Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 484: Chapter 80 One Day _2

Jeska’s squadron was an exception, because with Caman in charge of the medical tent, the injured men in Jeska’s unit had already received the best care they could get.

But even so, the inevitable toll of the long and arduous journey meant that many of the wounded soldiers would not make it.

…

Winters thought for a moment, then asked Caman, “Should I send you a few more hands?”

Caman silently made a gesture of thanks.

“Fine, I’ll pick a few reliable ones to send to you.” Winters sipped his meat soup in small gulps and continued, “I’ll take some men to dig graves in a moment, using the legion’s burial rites…”

Andre burst into the headquarters, his nostrils flaring as he asked the blacksmith, “What’s stewing today?”

“Horse meat,” Berlion answered.

“When is it not?” Andre sighed and took a seat at the table.

Berlion served up a bowl of horse meat soup and placed it in front of Andre.

Andre started to wolf down his food, and without looking up, he asked Winters, “Have you arranged the night watch?”

Winters nodded and asked with puzzlement, “What’s the matter?”

Andre gulped down the soup with a “glug glug,” and while passing the empty bowl back to the blacksmith with his left hand, he reached for the breadbasket in the middle of the table with his right, saying, “With all this marching and working, who’s got the energy for guard duty? If you ask me, the decurion in charge of the watch shouldn’t have to build camp. Let them rest properly. Otherwise, they’ll be snoozing on guard duty.”

“That can be arranged… but what about those on night watch today?”

“Today’s night watch?” Andre scoffed, “Tough luck for them.”

Once dinner was done, so was the soldier’s day, but the centurion’s day was far from over.

The blacksmith’s horse meat soup invigorated Winters, and after filling his belly, he headed towards Jeska’s squadron’s campsite.

He was not going to sleep, as officers did not bunk with soldiers; his tent was located in a separate camp in the center of the base.

It was simply his habit to walk around the camp after dinner.

Now was the most relaxed time in the camp, with soldiers sitting around the warm campfire, sharing hot food with their tent comrades.

Warmth, food, fire – these things allowed soldiers to remove the shackles of discipline for a time.

By walking around the campsite during dinner time, Winters could get a vague, intuitive sense of the soldiers’ condition: Cold? Hungry? Fearful? Angry? Excited? Subdued? War-weary? Eager to fight?

First, Winters went to the stables where the horses were well taken care of, with feed and water provided.

At the stables, he ran into Bard and Colonel Jeska, and the young groom, Anglu, was also present.

A draft horse had its left front hoof tied to a wooden stake, and Anglu was busy picking at the horse’s hoof.

“What’s the matter?” Winters asked.

Colonel Jeska’s face was sullen, “You wouldn’t understand if I told you.”

Winters was used to this; he turned and asked Bard, “What’s going on?”

Bard motioned with his chin, “The hoof might be ‘quittor,’ it’s walking with a limp.”

Quittor? Winters really didn’t understand…

“It might have pus inside.” Bard added for clarification.

“Oh.”

“Do you understand?”

“No.”

Anglu focused on his task, first prying off the horseshoe, then peeling off layers of the hoof as one would a carrot.

Finally, the young groom took a drill and made a hole in the left side of the hoof.

Thick, dark red pus flowed from the hole, plopping onto the ground and making Winters’s scalp tingle.

“This’ll be tough to handle,” Colonel Jeska remarked, arms crossed.

“Yeah, tough,” Bard sighed.

After draining the pus, Anglu cleaned the hoof, applied medicine, and then wrapped it with clean cotton cloth.

“This horse can’t work for a while,” Anglu said sadly, “Best to let it rest. Half a month should do.”

Colonel Jeska also sighed, a rare trace of sorrow in his voice, “Let it tag along, and if it doesn’t make it… slaughter it, don’t waste the fodder.”

The young groom gently stroked the horse’s mane and murmured his acknowledgment.

Colonel Jeska then looked at Winters, frowning as he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Winters quickly excused himself and continued his stroll through the campsite.

He walked towards the areas with campfires, wrapped in a Herder’s robe, appearing like a regular militiaman.

Under the deep night sky, everyone was busy filling their stomachs, and no one noticed the centurion passing by.

They were laughing, cursing, singing bawdy tunes, or gossiping about the embarrassing moments of certain officers.

These were things they would never discuss in front of Winters, giving him a strange sense of authenticity.

The army is a whole, the phalanx is a whole, and every individual within is faceless.

Now, the faceless individuals sat by the fire, gradually becoming flesh and blood people,

but Winters couldn’t see or hear clearly who was speaking.

Through the tangible individuals, he gained a vague, intuitive understanding of the “army” as a whole.

This intuitive sense was like touching the “spirit” of the army; that’s why Winters had to walk and connect daily, otherwise, he never felt at ease.

Winters wandered aimlessly, when a voice from behind a campfire reached him, “All blistered up, nearly rotting away.”

“Endure it.” Another person sniffled in a low reply, “We can’t have the farm boys think less of us.”

He didn’t recognize other voices, but these two were familiar to him.

The first belonged to Vashka.

The second to Pierre.

Winters approached and asked, “What’s rotting away?”

“What else but feet?” Vashka replied irritably, then he stood up abruptly, “Sir… Centurion!”

Next to Vashka, other Dusacks who were warming their feet by the fire stood up at once.

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