But regardless of our supplies, a problem remains.
Human food must be prepared. Most meals are not as accessible as MREs. Even with staple foods like bread, the best we can do now is order dry bread to be captured. It’s not like we dropped in with a bakery company, after all.
Previously, we had at least been able to prepare meals using captured field kitchens…but now that the last kitchen has been blown apart, our meal preparation efficiency has taken a drastic nosedive.
Although we have captured a veritable mountain of foodstuffs and ingredients, due to our limited staff and equipment, we are forced to subsist on dry, cardboard-like emergency bread and slimy, cardboard-flavored tins of fish. Only non-perishables are available while all those delicious, safely stored meat and vegetables sit tantalizingly out of reach.
This is bad. It will shatter morale.
“A thoroughly unpalatable situation, in every sense of the word…”
“Mages are used to favorable treatment, after all,” my adjutant observes.
I agree wholeheartedly.
“If they can’t eat well, they won’t get enough calories. It’s not just a morale issue. It’s about stamina. Like fighter jets without enough fuel, there’s no telling what kind of dent indigestion could put in our fighting potential…”
Just as athletes need sufficient calories, soldiers do, too. Yet, there is a limit to how much one can force down before the stomach protests. There’s nothing more miserable than diarrhea amid battlefield sanitation conditions. This is why properly prepared, sanitary, high-calorie meals are preferred…but wishing for what we can’t have will be our undoing.
“Let them nibble on chocolate for now, but we’ll have to figure something out soon. Should we assign mess duty? But if that interferes with sleep time and rotations…”
“Colonel, what if I ask for volunteers and do it myself?”
While tempting, after some thought, I reject the idea.
“No, Visha. You sleep.”
We are all too short on sleep. Imagine how much more exhausted everyone would be if we added mess duty to everything else.
“It’s fine—just rest,” I say, cradling my adjutant in my arms and gently tossing her onto her pallet. Someone this tired should fall asleep immediately, even after being tossed around like a sack of potatoes.
“It may seem like a simple household task, but this isn’t a garrison where food takes care of itself…,” I mutter with a sigh as I pull a thin blanket over my head.
After a moment spent pulling my hair out in the operations center, I suddenly raise my head.
The whistle of flying shells and then the dreaded, heavy sound of impact… The reinforced trench shakes in a manner that is anything but fun.
“Damnit, it’s that railway gun again.”
That gun is as powerful as a warship deck gun. They are lighting us up. It is neither pleasant nor fun. One explosive formula from close range would solve our problem, but the enemy is as aware as we are of how fragile a railway gun can be. Do we stand any chance of cutting through the enemy defense unit lying in wait with thick anti-air fire?
It all sounds like a pain, but we will never get revenge for what they did to our field kitchen if we are afraid to act. Besides, I’m worried I might lose my cool if I’m forced to just around sit and get shot at this entire time.
“Damn it, I guess we’re going to have to take out that gun as well.”
It will be hard work, but if I frame it as revenge for our lost hot meals, the men will likely be enthusiastic. It’s time to put together a counterattack plan, but I have already tossed First Lieutenant Serebryakov into dreamland. Since I cannot foist any more work onto my men, the finer details must fall to me.
It can’t be helped, I decide, as I begin speaking to control via my orb.
“Rhine Control, this is Salamander Commander. We are preparing to send mages to seek and destroy enemy artillery. Please send the enemy railway gun’s coordinates,” I say, staring at the map to ensure everything is in place.
However… How strange. Usually the response from control is immediate and chipper, but today they seem to be lagging for some reason.
“Hrm? Rhine Control?”
I double-check the channel. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong.
“Rhine Control, please respond,” I say again.
Still nothing.
“Damn it, don’t tell me control went the way of our field kitchen.”
The control team had been operating out of the captured Federation command post. Naturally, most of the equipment they used was captured from the Federation Army, meaning the Federation knew exactly where control was located. It is doubtful even a command bunker could withstand sustained shelling from a railway gun.
“We can’t take much more of this…”
The controller is silent. There is no way to know whether the equipment has been damaged or if the personnel have been taken out… Either way, our ability to mount a systematic resistance has been dramatically reduced.
Our food is terrible, and control is gone. Damn you, war!
This is not good. It is downright dangerous, in fact. I suddenly start to feel dizzy as I sit in my command chair.
First of all, Tanya has absolutely no interest in dying or making a grand sacrifice for the Empire. I pride myself on my clear thought processes and sense of self-preservation—they are too strong to ever allow me to enter a state of complete recklessness. But I have no choice but to reject the nightmare world in which the Federation Communist Party plays mommy and daddy. Individual freedom is why Tanya is fighting so hard. Yes, fighting for now, but control has gone dark. I think for a moment.
“Not to be repetitive, but our goal was to sever enemy lines of communication and apply pressure—a simple role. Essentially, the longer we hold out, the more the enemy’s front line will starve.”
Unlike decapitation tactics, this is not a one-and-done attack. The longer we remain, the stronger the effect. Naturally, the higher-ups expect overtime. But how long are we to hold out? How long will we serve as a punching bag for the Federation before General Zettour in the capital deems it reasonable to pull us out?
We have already bought them plenty of time. From the 14th to the 26th, we have done more work than any workhorse could dream of. We have captured enemy logistic bases and held our ground for over a week. Carryable provisions typically last around three days, so surely we have stalled enough by now.
Honestly, expecting us to remain here any longer… Just then, I notice footsteps approaching—it is my second-in-command, peeking into the command dugout.
“Major Weiss?”
“We’ve received a message from the General Staff in an encrypted long-range transmission.”
Oh? I turn my head. News from the operations center.
“We have…? Well, this is a surprise. It seems there are indications that the muddy season will arrive early this year. Almost a whole month early, in fact!”
“Yes. It appears the capital is concerned over the sudden change in weather conditions and has decided to issue a warning.”