Chapter 157: Military Uniforms

Training pressed forward relentlessly, though the food proved surprisingly generous. The "Chiefs" seemed to have no concept of rationing coarse grains—three meals arrived daily with unlimited brown rice, one salted fish per person, and heaping portions of vegetables. In the early days, several young men gorged themselves until their eyes rolled back in their heads, a testament to the chronic deprivation of their former lives. People of this era rarely received sufficient protein or fat, which drove their demand for carbohydrates to extraordinary heights. During busy agricultural seasons, farmers commonly wolfed down two jin of flatbread at a single sitting. These soldiers, subjected to grueling daily drills, proved no different. Ma Qianzhu quickly discovered that the allocated twenty kilograms of monthly rations wouldn't last—but there was no solution short of increasing the meat and oil supply, and the transmigrators themselves lacked those essentials.

The drills continued their relentless march forward: quick march first, then parade march, then running. Once footwork was mastered, the soldiers moved to the rhythms of drums and fifes. According to the PLA training manuals, after completing the program these men would achieve 110 to 120 steps per minute for marching and 180 to 190 for running—already the fastest pace of any army in this era.

Better food and rigorous physical training transformed these sallow, wiry men into figures of robust strength. In truth, they had always exceeded the transmigrators in endurance and load-bearing capacity—these were lifelong manual laborers, after all—but that had been the pathological adaptation of hardship, not the healthy vigor born of adequate nutrition and proper exercise. Their physiques improved visibly, yet the transformation in bearing proved equally significant. Weeks of holding their chests out and chins up, striding rather than shuffling, speaking decisively rather than mumbling—all of it carved confident, capable expressions onto their faces. The non-enlisted workers now watched these soldiers with undisguised envy, and the women of the commune found reasons to linger near the training grounds.

"With proper uniforms, they'd be even more impressive," Ma Qianzhu mused. He had come to realize that the Army lacked a logistics department—which meant the Chief of Staff had effectively become Logistics Chief alongside his training duties.

The call for uniform designs immediately sparked excitement among the transmigrators. In this dreary environment, the project held significant entertainment value, and Ma Qianzhu soon found himself with over a hundred assorted sketches. Every uniform fetish was on full display: the distinctive Type-65, Frederick the Great's mitered grenadiers, Napoleon's bearskin guard, British "lobsterbacks," Budyonov-capped Soviet Red Army, even the Wehrmacht. After compiling them, Ma Qianzhu sadly discovered a complete lack of creativity—every design was a reproduction of some historical army.

Three main schools of thought emerged. First came the traditional Chinese style, represented by the Type-65 and mixed with Type-55 and Type-87 elements. Second were the line infantry enthusiasts, who favored the gorgeous flashiness of nineteenth-century European uniforms. Third was the World War II school, which simply copied German, Soviet, and American designs—occasionally creating hybrid monstrosities. There were also niche preferences: National Revolutionary Army round caps, and even enthusiasts for Shōwa-era Imperial Japanese Army uniforms.

"Good heavens—have we been infiltrated by Japanophiles?" Ma Qianzhu gasped.

Given the widespread interest, Ma Qianzhu couldn't decide unilaterally. The benefit of "democracy," in this case, was that no single person bore the blame. He convened a "hearing" that included the Military Committee, Industrial Department, Planning Committee, and ten citizen representatives to review all proposals. To avoid the influence of personal aesthetics, he established two principles: first, uniforms couldn't exceed current production capabilities; second, they had to suit the local environment.

These constraints immediately eliminated bearskin caps and riding boots, wiping out half the candidates. Then came production capability. The Industrial Department reported that Lingao's indigenous dyeing could produce only gray, blue, and black, and that Lingao produced no wool whatsoever. The line infantry faction was thoroughly crushed—colorful, elaborate uniforms were simply impractical.

The remaining candidates were all modern uniforms. The Type-65 won on the merits of simple manufacturing and fabric-saving design. To placate the others, the new uniforms incorporated modest modifications.

The final design was designated the "Year-One Pattern," also called the "28-Pattern." Like the Type-65, it was based on the Zhongshan suit and made from cotton fabric. The officer's tunic featured four pockets versus the enlisted man's two—a distinction inherited from established military tradition. The cap was changed to an octagonal style, slightly larger than the Red Army's small octagon and more American in appearance, looking quite fashionable. Collar insignia and cap badges were left blank for now. Anticipating future ranks, the Year-One Pattern had pre-installed shoulder straps, and the left arm featured a position for an armband. Officers and soldiers alike wore German infantry-style fabric gaiters—no more wrapping "dumplings" with cloth strips. They simply slipped them on and tightened them: convenient and efficient. Military shoes came in two types: straw sandals for training and black cloth shoes for outings and reviews.

For batch production, uniforms weren't branch-specific—they were merely color-differentiated. Army gray. Navy blue—not a true navy blue or sky blue, but a blackish indigo. The Navy currently had low standards; differentiation from the Army was all they wanted. Considering Hainan's oppressive heat, summer uniforms were also designed—essentially short-sleeve versions in hemp fabric. Someone proposed knee-length shorts, but the ugly, pathetic appearance of British colonial troops in such attire led to the idea's immediate rejection.

Beyond uniforms, there were regulation underpants, undershirts, and blankets. The blankets weren't wool—just two cotton layers with light cotton fill, grid-stitched together. In Hainan's year-round temperatures exceeding 20°C, that was more than sufficient.

The transmigrators had an ample cotton stockpile, but there were only five sewing machines, and worse, only three women who could operate them. Expecting them to produce 1,200 uniform sets was utterly impractical. Ma Qianzhu decided to outsource the work to the women of the Commune. Nearly all of them could tailor—commoners rarely used professional tailors, as the women of each household made clothes for their own families. The skill wasn't difficult, and if they were unfamiliar with modern patterns, that posed no problem. Logistics prepared paper patterns that were distributed with the fabric; the seamstresses just had to trace and copy. Before distribution, the Planning Committee had trial-produced one set of each size and style, checking the fit and calculating precise fabric and thread consumption to prevent over- or under-supply.

Wu De swiftly assigned the work and established acceptance standards—rejects required compensation for the ruined fabric. This outsourcing earned work points plus leftover fabric scraps for the contractors, a powerful incentive that galvanized the Commune women. Even those with regular jobs worked overtime shifts. Wu De planned to use this opportunity to identify skilled seamstresses, train them professionally, and then open a Commune garment factory, taking over the sewing and cutting equipment. It was big business: beyond the military, future schools and agencies would need uniforms, and once migrants arrived, clothing demand would surge.

Equipment production proved simpler. The county's only leatherworker, hearing that the "short-hairs" sought craftsmen for large orders, immediately brought his family and tools to join them. His first assignment stunned him into silence: 1,200 leather belts. This generosity completely won him over, and he developed a simple, unshakeable conviction: Following the short-hair masters guarantees food forever.

The weapon belts were German-style Y-straps made of cowhide. After inspecting Wei Aiwen's replica Y-strap, the leatherworker deemed it easy—the whole family could produce ten daily. Metal buckles were stamped by the Mechanical Group from wrought iron, steel being too precious for such purposes. However, Wei Aiwen traded cigarettes for private work: some brass buckles just for himself.

Lin Fu stood nervously outside the office. This Salt Village rugby star had enlisted, though not entirely by choice. Xi Yazhou hadn't assigned village quotas—only requiring demonstration militiamen—but the Village Committee decided these demonstrators should enlist to show Salt Village's determination to follow the "Chiefs" in "revolution." The term came from Du Wen. What was revolution? Nobody knew. Salt Village had no literati; otherwise, the word would have terrified them.

Lin Fu wasn't tall—about 165 centimeters—but that was respectable height for this era. Long-term rugby training had given him a robust build, and he naturally became a model soldier. Now he stood fully equipped in the future configuration of the New Army, ready for review by the Military and Planning Committees.

"Lin Fu, come in." Chief of Staff Ma's voice emerged from within. Lin Fu didn't know what "Chief of Staff" meant—he simply understood the man was the training ground's highest-ranking officer. He pushed open the door and froze.

It was a large room with tables arranged in a horseshoe, and a dozen "Chiefs" all stared at him standing in the center—like the three-court examination scenes from operas. Lin Fu performed the salute Wei Aiwen had taught him and reported loudly:

"Report! Army Training Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon, 1st Squad, Model Soldier Lin Fu reporting as ordered!"

Wei Aiwen stood and returned the salute. "At ease!"

"Yes sir!"

It was a proper exchange—this week's training hadn't been wasted. Everyone showed approving expressions. Before them stood a soldier holding a Year-One Minié rifle with a Year-One triangular bayonet attached, wearing a Year-One uniform, a cowhide German-style Y-strap, and carrying one large and one small ammunition pouch at his waist. He looked quite imposing.

"This is an imitation Taishō 11 ammunition pouch. The dimensions have been modified," Wei Aiwen explained. "It's made of cowhide and comes in two sizes: the broad one holds sixty paper cartridges each, and the small one holds percussion caps." Caps were volatile and had to be stored separately from cartridges. The pouches were designed for future compatibility with metal cartridges—universal sizing.

"This is the canteen." Wei Aiwen pointed at the cylindrical object on Lin Fu's waist. "Made from bamboo with a cork stopper. A net rope sleeve attaches it to the belt. Doesn't it look exactly like German gas mask canisters?"

Indeed it did. Everyone nodded, and Wei Aiwen seemed rather proud of this "German element."

The belt also held a fabric grenade pouch containing the Chemistry Group's bamboo-shell grenades. Their explosive power was weak, but the psychological impact was impressive—useful for intimidation.

Lin Fu wore a peculiar backpack—more like a flat box than a pack. This was the newly developed regulation backbox, inspired by the locals' common backbaskets. It was woven from fine rattan, lined with tung-oiled cloth, and equipped with a waterproof lid. The elliptical shape featured an ergonomic backframe. This newly developed backbasket matched current industrial capabilities while far exceeding the traditional method of bundling belongings in cloth—a new product that combined modern concepts with contemporary production techniques.

(End of Chapter)