EARLY DECEMBER, UNIFIED YEAR 1926, FEDERATION TERRITORY,
IN THE VICINITY OF THE MULTINATIONAL FORCES HEADQUARTERS
The Federation took the lead in forming a multinational unit to display its international ties.
The stated objective was to present a joint effort between a group of allies from a diverse group of countries. Internally, it was also explained that this was a trial unit that could serve as the basis for gaining joint operations experience fighting against the Empire.
Put plainly, the Commonwealth was reluctant but eventually agreed to the Federation's proposal—though the jury was still out on whether this was a good or bad outcome.
The news that a certain marine mage lieutenant colonel stationed in the Federation had been dispatched to escort the convoy must have been music to the Commonwealth Army authorities' ears.
"Thanks to that, I miss the ocean something fierce and can't even pop into a pub to down a pint. True horror is serving the crown." The Commonwealth Army's Lieutenant Colonel Drake was muttering to himself.
It took only one written order before he was on a joint mission with the Federation Army.
Due to the unique chain of command, his powers of discretion were vast.
He nearly burst out laughing the moment he was handed the paper that read, "Cooperate to the greatest extent possible in support of this request." It had been written in such old-fashioned language that he might as well have been the royally appointed captain of a ship of the line back in the age of sail.
"But, man, I'm supposed to do my very best to meet the Federation's request?"
He was to provide what support he could to the allied nation's operations with good faith and respect. In other words, he didn't have to do anything impossible.
It wasn't even necessary to employ his skill and experience to come up with a clever interpretation of his orders. No matter who read it, it was clear that he had the right of refusal. The Commonwealth military leadership had given a mere lieutenant colonel the right to turn down the headquarters of the Federation Army.
"And how did the Federation even…" As a member of the Commonwealth forces, Drake naturally hesitated to say,… accept those terms?
He stepped outside to be prudent and winced.
The Federation Army Joint Operation Force had formed under a banner of beautiful ideals to promote international cooperation, and its doors were wide open, but the result was a jumble.
Anyone who examined the origins of all the gathered soldiers could speak positively about the broad global impression this force gave off. Even if they looked only at the military affiliations, there were Commonwealth, Federation, and Free Republican troops. A closer look revealed members of the Entente Alliance's government in exile's army as well as volunteers from the Unified States.
Challenging the lone Imperial Army was a diverse resistance.
Multiple ethnicities had come together to fight against the massive Empire. It was a powerful demonstration of humanity's progress and universality, worthy of applause.
This was an incredibly photogenic moment.
It could be said that the Federation's Communist Party spared no efforts on the propaganda front. Drake found himself admiring them, too.
Taking a casual stroll outside, Drake was liberal with his praise. "Maybe we should get some of our colonial officials out here. They could use a lesson in PR from the Federation."
The Commonwealth could claim only a passing grade in administering and ruling over multiple ethnicities. Dividing and conquering was all fine and well. That said, even a generous estimate put his homeland at about a B.
They needed to learn from the Communists how to consolidate latent energy and use it.
Being able to say something without hesitating was an irresistible freedom. Happy he had no one accompanying him, Drake openly spoke his mind.
"Divide and conquer isn't the only way… Though it's not that applicable during a civil war, we need to learn the finer points of bringing people together when we're fighting against a foreign power."
But this was also a matter of That said, that said, that said…
Anyone looking up at the sky trying to sugarcoat their nation's selfish interests would be disappointed when they inevitably found them lying on the ground.
"…I can't stand being manipulated by propaganda."
Just thinking about straining to understand the veritable melting pot of languages all around him threatened to worsen his headache.
Even going by just what Lieutenant Colonel Drake had heard before he left on his solo walk, it was clear that there was a great array of nationalities present and their various languages were jumbling together into a mess.
The disordered hierarchy—a commander's nightmare—was also somewhat responsible for this state of things. In the end, it was tremendously difficult for anyone to communicate.
Surely the situation wasn't any different inside the inn that housed their headquarters. "This has to be what it was like right after the Tower of Babel was destroyed."
Communications procedures had become absurdly intimidating.
An official notice issued in Federation language would be translated so all the different nationalities could understand it, and then their replies would be translated into Federation language.
Even for the most mundane exchanges, that was how messages were sent. Naturally, the commanders were at their wits' end. There wasn't a soldier on the modern battlefield—a place that demanded large amounts of intelligence be processed quickly—who thought this system would hold up in combat.
The point of propaganda was to make them look good, but logic could be twisted only so much.
The only way to fix the situation was exceedingly simple. Interpreters—and lots of them.
In other words, they would leverage mate´riel superiority to break through this obstacle. The practical issue was that the students who seemed to have been recruited from the Federation's language schools were, regardless of their proficiency levels, already speaking all sorts of tongues.
Given the present state of things, no matter how many speakers they had, it wouldn't be enough. The shortage was so serious that even mid-ranking officers couldn't have
interpreters.
Which is why I got to savor this walk on my own… Drake sighed as he spotted a soldier coming his way.
"Colonel Mikel?"
A Federation commander waved in greeting as he approached. Drake couldn't speak his language, either. But they couldn't very well hold a conversation via gestures.
"Agh, excuse me, I'll get an interpreter…" "Oh, I doubt we need one, Mr. Drake."
Drake was trying to show with gestures that he was going to go find someone but suddenly froze and stared fixedly at Mikel. "How nice to hear my mother tongue… But I never dreamed you would speak it, Colonel. You'll have to excuse me—it's been a while since I've heard that dialect, and I don't much care for it."
The words coming out of Mikel's mouth were unmistakably Drake's native language.
Moreover, it was the orthodox Queen's dialect. When did this man have the chance to hear Londinium's upper-class accent in a far-flung place like this?
The world is just full of surprises.
"You can say to my face that my Queen's dialect is rusty—that's fine. It's been too long—my tongue is having a hard time getting around the words."
"You usually have an interpreter, though."
"A leash. No one can converse freely while standing under a guillotine."
His comment was a bit too explicit to claim he was hinting at something. He wasn't pulling any punches with those metaphors.
That said, Drake understood how Mikel felt. "…Things political officers shouldn't hear, huh?"
"You mean things I don't want them to hear?" "Ha-ha-ha." Drake laughed as he nodded.
A world where a mage corps major had to take such steps to protect himself simply to have a friendly chat with an ally was unthinkable to Drake.
Mikel, smiling wryly, was—for better or worse—the epitome of an honest soldier. Why would a career military man be doubted by the motherland he swore loyalty to?
What a cold, heartless era we live in.
In these wintry modern times, the chilling truth threatened to freeze not only Drake's bones but his very soul.
"It must be hard for you, Colonel. If you'll forgive me for asking, will it be necessary for a stray bullet to tragically strike that political officer?"
"No, no, not at all. You needn't trouble yourself about that."
"Oh? That's a surprise. You think so highly of that Liliya Ivanova Tanechka woman?" Drake didn't have a very good impression of her. Frankly, she was disagreeable.
More precisely, he personally didn't like her.
Regardless of who she was as an individual, a professional soldier such as Drake couldn't accept a political officer as a friend. Consequently, he didn't think of her as a fellow human being but as a political officer.
Names are things people inherit from their ancestors. The tool known as a political officer should simply be addressed as "political officer," right? I'm not sure a specific name is necessary.
"Honestly, it's hard to treat a dog sniffing around your friends like a person. I thought I could cull a stray for you."
"I suppose I should show you the proper respect and answer truthfully… That one's better than most. No, I'd go as far as to say that she's much more decent than the rest."
Drake was sure he was gaping like an idiot.
If Mikel didn't speak so fluently in the Queen's dialect, Drake would have wanted to ask whether he might have misunderstood the meanings of better and decent.
"I do beg your pardon, but do you actually mean what you said? That political officer is one of the better ones? That one's 'better'?! Did the definition of the word change dramatically while I wasn't paying attention?"
Drake thought of Liliya Ivanova Tanechka only as a strange member of the Communist Party.
And really, that was simply because that was the label he gave to political officers. It was hard to associate any of them with better or decent.
"Colonel Drake, I speak only the truth." Bathed in Drake's you've-got-to-be-kidding look, Mikel's tired expression didn't budge. "Considering the possibility that we could have been sent someone awful, I think it would be productive to get along with who we have."
"Terrible. That's the only word for it." Drake spat and looked to the heavens. Was the pale sky a symbol of this merciless world? He longed for the overcast gloom of his homeland.
Could a battlefield really be this absurd? he wondered.
"…This chill really sinks into your bones, huh?" Drake commented, shrugging. If he didn't, he wouldn't have been able to remain sane. "So? May I ask why you invited me to this secret meeting?"
"To thank you. And, well… to apologize." "Hoh-hoh."
"I heard from Comrade Ivanova that Lieutenant Colonel Drake from the Commonwealth Navy was kind enough to put in a good word for me."
What's that supposed to mean? Drake shrugged again. "Suddenly you seem strangely distant. What's the matter?"
"I doubt Communists and liberals can get along." "Oh? It may be presumptuous, but I think they can."
"I may not look it, but I'm a soldier who came here to fight in defense of freedom. I'm not sure I can get along with Communists who came to support the Communist Party."
"You've gotta be joking." So this is what it means to burst out laughing. What a twist.
It was unavoidable that laughter erupted over the chilly Federation snowfield.
After a good laugh, Drake had to admit defeat. "You got me. I surrender. That said," he continued, "as long as the Communist is a brother-in-arms, it's no problem, is it? You can't choose your family, but you can choose your friends. If I've chosen a Communist for a friend, I've got to put up with his eccentricities. Plus…" He chuckled and continued, "We've been underestimated."
"What?"
"We didn't come up on land just to chase after the Federation Army's ass."
Since crossing the ocean as direct support for the RMS Queen of Anjou, he had been fighting as a soldier. He wasn't here to be protected.
"We're here to fight a war—shoulder to shoulder with our brothers-in-arms." Even if friendship between countries wasn't eternal…
Brothers-in-arms were forever.
"The Federation may not like it, but what does that matter? If my allies are fighting, I'll fight alongside them. If my allies die, then I'll die with them. That's what it means to be a soldier."
"Ha-ha-ha, well said, Colonel Drake." "Oh? You won't call me comrade?"
"I'd like to call you a brother."
I must be smiling ear to ear.
To call it the sympathy between two people who had fought on the same battlefield would be tactless. This was respect paid between friends.
"Time for work, then." "Yes, let's get to it."
They nodded and bumped fists.
…Most of what he wanted to say didn't need to be put into words. ""I wish you luck.""
It was the fist of his brother-in-arms.
Drake was speaking with him through it. Nothing else needed to be said.
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