Chapter 1761 - Training
The trainees stood slack-jawed, eyes wide with astonishment. They had assumed that becoming a policeman meant becoming a constable—and even if the Australians didn't treat runners as society's dregs the way everyone else did, the profession hardly seemed worth boasting about. None of them had expected the Australians to cloak the whole endeavor in such lofty rhetoric, elevating "earning a bowl of rice as a lowly runner" to the level of "dispensing justice like a chivalrous knight."
"As for why you want to become police officers—well, I'm sure the answers vary." Pan Jiexin surveyed the assembly. "Most of you are here to put food on the table, support your families, live a bit more comfortably, bring home a few extra coins." Laughter rippled through the crowd before he'd even finished. Pan Jiexin smiled along with them. "And there's nothing wrong with that! We're human beings. We need to eat. We have feelings and desires, families to feed. But never forget: everything we eat, everything we wear—it all comes from the Senatorial Council and the people. Yes, being a policeman means personal advancement and compensation. But more importantly, it means repaying the Senatorial Council and the people who provide for us. Wherever you came from, whatever trade you once followed—never forget this!" His gaze swept the hall. "Remember always: Loyal to the Senatorial Council! Loyal to the Nation! Loyal to the People! Loyal to the Law!"
He paused, letting his eyes roam once more across the assembly. "That concludes my remarks."
The trainees bellowed in unison: "Sir!"
After the ceremony, the sergeants marched the trainees to the parade ground for basic police etiquette and formation drills. Pan Jiexin strolled over to observe. He had barely reached the edge of the field when two sharp whistle blasts pierced the air—Twee! Twee!—and the formation, which had been practicing the quick-march, halted at once. The sergeant serving as drill instructor sprinted over, snapped to attention, and saluted crisply.
"Report! First Session Short-Course Trainees of the Guangzhou Police Academy, currently conducting formation drill. Awaiting your instructions!"
Pan Jiexin returned the salute, taking silent stock of the situation. "Proceed as planned," he said. The sergeant turned on his heel, jogged back into position, and resumed calling out the cadence.
Formation drill had always been delegated to the army; Pan Jiexin had never needed to concern himself with it before. He noticed that each trainee wore mismatched footwear—a cloth shoe on one foot, a straw sandal on the other. It was a time-tested trick for drilling raw recruits who couldn't tell left from right.
From the ragged state of the lines, he knew this would take a long while yet. Still, nothing built discipline and obedience like formation training.
Li Ziyu stood amid the ranks, silently cursing. This wasn't joining the Quick Class—this was being drilled like a common foot-soldier! Even regular troops didn't train this hard! As his mind wandered, his step faltered; he nearly kicked the cloth shoe off the man in front of him.
"Halt!" the sergeant bellowed. "Third rank, fifth man—you again! Earlier during attention drill it was you, too! Can't you keep your arms tight? They're flopping around like wet noodles!"
"I—" Li Ziyu froze.
"I what? Say 'Report'!"
Li Ziyu found his voice at last: "Report!"
"Fall out! Ten push-ups! Count them loud!"
"Yes! One—two—three—" Li Ziyu scrambled out of formation, dropped to the ground, and began the exercise he had only recently learned.
"Doesn't count. Start over!"
"Why is your rear sticking up like that?" A heavy boot landed on his backside. Li Ziyu yelped and collapsed flat.
"Get up! Stop acting like a woman!"
"Elbows level! Chest to the ground! That's it—legs straight!"
The sergeant drilled Li Ziyu one-on-one for seven or eight minutes. Throughout, the rest of the formation stood ramrod-straight, not daring to move.
Pan Jiexin surveyed the entire field. This had once been the open ground where the Wanshou Palace erected its ritual altars; it had since been leveled and converted into a parade ground, though it still felt rather cramped. Off to one side, workers were installing a horizontal bar and a balance beam.
Though the recruits had passed a fitness screening and looked reasonably healthy, the grueling training load and relentless schedule would be too much for constitutions accustomed to inadequate nutrition. A five-minute kilometer was below junior-high PE standards in the twenty-first century, yet here it was demanding enough to eliminate many applicants. The trainee doing push-ups before him was already drenched in cold sweat.
Pan Jiexin slipped quietly into the kitchen. The newly renovated facility was warm and fragrant with steam. It was nearly mealtime, and the aroma of rice and cooking dishes hung thick in the air.
His appearance caused a small stir. An assimilated cadre in charge of the mess hurried over. "Chief—"
"Get me an apron." He wasted no time on pleasantries. "Don't stop working—carry on as you were."
Donning apron and cap, Pan Jiexin began prowling through the kitchen. This mess unit had been dispatched by the Joint Logistics Headquarters. To reduce supply-chain complexity and redundant construction, all Guangdong logistics were currently handled by Joint Logistics. Director Hong had anticipated that feeding the various incoming contingents would pose a challenge, so he'd established a "Cooking Training Course" in Hong Kong ahead of time, producing several dozen kitchen teams capable of meeting Senatorial Council standards for cuisine and hygiene.
Having meals provided by Joint Logistics kitchens gave the Senators peace of mind. Hygiene standards differed wildly between the two timelines; even the cleanest native's notions of cleanliness would be deeply problematic by old-world standards. Most importantly, assimilated cooks were far more honest than local cooks steeped in the tradition that "a cook who doesn't steal is forsaken by the gods themselves."
Running a mess hall might sound trivial, but mismanagement could quickly become a serious matter. Though this was only a short-course session, Pan Jiexin regarded these trainees as the foundational capital of the National Police in Guangdong. He took their welfare very seriously.
A large bamboo steamer was lifted off the fire, revealing rows of neatly arranged galvanized iron lunch-boxes. Pan Jiexin picked up a pair of tongs, extracted one box, popped it open, and poked a chopstick into the rice. He waited a few seconds, withdrew it, and examined it closely.
The softness, moisture, and steam were all correct—no excess water added to inflate the yield. He tasted a bit: the slightly rough, chewy texture of brown rice, the proper aroma, no mustiness or off-flavors. The grains were intact, neither broken nor powdery. Good rice.
"Set this box aside for me."
"Yes, Chief." The head cook was accustomed to spot-checks and inspections of every variety, but having a Chief personally inspect the kitchen still made him nervous—everyone knew the Chief's standards were exacting.
The dishes were ready. The Academy trainees were fed according to Joint Logistics' "New Recruit Supply Standard." Because recruits in this timeline were typically underfed, the ration standard was fairly generous, with increased protein.
Large iron trays held golden fish-cakes fresh from the roasting pan, fragrant and glistening. Beside them stood big pots of stew: vegetables mixed with "frozen minced meat" and crushed bean dregs. The so-called "frozen minced meat" was the daily residue scraped from the sausage and fish-paste production lines, combined and frozen solid—intended specifically for mass cooking.
Finally, there were greens, "stir-fried" in salted water. In theory, the vegetables were supposed to be "locally sourced"—but in practice, everything came from Hong Kong. Director Hong had discovered that shipping produce from the Agricultural Reclamation Brigade was far cheaper and more convenient than buying from Guangzhou's suburbs. By this timeline's general standards, the meal was lavish.
Pan Jiexin sampled every dish, then inspected the sanitation and the separation of raw and cooked items. Passable, barely. Assimilated personnel were more reliable, but not entirely so; constant supervision remained necessary.
"Good," he said. "Serve on time."
The morning's training ended quickly. The trainees, led by their squad leaders, filed into the assembly hall to collect their meals—apart from the hall, the Wanshou Palace had no room large enough. Even so, they had to eat in shifts.
The hall echoed with heavy breathing. The point of formation drill was precisely to instill discipline; for natives who had never been subjected to such regimentation, the rigid exercises were pure torment.
Meals were served individually—one box per person. From its founding, the Fubo Army had eschewed communal eating. Communal meals were not only unsanitary but invited the phenomenon of "just enough to cover the bottom of the plate"—and gave sergeants and veterans opportunities to help themselves to more than their share.
For most trainees, this first meal was unbelievably good. Before the food had even been fully distributed, the sound of loud swallowing could be heard from every corner. When the command "Eat!" was given, the hall erupted with the sounds of ravenous devouring. Some men wept as they ate.
Li Ziyu found the food decent enough, but hardly so remarkable as to move him to tears. Besides, on the first day, there wasn't even a whole chicken, duck, or fish—rather stingy, in his view. Watching the men at neighboring tables wolf down their meals like starving ghosts, he felt a touch of disdain. What a bunch of paupers!
His gaze drifted—and suddenly landed on the "President" who had addressed them that morning. He was eating here too, right at the first-row table. From where Li Ziyu sat, he could clearly see the Chief's meal: it was exactly the same as the trainees'.
Li Ziyu was quietly astonished. He had read plenty of Australian magazines extolling "sharing hardship and sweetness alike," but he hadn't believed such talk was real. The classics certainly mentioned Bai Qi—"wearing the same clothes as the lowliest soldier, eating the same food; sleeping without a mat, marching on foot, personally carrying his own rations, sharing the soldiers' toil; when a soldier had a festering sore, Bai Qi would suck the pus out himself." But that was the ancients. In the Ming, at least, he had never seen a single general or officer behave that way. Officers dined on delicacies in silk robes while soldiers shivered and starved—that was the norm; nobody thought it strange. So he had always assumed the Australian magazines were mere boasting.
Who would have thought the Australians actually practice what they preach! He was startled, and a realization dawned: the reason the Australians were invincible, the reason the kun soldiers "dared to fight," wasn't merely superior firearms.
(End of Chapter)