Chapter 169: Rookies on the Road

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“Which ones?” the two young tank commanders asked in unison.

“Here. These two,” the master sergeant said, leading the two of them over to several new vehicles that had not yet been painted with numbers and pointing to two somewhat older-looking tanks painted in a light grey.

He had the air of a man trying to sell his daughter to a fine young lad, pointing to the two unremarkable-looking tanks and introducing them with a smile. “These two vehicles are tested prototypes. The parts have already been broken in quite well! And the gunsights use the best components, much more accurate than the other mass-produced models.”

“Sir, you’re not trying to push off two repaired old vehicles that nobody wants on us, are you?” Marcus asked, raising an eyebrow and pointing to one of the old tanks.

“What do you mean by that? If you don’t want it, you can just pick any new vehicle. I won’t give this one to you then,” the master sergeant said with a disdainful purse of his lips.

Rein, however, ran his hand over the steel pin connectors on the tracks and nodded with great satisfaction. “Thank you, sir! This is a really great tank. Can you help me paint 113 on this one? I’ll take it.”

“See that? Someone who knows what’s good!” the master sergeant said triumphantly, pointing at Rein and then taunting Marcus. “You! You still don’t know tanks as well as your friend!”

“Then I want this one! I’ll take this one!” Marcus cried, pointing to the old tank left over after Rein had made his choice, as if he were afraid of losing it. “I’m number 112! Don’t forget!”

“I know, I know! I won’t forget! Why don’t I just paint the numbers on for you two first?” the master sergeant said, looking at the two young officers. He waved to several soldiers with their sleeves rolled up who were spraying numbers in the distance and called out with a kind smile, “Hey, you guys! Come over and help them paint their numbers first! These two right here.”

It wasn’t until after nine in the morning that Rein and Marcus finally made their way from the motor pool back to the logistics depot where the tents were being distributed. There weren’t many people there anymore, but there were still a few dozen folded simple tents piled on the ground.

“Hey, Sergeant Miel! What kind of arrangement is this?” Marcus complained, pointing to a hole in a tent. “We’re a main combat unit. You’re going to fob us off with this piece of junk?”

Rein didn’t speak. He just carefully neatened a folded tent, smoothing out some of the unfolded creases. He looked so careful, as if he were worried about tearing the tent. After he had finished, he looked up at the tents that were even more severely damaged.

“Sergeant Miel, how can there be so many torn and damaged tents?” he asked, while putting a large bundle of things together. There was a large piece of dark green canvas and some iron buckles that had been removed from the damaged tents—these were all things Miel had given him.

Compared to the tents, the quality of the sleeping bags and military raincoats was slightly better. Even the dark green waterproof canvas that Miel had given Rein to pack the torn tents in seemed to be of better quality than the frustratingly torn tents themselves.

Miel sighed, spread his hands, and explained, “There’s nothing to be done. The higher-ups are most strict about weapons and equipment. Things like clothing and daily necessities are handed over to some small factories, so the quality is uneven… The armored troops are in slightly better condition, so the infantry got to pick through these things first.”

“Bastards!” Marcus cursed. “What time is it now, and they’re still profiting from the blood of soldiers! If war really breaks out, won’t it still be up to people like us to go and die? And like this, they won’t even prepare a decent tent for us!”

Rein chuckled. “You! It’s not worth getting so indignant. The great Führer and those generals certainly hope that we all use the best, but due to lack of funds, or perhaps unavoidable corruption, by the time it gets to us, things have changed. It’s very normal.”

“That’s right! Our Commander Rein is the one who understands things clearly!” Miel laughed heartily and nodded in agreement. “You should be content! The remaining tents, I have to return them to be sent to the second-line units for distribution. By the time they get them, they’ll probably only be usable as raincoats.”

“Miel, let me ask you something,” Rein said, leaning in and whispering. “Do you have any inside information? When are we moving out?”

“I don’t know anything about that!” Miel quickly waved his hands. “I’m just a quartermaster at the battalion level. How could I possibly know such a classified document?”

“Two packs of cigarettes,” Rein said with a smile. “If you tell me what you know, the next time supplies are allocated, you can hold back two packs of my cigarettes.”

“Three packs! You don’t smoke anyway,” Miel was also a graduate of the same academy as Rein, but he had studied motorized transport. It was a famous good major, with high rank, fast promotions, and relative safety, but that major almost never accepted poor people.

“Deal!” Rein nodded. “Tell me everything you know, so I can count the days.”

“We just received a batch of gasoline, enough for the entire battalion to run for several hundred kilometers,” Miel said in a whisper. “My buddy at division headquarters told us that he saw the air force reconnaissance reports that the division received. A thick stack of them… It seems it’s coming soon.”

“It’s not just soon!” Rein glanced at Marcus beside him. “Frequent aerial reconnaissance means the high command is analyzing the Poles’ deployment patterns. The fact that the photos have reached the division level proves that most of the strategic objectives have already been assigned as specific missions.”

“So you’re saying…” Marcus also frowned and became serious. “In at most ten more days, we will be heading to the front. The war is about to break out.”

“No, it won’t be ten days!” Rein waved his hand, popped a piece of chocolate candy into his mouth, and said indistinctly, “Miel, you’d better get ready to be busy. Once the fuel is issued to the troops, we’ll be moving out in less than three days.”

“You got it!” Miel nodded. “You two wait. I’ll arrange for a couple of men to help you carry this pile of junk back.”

“Thanks,” Rein said with a smile.

“I say, you only brought back a torn tent like this?” Bruce said, looking at the egg-sized hole in the tent, his voice filled with mockery and dissatisfaction. He then turned his head and shouted to Andre, Baumann, and the others, “See what I mean! You can’t rely on a kid! The commander of tank 105 next door is tall and in his thirties. He snatched back a new tent.”

“It’s fine. I took a look at the tank. There’s a lot of space inside. Two of us can sleep in the vehicle, so the torn part can be left empty,” Rein said with a natural smile. He then carefully folded the tent that Bruce had spread out, seemingly not having heard Bruce’s provocation at all.

“Assembly! All assemble!” A communications soldier shouted in the corridor again, interrupting their conversation. Everyone quickly got up and assembled on the parade ground.

The long-distance run that had been announced in the morning arrived as scheduled. Everyone had to sing their military songs and start running on the track, lap after lap, like a well-wound clock. Unexpectedly, Rein, who looked thin and small, ran with a great rhythm. His seemingly dogged persistence made Andre, who was following behind him, wonder just how far this tank commander’s stamina could take him.

Tankers are tankers, after all. After a five-kilometer run, many were panting, and some with poorer constitutions were already pale—for example, Clark, the radio operator of tank crew 113, was a bit overweight. After five kilometers, his face was as white as a sheet, completely bloodless.

“Hey, I say… that guy Rein… how come he doesn’t look tired at all?” Clark asked, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath, to Baumann, who was lying on the ground next to him regulating his breathing. But Baumann didn’t answer him at all, just taking large gulps of air.

Andre wiped the sweat from his chin with the back of his hand and glanced at the few boys who were still running laps not far away. He couldn’t help but sigh in his heart: It’s good to be young. Although he didn’t feel particularly tired, he still found that his physical strength was not as good as that of those students who had just graduated.

“So what if he has good stamina?” Bruce snorted, his hands on his hips. “When I was his age, I could run for dozens of kilometers without a problem.”

But although he was still cursing, at least Clark, who had the worst stamina, already felt in his heart that his commander was very formidable, extremely formidable.

The next morning, they used a small amount of their allotted fuel to test their vehicle and helped the soldiers from the logistics department distribute ammunition. Then, as instructed, they took an inventory of the various equipment issued inside the vehicle: the shovel and large bolt cutters mounted on the rear of the hull, the fire extinguisher inside, and three submachine guns with their nine accompanying magazines.

Seeing that his tank’s hull was older, the “mouthy” Bruce of course threw another tantrum. But Baumann, who had floored the accelerator and was shouting with excitement, gave a completely opposite opinion: this vehicle was well-maintained and was indeed much better than the new products that had just left the factory and still stank of paint.

Whether Bruce was willing or not, Rein had already given him his nickname: Mouthy Bruce, the name of a pitiful person. The habit of giving people nicknames wasn’t great, but it was, after all, one of the glorious traditions of his academy, so Rein naturally couldn’t be an exception.

In the afternoon, there was again the five-kilometer run that Clark feared. This time, Rein, Marcus, and the others still ran an extra two kilometers. Bruce, not wanting to be outdone, ran the full distance with them, but he looked just as wretched as Clark did after he had rested.

On the morning of the third day, it was live-fire gunnery practice. Each tank crew fired five shells. As the only crew that hadn’t hit the target with a single shell, tank 113 was singled out and criticized. For some reason, Rein did not say a single word of blame to his gunner, Andre.

Of course, in the afternoon, it was still the long run…

The peaceful days came to an end on the fourth day. The troops began to be issued canned food and unpalatable hardtack biscuits. And Rein and several other tank commanders, through their connection with Sergeant Miel, also got some extra cans of beef as “private stock.”

That night, they were ordered to drive their tanks out of their quarters and head down the highway toward the German border not far away.