A thick morning mist still clung to the fields.
The military firing range was a slurry of sludge, the soil saturated with the droplets of a night-long downpour.
"Forward, one-two...! Keep your posture!"
The sergeant's roar echoed across the grounds, but the boots of the lined-up soldiers were already sinking into the muck, making every movement a squelching struggle.
Before any gunfire could ring out, groans of exhaustion erupted first.
The Model 21 Bolt-action Rifle.
It had no magazine; it was an archaic piece of hardware that required the operator to yank the bolt handle back and thumb in rounds one by one.
While it was superior in every way to the improvised pipe guns used during the peak of the Revolutionary War, it was a weapon that earned no love from the soldiers who bore it.
Every time smoke billowed from a muzzle, a soldier's shoulder would jerk violently under the crude recoil.
"Hey, Rudolf. You know you missed your last two shots, right?"
"To hell with it. This damn rifle takes ten days just to eject a single casing. And the recoil is senseless."
"Still, it's the only thing we've got."
"I'd be faster throwing stones."
A youth at the end of the line let out a sharp chuckle.
He was a fresh recruit, recently conscripted from the countryside.
Stone-throwing was a skill he had practiced his entire life while serving as a shepherd.
Nearby, sabre drills were underway.
As blades clanged against targets fashioned from iron plates, the rhythmic clang was followed by the soldiers' hollow laughter.
"We aren't Wyverns or Kurantas. Why do they keep insisting we use these toothpicks?"
"Who knows. They say the brass still hasn't let go of the Imperial Army's old fashions. When arrows and Arts are flying across the battlefield, what difference is charging with a piece of steel going to make?"
"It looks impressive, though. The girls back home think a man with a sword at his hip has real style."
At those words, a ripple of movement went through the nearby ranks.
"Hey, do you even have a girlfriend?"
"No, why?"
"Then shut your mouth. What does a man without a woman know about style?"
"We're all rotting in the same barracks anyway."
"No, I'm telling you, when I was on leave last time, I saw a girl at the market eyeing me because I had my blade on."
"She was probably staring because you were walking like an idiot."
"Watch it, you want to settle this?"
The sergeant whipped his head around.
"Shut it, you lot! How many times do I have to tell you—no chatter during live fire!"
The soldiers settled down for a moment, but as soon as the gunfire slowed, the murmurs resumed.
"Maybe we should hold a vote in the Soviet and purge that sergeant."
"Easy there. The female recruits like him too much, he won't get the boot. Just because he has a pretty face... tsk. But hey, did you hear our battalion commander's wife is young?"
"Here we go with the nonsense again."
"I'm serious. Someone saw her at the market. Said she looked younger than me."
"What does that have to do with anything? And if she's younger than you, she must be what, twenty-three?"
"Twenty-two, they say. And she already has two kids. That's what having money and power as a commander gets you."
"Tsk... and here we are, without so much as a girlfriend, barely making enough in wages to visit the red-light districts."
"God... I just want to be buried in the pale, soft skin of a Sarkaz woman!"
"Don't say that so loud, you moron."
Every head nodded in bitter agreement.
Just then, a thunderous boom erupted from the artillery section.
The Model 24 Light Guns were conducting practice maneuvers.
However, the shells were being fired one agonizing shot at a time.
The gun crews were fumbling; a loader burned his fingers on an overheated barrel while trying to ram a shell home, screaming obscenities at the observation team.
"Dammit, when is this training going to end? Once we burn through these shells, we have to hike back to the depot for more!"
"Why the hell is the observation team messing up the calculations again? Not a single hit on the targets!"
"It's because they're all high school grads! Or maybe they were liberal arts majors!"
Laughter erupted among the infantry again.
The sergeant clutched his head and yelled,
"Laugh it up! Laugh while you can, because when the war starts, you're all dead anyway!"
The soldiers tried to look solemn, but they couldn't suppress their grins.
One voice piped up over the noise.
"If war breaks out, it's not the officers who die first, it's us."
The air chilled for a heartbeat.
But the jokes quickly returned to fill the void.
"Exactly... that's why if war starts, I'm dropping my gun and looking for a woman immediately."
"Where are you going to find one?"
"I don't know. Just grab anyone nearby and—"
"Keep dreaming. You'll be cut down by a blade before you get ten feet."
"Are you sure it won't be the woman cutting you down?"
Hollow chuckles spread through the rank.
The firing range was soon choked with acrid smoke.
The rifles were ancient, the ammunition was scarce, and yet the soldiers were still laughing.
But that laughter was less a sign of joy than a shield intended to hide exhaustion and dread.
*********************************************
Dust lay thick upon the ceiling of the officers' barracks.
The air was heavy, a damp mixture of tobacco smoke and the scent of cheap vodka.
On the long table, sabres and revolvers lay scattered amidst half-emptied bottles and dented tin cups.
A slogan hung on one wall—'The Motherland Believes in You'—though at this moment, no one seemed to be looking at it.
"So, I'm telling you, it was back at the end of the Revolutionary War... Ah, right! In front of Nottingham!"
"Hahaha, here we go again, General."
"Wait, wait! It's the truth. I personally breached the enemy's fortifications! With nothing but a sabre in my hand! I cut down three of them at once. An arm that thick was severed right off—"
The speaker made an exaggerated sweeping motion through the air, nearly toppling his seat.
Halfway drunk, his face was flushed a deep crimson, and droplets of booze clung to his lips.
The female officer sitting beside him forced a polite smile.
"I-Is that so? Truly impressive, General."
"Indeed! In my youth, my blood boiled. These young officers today... all they do is sit at desks and stare at numbers."
"Hahaha... you're right. People nowadays fight with words."
The female officer's gaze drifted to the side.
At the opposite table sat the younger, lower-ranking officers.
Their cups were empty; instead of vodka, only cold dregs of tea remained.
A captain quietly swirled his cup and spoke.
"War... do you really think it'll happen again?"
"Who knows," a lieutenant beside him muttered.
"If war comes, the brass will send us first. The grandees at STAVKA will stay in the rear, calling themselves 'Revolutionary Veterans.'"
"Come now, you're being too pessimistic. Wasn't it only two years ago that Comrade Alexandra, the former People's Commissar of Defense, stepped down? She was a veteran who fought on the front lines herself. Surely the tradition remains."
"Maybe."
He pulled a crumpled photograph from his pocket.
His wife and a newborn baby were smiling together.
"I hear baby formula is getting scarce. Rations are delayed. There's plenty of milk in the country, but none of the powder for the kids..."
"In my hometown, flour is short too. Everything is being funneled into heavy industry. Can you believe the state ration stations have bread, but the private bakeries have no flour? It's madness."
"They say it's for the sake of the nation..."
"Saving the nation my eye."
They locked eyes for a moment.
A collective sigh escaped their lips.
"At least the higher-ups are having fun. You see them?"
The captain tilted his head toward the far end of the room.
The seats of honor were occupied by Majors, Colonels, and the General.
The sound of boisterous laughter filled that corner of the room.
"Hahaha! And then, when that bastard charged me, I drew my sabre and shink! His belly opened up just like that!"
"Whoa, seriously?"
"I kid you not! That's how I earned this position! You see this medal? Right here?"
"As expected of you, General."
"Ahem! Yes, one day when you lot see real combat, you'll understand. What it means to be a hero—"
His sentence was punctuated by a loud hiccup.
His cup tipped, and vodka spilled across the table.
The female officer hurriedly pulled out a towel to clean it, but the General grabbed her hand.
"It's fine, it's fine. Stay seated. I like just having you listen."
Her face went stiff as she maintained her brittle, forced smile.
Another senior officer at the table chuckled.
"Haha, the youngsters look tense. It's alright, today is a celebration. The economy is supposedly booming. Even if war starts, we will win."
"Naturally! We have to show the world the power of the Union!"
"Right! Our Red Army of Workers and Peasants is strong! Our equipment might be a little aged, but we have the spirit! That is the revolutionary spirit!"
They clinked their glasses together.
Chink—
The glass struck the steel frame of a revolver on the table, emitting a clear, metallic ring.
The captain in the corner, hearing the sound, whispered to himself.
"...If only 'spirit' could stop an arrow."
His voice was faint, but the lieutenant next to him snickered.
"If war starts, they should be the first ones out there."
"Not a chance. They are always 'rear-command.' We are the front."
"Hahaha. So we'll be the ones dying first on the front lines, while they'll be the ones receiving the Order of the People's Hero later."
"Hasn't it always been that way? Historically speaking."
They raised their cups again.
It was tea instead of spirits, but it didn't matter.
"Well, we still have to live. We need to send our kids to school."
"We need to make it to next month's wages."
"I suppose it's the sacrifices of people like us that keep this country running smoothly."
"No matter how wretched it gets, our country is still far better than the others."
For a moment, the laughter died down.
Only the raucous noise from the head table rang through the silence.
"So I said to him, 'Not on my watch!'—"
The young officers avoided each other's gazes.
Someone drained his cup, and another bowed his head.
Holstered at their waists were gleaming Model 3 revolvers and polished ceremonial sabres.
But none of them felt confident in fighting with them.
Outside the window, the bugler sounded the call for sleep.
The night grew deeper.
********************************
The conference room was filled with polished floors and heavy red curtains.
A banner on the wall read 'For the Socialist Fatherland!', and at the center, a green chalkboard was covered in pinned charts and diagrams.
The curves on those charts were all rising smoothly.
It was perfect.
Every line pointed upward; every statistic spoke of growth.
"Hmm... beautiful."
Ivanov, the People's Commissar of Defense, spoke with his arms crossed.
"Truly... beautiful."
He gazed at the graphs as if they were a masterpiece of fine art.
The title at the top of the chart was written in bold lettering:
— 6th Defense Plan Report
Achievement of 127% Troop Maintenance Efficiency Relative to Cost
"Out of a Union population of 38 million, there are 12 million of military age... to maintain a million-man army out of that is nothing short of a miracle. Especially with a voluntary recruitment system."
The aide beside him spoke, his finger tracing the figures on the report.
"In terms of budget efficiency, it's the lowest in the world. Rations, ammunition, barracks maintenance... we've slashed the budget in every category."
Ivanov nodded triumphantly.
"That is the wisdom of the people. A People's Army is not sustained by expensive hardware, but by revolutionary willpower!"
A finance officer tentatively spoke up.
"Of course, the budget for equipment modernization is somewhat lacking... but the Mosin Design Bureau recently released the Model 26 Bolt-action Rifle, didn't they? The project Comrade Alexandra initiated before she left."
"That can be handled in the next plan. Saving money is our priority. Comrade Alexandra would have wanted it that way."
Ivanov waved his hand dismissal.
"If bullets are short, use bayonets. If bayonets break, use shovels. If we lack cannons, then we dig trenches and hold. Is that not how it's done?"
Laughter followed.
That laughter held more arrogance than exhaustion.
"Now, look at this."
He flipped open a thick dossier.
On the printed table, a series of small red stamps were neatly placed.
Reduction of food costs by 20% per soldier; Extension of uniform replacement cycles from two years to three; 'Optimization' of living quarters per capita.
"Frugality is revolution. He who eliminates waste is a true warrior of the people."
At Ivanov's declaration, the staff nodded in agreement.
Someone scrambled to write down his every word in a notebook.
One of the aides chimed in suddenly.
"Frankly, maintaining a million-man army on our budget would be impossible for any other nation. Iberia? Those fat cats have 300,000 soldiers, and their defense budget is ten times ours. The Gaulish Empire maintains 600,000, yet half their citizenry is reportedly starving. And Ursus? They have 1.2 million, but they're nothing but a disorganized rabble without proper weapons."
Another man immediately picked up the thread.
"We are different. The people are responsible for their own army. Our workers produce twice the steel, our farmers harvest three times the wheat—that is why our army doesn't starve, is it not?"
The conference room erupted in applause.
As if rehearsed, everyone began clapping simultaneously.
"Excellent! Report these achievements to the Supreme Soviet immediately. This is the greatest military accomplishment since the Revolutionary War!"
Ivanov slammed his palm onto the table.
"The system we have built is a perfect one, unmatched anywhere else in the world!"
The staff continued their vigorous nodding.
Another took out a pen to record the statement.
Ivanov stood up and raised a glass.
A private decanter sat on the table.
It was wine reserved exclusively for high-ranking officers.
He uncorked the bottle, poured the liquid, and held it up to the light.
The red liquid shimmered in the sunlight.
"Comrades, the success we've achieved is more than just numbers."
His voice grew in volume.
"This is the victory of our system, the unity of our people, and a miracle birthed by the leadership of the Communist Party!"
All eyes in the room fixed on him.
Glasses were raised; pens were set down.
"And—"
He spoke the next words slowly and deliberately.
"All of this would have been impossible without the wise guidance of the Chairman. His vision, his resolve, his sleepless dedication—is that not what brought us to this moment?"
Everyone in the room rose as one.
Glasses clattered together with a metallic ring.
"Long live the Chairman!"
"Long live the Revolution!"
"Long live the Union!"
The roar of the shouts shook the ceiling.
The slogans were chanted until the very floorboards vibrated.
Ivanov closed the dossier with a grin.
His expression was one of absolute certainty.
"Good... now we are perfect."
Whether the Red Army of Workers and Peasants was truly ready, only time would tell.
========================
The website for reading paid chapters is available on my Patreon. The number of chapters on Patreon: 99
Link: patreon.com/UltraMagnus_T