Chapter 156: Training

Limited resources and manpower meant only a handful of cannons could operate at any given time, so the 12-pounder mountain howitzers remained in service. They proved invaluable for defense—when loaded with canister shot, their devastating power and rapid rate of fire far outstripped the accuracy of the New Army's poorly trained riflemen. At 250 kilograms, they were manageable enough that a single donkey or three to four men could haul them into position. They were ideal for guarding the camp's defensive posts and the fortifications along the Wenlan River.

The New Army assembled in formation outside Bairren Fortress.

Ma Qianzhu stood before them in his Type-87 training uniform, chest thrust forward, chin raised, wearing an expression of calculated arrogance. He was doing his best impression of a movie military commander.

These former Ming commoners had joined this armed force of uncertain origin without a second thought, drawn by promises of silver and rations. None of them felt the slightest guilt about being branded "Ming traitors" for abandoning their dynasty, nor did any harbor revolutionary zeal for rebellion. They were the living embodiment of the old army's time-honored tradition: soldiering for food, nothing more.

Over six hundred men stood with freshly shaved heads gleaming in the light, still stealing glances at one another's unfamiliar appearances. New uniforms had yet to arrive, so they wore simple cotton training suits hand-sewn by the women of the Bairren Commune—a far cry from imposing. Apart from a single ten-man demonstration squad carrying standard rifles, everyone else shouldered rocks lashed to sticks, crude stand-ins meant to simulate the weight of real weapons.

There was nothing to be done about it. Logistics was drowning in demands. Uniform patterns remained incomplete, equipment was nowhere near ready, and although the Ordnance Department had manufactured plenty of rifles, calibration was painfully slow, and the labor-intensive production of paper-wrapped cartridges created its own bottleneck. A full month would pass before the New Army could be properly equipped in nineteenth-century style.

By rights, Xi Yazhou should have been overseeing these exercises as the future Training Battalion Commander, but he had fallen ill again—likely recuperating at the Farm. Unlike the Navy, which used the Fengcheng Hotel for their convalescents, the Army had chosen Nanhai Farm, drawn by its fresh air, plentiful food, and access to delicacies unavailable in the cafeteria. Most Military Group personnel were either on active duty or out inspecting the workers' defensive construction efforts. And so Ma Qianzhu, as Acting Chief of Staff, found himself personally convening the Training Battalion exercises.

This situation traced back to recent disagreements at the army formation conference, where the question of the New Army's organization and personnel had produced the first significant rift between the Executive Committee and the Military Group. The Executive Committee wanted civilians appointed as Chief of Staff, thereby strengthening Executive control over the military. If native soldiers couldn't be fully trusted, the reasoning went, then transmigrator soldiers wouldn't remain eternally trustworthy either. The Military Group, meanwhile, pushed for He Ming or Xi Yazhou—one a respected senior figure, the other a core member. Both men declined, naturally enough. Mediating between the Executive Committee and the "young turks" was a thankless task that neither wished to shoulder.

Without heavyweight support, the young turks lost the competition for the Chief of Staff position. The final compromise placed Planning Committee Chairman Ma Qianzhu in the role of Acting Chief of Staff. The logic was practical: establishing the New Army generated countless needs requiring coordination across departments, and a Planning Committee representative was well-positioned for precisely that kind of work. Both sides found the arrangement acceptable.

Ma Qianzhu knew little about nineteenth-century armies and had no idea how line infantry units traditionally trained their troops. What he did know was that elite forces of every era shared certain immutable characteristics—disciplined soldiers were any enemy's nightmare. Before small arms training could commence, one month would be devoted exclusively to physical conditioning, drill, and discipline. For these former drifters and Ming commoners, his only claim to authority was the vague title of "Chief." His entire military experience consisted of three months of university military training.

Fortunately, the Military Group had left him several veterans to serve as instructors, along with some Salt Village militiamen whose drill training had been personally supervised by Bei Wei. They represented the current highest standard available.

Physical training required no elaborate techniques—they simply adopted the transmigrators' standard exercise method: cross-country running. The veterans, however, had unanimously declined to lead these runs, insisting that such a glorious task belonged to Chief of Staff Ma himself.

Ma Qianzhu understood perfectly well that his Acting Chief position hadn't yet earned their respect. The veterans were looking to embarrass him.

If the conditions exist, go; if they don't, create them and go! The words of Iron Man Wang Jinxi rang in his mind. For the sake of Party leadership over the military—no, Executive Committee leadership over the military—he would persevere and prove himself. Intellectuals were not to be trifled with.

Steel in his resolve, Ma Qianzhu shouldered his empty rifle, strapped on a backpack allegedly filled with ammunition (in reality, rocks), and announced: "Everyone maintain formation! Bring weapons—draw sandals from Logistics—five-kilometer cross-country!"

The five-kilometer course was one-way, meaning they had to run back on their own. No speed limits were imposed. After one month, everyone was expected to return in formation. He firmly believed that for any new army, an orderly retreat was more important than an orderly attack. Such exertion demanded sustenance, so Ma Qianzhu leveraged his position as head of Planning and arranged for the Agriculture Department to supply extra jerky and dried fish to the New Army. Grain was provided without limit.

Three days in, Ma Qianzhu's feet were a mass of blisters. He realized that continuing with socks would exhaust his entire supply and quickly switched to foot wraps. Now he found himself praying for calluses to develop.

During rest periods, he ordered everyone to lie in rows on the ground, with himself positioned at the front.

Many wondered at this peculiar organization of rest time, but they grudgingly complied.

Former armored vehicle commander Bai Yu approached him.

"Commissioner Ma—you're really doing this?"

"Start!" Ma Qianzhu's face bore the solemnity of a martyr walking toward the firing squad.

"Well—I have to say—I've been retired for years now—"

"I trust you." Ma Qianzhu closed his eyes, wearing the expression of a dead pig that no longer feared boiling water.

"Actually, Commissioner—you don't need to do this. The PLA never did anything like this. U.S. soldiers don't either."

"Too much talking. I'm Chief of Staff. Obey orders!" Ma Qianzhu's face remained a mask of unwavering determination.

"Fine, fine—you win." Bai Yu shrugged, thinking: Intellectuals and their excessive book-learning.

"I'm declaring right now—if something happens, don't blame me." Bai Yu climbed onto the tractor, fired up the engine, and drove toward the formation. He wasn't about to run anyone over, of course—he simply drove in first gear, the machine passing within inches of each man's skull, close enough that the slightest miscalculation would have been fatal.

The roaring steel monster clanking across the ground sent immediate panic through the men lying prone. Some scrambled to escape.

"Everyone stay!" Ma Qianzhu bellowed. "Nobody moves!"

Though he shouted the command, the sight of those creaking tracks dropping clods of dirt beside his own skull was terrifying. Sweat poured down his face, and in truth, Ma Qianzhu wasn't entirely confident in Bai Yu's precision. But it was gamble or nothing.

When the tractor's shadow finally retreated to the garage, he immediately ordered the rule-breakers to step forward. An extra hour in the sun awaited them—carrying rifles and full gear. Looking into their eyes, he was grateful that shooting training hadn't started yet.

Word of Ma Qianzhu's "tractor training method" spread through the camp within hours. Someone unceremoniously dubbed him "SS Ma." Du Wen was devastated; she called him specifically to demand why he had adopted Nazi fascist methods, repeating over and over, "You've disappointed me so much." According to Ding Ding's newspaper, Ms. Du Wen had even shed tears. By the following morning, Ma Qianzhu discovered he had become a tabloid gossip figure.

Gossip or not, he was already committed, so he had no choice but to persist. At least the veterans handled the specific drills, shooting instruction, military terminology, and grenade-throwing exercises. Otherwise, left to manage single-handedly with nothing but the Militia Training Manual, things would have gone badly indeed.

The first days of military training matched Ma Qianzhu's university experience: squad-level drill. The Military Group's doctrine called for nineteenth-century column and line battalion tactics, but exactly how nineteenth-century Europeans had trained their men remained a mystery to everyone. Basic drill simply followed PLA regulations.

With the Salt Village drill experience as a foundation and militia demonstrations for reference, training proved easier than expected. Ma Qianzhu insisted that all commands be given in Mandarin—no translators permitted.

"The Ming regular forces used an official language as well," he reasoned. "Sichuan troops didn't receive commands in Sichuan dialect."

The instructors naturally employed sticks to inspire rapid Mandarin comprehension. Each day, the training ground echoed with shouting. These peasant soldiers—driven to enlist by nothing loftier than the need to survive—were roused from sleep at five in the morning by blaring loudspeakers and herded to the training ground. The "assistant instructors" were fierce men who carried sticks freely. Their words were incomprehensible, yet they demanded instant understanding. Wrong responses—or no response at all—meant beatings.

Gradually, men who had never understood the difference between left and right began to grasp the commands. Then they were forced into columns nine abreast to "learn walking." Each step had a specified foot height, stride length, and arm swing, all precisely regulated. Walking in this manner felt utterly unnatural, awkward beyond description. They had seen regular troops before, but beyond watching formations circle the drill field, they had never witnessed anything remotely like this.

(End of Chapter)