said this, Robert started throwing a fit, wildly flailing his arms and legs on the floor.
Billim, shocked by the news, almost collapsed from despair, while even Simon, who'd always trained in silence, squeezed his eyes shut, his face turning pale.
"..."
"..."
Isaac and Bruno sat side by side in a corner of the tent, not saying a word, their empty eyes following the dust floating in the air. At least the officers had it a little easier.
During the logging work, they only had to supervise.
But the soldiers, who had to alternate between logging and training, felt as if they were being worked to death.
Well, the "officers," anyway.
Most of the "officers" didn't even consider the 2nd-class Baltracher as true officers.
The Baltrachers were being sent to logging duty as well, worn down mentally and physically.
No exaggeration—it was getting to the point where they actually feared someone might die from all this.
With summer fast approaching and the weather heating up rapidly, logging all morning and training all afternoon left neither the soldiers nor the Baltrachers with the strength to endure.
Everyone except Bailey was deeply skeptical of the situation.
Still, it was true that rigorous training produced a strong army.
Bailey was a commander thoroughly seasoned in toughening up units through hard training.
No matter where he was assigned, his unit became elite over time, and that became a powerful credential for him.
There were few people better suited than Bailey to command the 1st Battalion, the Elite Battalion of the 13th Regiment.
That was an undeniable fact.
But now, Bailey was blinded by his inferiority complex and jealousy toward Levin.
As a result, even the sensible things Ernest said sounded like insolent interruptions.
If Levin Ort, Colonel and new Regimental Commander of the 13th Regiment and Bailey's superior, hadn't been assigned, Bailey might have endured the soldiers' grumbling about training but would still have retained the respect of his officers.
After all, his competence was the reason he'd been appointed Battalion Commander in a time of war, wasn't it?
In the end, the 1st Battalion had to endure yet another hellish day.
The 2nd Company was assigned to logging work all morning, and then spent the entire afternoon running through the forest and crawling on the ground for training.
The other companies suffered just as much, only switching the order of tasks—logging or training all day.
By the end, no one had enough strength left to even lift a finger.
"Mail's here! We've got letters!"
Still, when they returned to the campsite, some good news was waiting for them.
Letters had finally arrived—the ones that never made it earlier because of "bad weather and administrative delays."
"There are so many this time!"
Robert received nearly twenty letters.
Some were from his family, but many were from friends he'd made in various circles.
"Even the Young Master of the Duke's House sent one."
"How many did you get?"
"I got two."
"Ha! I got three!"
"Damn it! Why do you get three?"
The peers from the Imperial Military Academy gathered and compared how many letters they'd received from Wilfried.
Most of them got two, but only Robert had received three. Wilfried had simply used his spare moments to carefully handwrite letters to each of them and send them out in order.
Given time, everyone would eventually receive the same number of letters.
"Heh heh heh. See? You should've been nicer to the Young Master of the Duke's House!"
"There's no one who treated Wilfried worse than you, except maybe Ernest."
Still, the seventeen-year-old boys didn't care about such trivial matters and were completely caught up in the spirit of competition.
"Hey! Ernest! How many did you get from the Young Master of the Duke's House? You got at least one, right?"
Riding high on his victory, Robert started pestering Ernest. In truth, even one letter would be a lot for Ernest—he might not have gotten any at all.
"Four."
"What!"
But Ernest had received no less than four letters from Wilfried—one more than Robert.
Outraged, Robert yelled and grabbed Ernest by the collar.
"This is unacceptable! Anyone else I could understand, but you, getting more than me!"
"Ha, so this is how ugly it looks when someone can't accept defeat."
Ernest sneered at Robert and held Wilfried's four letters high above his head for everyone to see.
Since Robert looked so frustrated, Ernest decided to forgive him for grabbing his superior by the collar, thinking there was no need to tease him about rank on top of everything else.
"…But why are your envelopes different from ours?"
Ferdinand pointed out something odd as he gestured at the envelopes Ernest was holding up.
When Ernest looked at him, Ferdinand pulled his own envelope from his pocket.
The others followed suit, taking theirs out to compare.
Wilfried had carefully chosen the finest envelopes for the letters he sent to his other friends.
He'd sealed them with deep red wax, pressed with his personal seal, and written their names in elegant, ornate script—practically a work of art.
But the letters he sent Ernest were another story: he'd just grabbed whatever paper was lying around, folded it roughly into an envelope, didn't bother with a seal, and had scribbled Ernest's name in a hasty scrawl.
"Puhahaha! I knew it!"
"Still, you got four, didn't you!"
"Open them up. We won't know what he wrote until you do."
While Robert laughed at him and Ernest tried to deny reality, Baumann calmly stepped in to mediate.
Ernest hurriedly tore open the first letter Wilfried had sent him and began to read.
The others gathered around, reading Wilfried's letter together.
"Haha…"
Everyone smiled in a mix of amazement and joy.
"..."
There, Ernest was the only one who couldn't bring himself to smile.
Setting aside Wilfried's letter filled with sarcasm and mockery, Ernest, hoping for something different, opened the next letter and began to read.
"To Ernest.
I don't really have anything to say to you, but I'm sending one out of courtesy anyway.
From Wilfried."
Bang!
"W-what the hell is this?"
When Ernest slammed his desk, everyone flinched in surprise.
He tucked Wilfried's letter back into its envelope, then hurriedly opened a third letter.
"To Ernest.
Since we're technically Military Academy peers, I thought the last letter was a bit too short, so here's another one. Instead of running around having fun by yourself, try taking care of my friends properly. And if someone has to get hurt, let it be you.
From Wilfried."
"Unforgivable."
"Ouch."
Ernest trembled with rage.
Robert, who had slyly peeked at the letter over his shoulder, smirked in delight and offered a jab.
With his hands shaking, Ernest unfolded the fourth letter.
"To Ernest.
Today I attended our friends' funeral. I realized it only after losing them, but you must have lost them while they were still in your care. I'm sorry.
From now on, just as you asked, I'll write and send updates about our friends, too. As for Marie, I'll get in touch with friends in the 6th Division and find out more about her."
The fourth letter had shaky handwriting.
And underneath, the names of the Twenty-Seven, carefully written one by one.
Among those many names, Ernest saw Jonas and Tobias, and he could no longer deny that this was the casualty list.
"I'll keep a record about our friends from now on. So I won't forget. So they won't be forgotten. And I'll record things about you, too—just how cunning, sly, and cruel you are. If you have any complaints, come here and say it yourself.
From Wilfried."
Within Wilfried's sarcasm, Ernest could sense a hidden concern.
Telling him to come in person if he had any complaints, instead of just saying "come back alive," was probably because even for Ernest, Wilfried simply couldn't bring himself to say anything nice.
In a calm, steady voice, Ernest began reciting the names of the twenty-seven fallen.
At first, the others had no idea why Ernest was listing the names of their friends, but soon enough, as if struck by lightning, the truth dawned on them.
"...."
Everyone who had been laughing and chatting fell silent.
Out of sixty peers, twenty-seven had died in action.
There might have even been more casualties before the letter arrived.
"Even one is far too many."
After reciting every name, Ernest broke the silence in a rough voice.
"This cannot happen again. Not ever."
Ernest carefully folded Wilfried's letter, slid it back into the envelope, gathered his things, and stood up.
"Right, Ferdinand?"
"...Yeah."
At the words of 2nd Company Commander Ernest, 1st Company Commander Ferdinand replied in a heavy tone.
Ernest did not smile, and neither did Ferdinand.
Exhausted by their friends' deaths and worn out from harsh training, they exchanged a few consoling words before heading back to their own tents.
Ernest returned to the company commander's tent, but instead of falling asleep, he sat at his desk and gently touched Wilfried's letters.
The letter that should have come never arrived.
'Father.'
There was no letter from Haires.
Naturally, there was no heart medicine, either.
To be honest, Ernest wasn't even sure if he needed the medicine anymore.
Even though he'd run out and gone over a month without it, he hadn't shown any symptoms at all.
With all the side effects gone, everything just felt clear and lucid.
But Haires had warned him time and again that Ernest must keep taking the medicine for the rest of his life.
Though he'd grudgingly tolerated Ernest reducing the dosage, Haires acted as if actually stopping it would be utterly unforgivable. He always calculated the dosage and dates with precision, making sure to send more before it ever ran out.
Haires was not someone who made mistakes like this.
For Haires not to send even a letter, let alone the medicine, was unthinkable.
Ernest realized that something serious must have happened to his father.
Yet there was nothing he could do.