Chapter 529 - All Sides Mobilize (Part 2)

Among the civilian officers, men like Pan Da and You Laohu—fierce fighters, crack shots, and willing killers—held genuine respect within the Army despite their lack of formal background. But many others, who had stumbled into company command on sheer enthusiasm, found themselves sidelined. Only Wei Aiwen, leveraging his knack for theatricality into a career in "political work," had climbed to the top of the Political Department. Zhang Bolin was another outlier; obsessed with artillery, he had doggedly mastered the operation of muzzle-loading cannons under Lin Shenhe, carving out a niche where the modern expertise of professional artillerists like Ying Yu was less applicable.

These two were the de facto leaders of the Young Officers' Club, jokingly dubbed the "Class of '80 Party." They shared a specific aesthetic ambition: fiery youth, gleaming jackboots, and glittering bayonets. In their heads, they were commanding Panzer divisions at Kharkov or leading the counterattack in Operation Spring Awakening, dreaming of Oak Leaves and Swords at their throats while standing atop King Tiger tanks.

Reality was a cruel contrast. They wore featureless, minimalist gray cotton uniforms with limp cloth shoulder boards. Their Sam Browne belts were locally made from foul-smelling, poorly tanned hide. There were no Iron Crosses here—only a few sleeve stripes for those who had defended Bopu.

Daily life was a grind of endless drill—no tanks, no Blitzkrieg. Mornings began on the parade ground, where they drilled their companies after being drilled themselves by the PLA veterans of the Training Cadre. Bespectacled history buffs lectured them on nineteenth-century "firing by ranks" and linear tactics. In this, everyone started from zero, yet the professionals still outperformed the amateurs; companies led by veterans consistently marched straighter and shot truer than those led by the Class of '80.

The militarist dreams of the new timeline met the hard wall of logistics. Everything—uniforms, boots, rifles, ammunition—was rationed by the Planning Commission. Every musket and cannon was a battle for resources; practice ammunition was counted by the round; even fish rations were calculated to the gram.

The soldiers were clumsy. Hands calloused by hoes did not easily adapt to rifles. A simple "eyes right" could take a day to teach. After hours of shouting and correcting posture until throats were raw and arms ached, the formations would still raggedly disintegrate.

After drill came inspections, political instruction, and the weekly five-kilometer march. Every month, they were dispatched to "support construction"—a dual-purpose policy echoing both socialist states and Roman legions: building endurance while building infrastructure.

The "Grand Army" they had toiled to build was barely a regiment strong. They were not generals commanding legions; they were company commanders of a small, under-equipped militia.

Reality had taught the Class of '80 a hard lesson: a powerful army is built by systems and industry, not by introducing one or two modern weapons or clever tactics.

And so, their frustrated militarism coalesced into the Young Officers' Club.

Their credo was ambitious: an army with the scale of the Soviets, the aesthetic of the Wehrmacht, and the logistics of the Americans.

But the Executive Committee and the military leadership had adopted a strictly Navy-centric philosophy. The Army was kept small—just enough to police the county and defend the base. Including the Training Cadre and auxiliaries, the entire land force numbered less than three thousand men.

This created a bottleneck reminiscent of the Weimar Republic's Reichswehr: too few officer slots, especially at senior levels. Promotion was glacial. While the Navy already had indigenous captains and lieutenants, the Army had yet to produce a single indigenous company commander. It grated on them. If indigenous naval officers began outranking transmigrator Army officers, where was their pride?

Wei Aiwen gripped the podium, his voice rising with theatrical passion. "…Our environment is fraught with peril. On land: the Ming, the Manchus. At sea: Zheng Zhilong, Liu Xiang, pirate fleets. And our Army? A measly dozen companies! Not a single horse! Artillery man-hauled, ammo on backs, not even a shadow of a machine gun!" He took a dramatic breath. "The Executive Committee preaches patience for the sake of economic construction. We have been patient. We haven't complained."

He leaned forward, eyes scanning the room. "But although obedience is a soldier's first duty, I must state this clearly: certain individuals on the Executive Committee have allowed personal bias to warp our development. The Navy feasts while the Army starves."

He ticked off the grievances on his fingers. "Since the Typewriter went into production, the Army hasn't received one. Yet the Navy? Even their unarmed transports have them! Look at the cannons: every heavy gun produced goes to the ships. The total projectile weight of a single naval volley exceeds our entire artillery corps! Comrades—is this acceptable?"

"It is not!" Zhang Bolin shouted, the memory of his pathetic 12-pounder field guns burning in his mind compared to the majesty of a naval broadside.

"Who plants the flag on the enemy bastion? Who defends the regime with bayonets when the walls are breached? The Army!" Wei Aiwen shouted. "Let the Navy try parking a battleship at the gates of Bairen Fortress!"

"Long live the Army!" the officers roared, stomping their boots.

"History warns us: navies are unreliable. Who stabbed the Second Reich in the back? The sailors at Kiel! Who fired the fatal shot at the Russian Empire? The sailors of the Aurora!" Wei Aiwen's agitprop skills were fully deployed now. "The soldiers who bled in the trenches for four years were betrayed by mutinous sailors!"

He spoke with such conviction that he seemed to be channeling the ghost of a betrayed frontline soldier. The sparse audience was fully infected by his fervor.

"The Army must expand! Armaments must be upgraded!" He chopped his hand through the air. "We have sacrificed enough for the economy. Now, the Army must make its voice heard!"

Later that night

Qian Duo, a roving sentry on the late watch, reported nervously to the duty officer, You Laohu. There were still people in the Training Cadre conference room; despite the shuttered windows, he could hear shouting and singing.

"It's nothing," You Laohu said, not looking up from his logbook. "Director Wei is drunk. They get together once a month, drink too much, and talk nonsense. Ignore them."

After Qian Duo left, You Laohu hesitated over the watch journal. Regulations required recording all sentry reports. But Wei Aiwen's use of the room was already authorized, and their entry was logged. There was no need to highlight their drunken theatrics. You Laohu privately disdained their cosplay, but he wouldn't rat them out. They were all comrades, after all.

Outside the Church

Evening vespers had just concluded. Wu Shimang, resplendent in a black cassock with a silver cross, walked out of the church with a dignified, measured gait. Parishioners bowed as he passed; some reached out to kiss his hand. He smiled benevolently, making the sign of the cross over them, before walking out toward a stretch of wasteland the Church had recently purchased.

He had advised Lu Ruohua to buy the land early, predicting prices would spike as Lingao developed.

"Use two hundred piastres just for this scrubland?" Lu Ruohua had grumbled, still unconvinced. "How much higher could it possibly go?"

(End of Chapter)