Chapter 1350 - The Cook Corps, Continued

Poor Mao Shisan—when had he ever tasted sweets? He had once chewed sorghum stalks, and once risked his life with friends to snatch a wasp nest, but he had never even dared dream of malt candy. The first bite was so sweet that every pore seemed to open. He closed his eyes and spooned the sweet congee into his mouth, one mouthful at a time.

It was all like a story—yes, like a tale his foster father had once told him. Some fortunate soul wandered into the realm of immortals, where the gods hosted an unimagined feast, and when he returned, centuries had passed. How did that story end? Surely the lucky fellow went back to the immortal realm.

Once breakfast was finished and daylight had come, the portly cook headed below to tend his bean sprouts—often the only vegetable available. To vary the fare, there were yellow bean sprouts, green bean sprouts, and sprouted beans in three varieties. The two young men sweated through cleaning the galley and washing the mess gear, then worked the hand pump to bring up seawater for rinsing the mess tins; after the saltwater wash, the clean tins still required a freshwater wipe-down. At sea, fresh water was precious, and the quartermaster set strict quotas for how much could be used to clean a given number of mess tins.

But here on the Yalu River, such rationing was unnecessary. The cooking equipment also needed cleaning—steel things rusted easily. Any surface rust had to be carefully scoured away, especially in the corners, where special cotton swabs were poked and scraped. After washing, everything had to be wiped until not a single water droplet remained, then oiled with a piece of half-cooked pork fat. The pickle crocks, salted egg baskets, rice sacks, and unused coal all had to be returned to their proper places. No trace of grease could remain; everything had to gleam. Even the spoons in the condiment jars had to face the same direction. Once the cleanup was complete, the executive officer would come personally to inspect.

After inspection, they began boiling drinking water. Fu Ji would add lime juice to the water at precise ratios. At first, Mao Shisan assumed this was to mask the taste of water that had been stored too long, but Fu Ji said no—lime juice contained some kind of elixir that prevented illness. If the water was too hot, it would destroy the beneficial properties of the juice, so the boiled water had to cool first—but not too cool; it needed to reach drinkable temperature before the warm juice mixture was added.

The blended water was Mao Shisan's delivery responsibility. Bucket by bucket, he carried it to the insulated containers on deck and in the compartments—while docked, fresh water was unlimited, and everyone could drink as much as they pleased.

"The officers really do treat the soldiers like lords," Fu Ji whispered to Mao Shisan.

After delivering the water, Mao Shisan clutched his stomach and ducked into the open-air latrine at the bow. He was already dressed lightly, and the moment he dropped his trousers, icy wind lashed at him from all directions. His waste froze in midair and hit the thin ice below with a thud. He finished with maximum speed, luxuriously used paper to clean himself, and was just pulling up his trousers to fetch the water bucket when the executive officer stopped him dead: "I've been watching you! Why didn't you wash your hands after using the latrine before touching galley equipment?"

Perhaps delighted to have finally caught someone in the act, the officer serving as duty watch launched into a lengthy lecture on regulations. A few familiar sailors made faces at Mao Shisan from behind him. Only when he reached the topic of punishment did the XO remember this wasn't actually one of the crew: "Get lost. Next time I catch you, you'll get a taste of the cat-o'-nine-tails."

Mao Shisan didn't dare talk back. He ran back to the latrine and, following Fu Ji's instructions, spent half a minute carefully washing each finger with soap. The water was freezing, the wind bitter. By the time Mao Shisan rushed back to the galley, he was half-frozen. He grabbed the reluctant Oscar and huddled by the stove for a long while before feeling he had finally thawed the ice shell off his body.

"Still, there's no place like home," Mao Shisan sighed contentedly.

"Let's hit the sauna today," Fu Ji said, having finished his own cleanup.

"No way, I'm not going..." At the mention of "sauna," Mao Shisan's face fell. "I'll die for sure."

"It's regulations. You dare disobey?" Fu Ji knew that as soon as he invoked "regulations," Mao Shisan would immediately surrender.

"Fine, fine, I'll go."

The sauna bathhouse on Duozhi Island had been constructed under Xue Ziliang's personal supervision—a simple affair of dry-stacked stones. When the Special Reconnaissance Team conducted winter training on Jeju Island, they often used saunas to toughen the soldiers and build their resistance.

Since the Haitian would be at rest on Duozhi Island for some time, giving everyone a sauna was considered a form of "training." So the bathhouse opened for business.

Mao Shisan shrieked as several sailors with wickedly amused grins hoisted him by the arms and legs, counting "one-two-three!" before hurling him into the icy river.

Early spring on the Yalu still carried floating ice, and the water was bone-piercingly cold. The instant Mao Shisan hit the water, he felt his manhood shrivel up into his belly.

This routine of steaming in the stone hut and then being tossed into ice water occurred every two or three days. The first time he received this treatment, Mao Shisan assumed it was some kind of hazing or initiation—a "welcome beating." But when he saw everyone from Chief Xue Weini down to Fu Ji in his own galley undergo the same thing, he realized this was simply the Australians' customary bathing method.

"You call this bathing? It's torture," he muttered every time he crawled out of the river. No matter how many times, he simply couldn't adapt to this "punishment"—though it was true he didn't feel quite as cold now as the first time.

"Eventually you won't fear the cold anymore," Fu Ji said, tossing him a towel and jacket. "Once you've done it enough, you'll understand the benefits."

Mao Shisan had no idea what benefits this steam-then-freeze routine could possibly offer. He was about the same age as Fu Ji but understood that "seniority of entry counts"—and more importantly, Fu Ji wore a proper uniform and drew actual pay, a real soldier, incomparably superior to a "stray" like himself picked up from nowhere. So he never dared contradict his companion.

Following Fu Ji's example, Mao Shisan first rubbed himself thoroughly dry with the towel until his body warmed up, then pulled on the old uniform originally destined to become gun-cleaning rags. Worn nearly to shreds, this thin cotton uniform couldn't compare to Fu Ji's thick, sturdy, fuzzy jacket, so the Haitian's quartermaster had issued him refugee padded clothing as well, with the uniform worn over it as a smock.

The clothes weren't particularly thick, but for Mao Shisan, who hadn't worn proper padded clothing in years, they warmed him to the core. Strangely, after these regular baths, his whole body felt comfortable, his joints and bones relaxed. His body always stayed warm—what could explain that?

He buttoned up and asked Fu Ji: "Time to start cooking lunch?"

Fu Ji laughed: "All you think about is eating—as if you'd burst! Come on." He waved his hand. "Let's go wash the vegetables. We also need to prep for dinner."

At the mention of cooking, Mao Shisan happily followed along.

Their job was washing vegetables. The Fubo Military placed great emphasis on vegetable supply; whenever possible, they made efforts to provide fresh produce. The only vegetables the Haitian could store were potatoes and onions, and these had been nearly depleted over the journey. The vegetables they used while anchored at Duozhi Island were requisitioned from Zhenjiangbu and surrounding garrisons under Later Jin control.

In this frozen wilderness, winter vegetables consisted solely of stored napa cabbage and radishes. Despite orders to "provide maximum support," the local garrison simply couldn't supply anything better. Fortunately, for sailors who had endured endless days of nothing but bean sprouts and potatoes at sea, napa and radishes were delicacies.

A makeshift pier had been set up on the shore of Duozhi Island, in the waters upstream of the Haitian, where the crew drew water and did their washing. A temporary water collection point included a filter system to strain the river water.

The vegetables had arrived from Zhenjiangbu just a few days ago. Besides cabbage and radishes, there were sometimes frozen game—roe deer, venison, and the like. Fu Ji often had to break down and process these "meat carcasses" on the riverbank. Mao Shisan had helped as well. As he sat on the pier washing vegetables, the Eight Banners cavalry patrols along the riverbank were clearly visible—this was the first time he could observe these enemies so closely and at such leisure.

Mao Shisan had never actually seen real Tartars before, but from his foster father, the military households, and escapees from Later Jin territory, he had heard countless stories of their ruthlessness and cruelty. His fear of the Tartars was seared deep into his brain. When the Haitian first anchored at Duozhi Island and Tartar cavalry came to investigate, Mao Shisan had nearly wet his pants.

When he learned that the Haitian was in the Yalu River, not far from the Tartars' Zhenjiangbu, Mao Shisan had wanted to die—weren't they walking into the lion's den? And here he was, not even having eaten his fill yet!

But then they had fought a battle on the riverbank and routed over two hundred Tartar cavalry, leaving behind enough dead horses that the entire ship gorged on horsemeat for days. Afterward, the Haitian had specifically weighed anchor and steamed to Zhenjiangbu to settle accounts, bombarding the place until the Tartar commander came out to sue for peace. From then on, Mao Shisan realized the Eight Banners weren't so terrifying after all. They died just as easily when hit by cannon shot; when enough died, they ran just like anyone else; when they lost, they had to submit—wasn't the ship's vegetables and meat now mostly supplied by them?

Each time new vegetables arrived, the ship's medic inspected them first. Though Zhenjiangbu sometimes sent dried mushrooms and the like, the medic never allowed them to eat these, always tossing them directly into the sauna stove as fuel—much to Mao Shisan's heartache. In the past, if he could have scrounged even a few mushrooms to boil in his soup, that would have been a feast.

The two of them worked and chatted while washing dirt from the cabbage and radishes. Today's vegetable delivery seemed especially large, and on the beach lay something rarely seen: an entire butchered cow.

"The Tartar officers are being generous today!"

"Generous my ass. They don't dare hold back, or we'll kick Zhenjiangbu in. Even if the Tartar officers escaped with their lives, they'd still lose their heads." Fu Ji shook his head. "Chief Huang is returning from their capital soon. Chief Xue says we'll hold a welcome feast and give everyone a reward dinner at the same time—then we're heading back."