As soon as I reported for duty, I went straight to see the logistics chief of staff.
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The division’s logistics chief of staff—a man who seemed to have no tasks left to occupy his twilight years in service.
Under normal circumstances, as long as he showed up for morning roll call, no one would interfere with him for the rest of the day. But with war looming, even he wasn’t spared from drowning in paperwork.
“War in my final days of service? Dammit, not even a chance to earn a commendation! I’m livid!”
A soldier nearing the end of his service is the type to get furious even if morning roll call is held outdoors.
Imagine the fury of a soon-to-retire colonel, stuck in a dead-end role after 30 years in service, with no hope of promotion. Needless to say, you shouldn’t mess with someone this angry—they might actually bite.
“Loyalty, Chief of Staff. I’ve come to speak with you on an important matter.”
He looked up at me and let out a long sigh.
“What brings our new logistics officer here? You’re not officially assigned tasks yet, so you shouldn’t have much to do.”
Technically, I was a logistics officer assigned to the 1st Division, but I hadn’t officially assumed full responsibilities yet.
This meant I had no paperwork to handle and no mandatory attendance at regular work hours. My position was the ultimate cushy job—you only needed to show up if you wanted to. My visit wasn’t exactly a welcome sight.
“You’re not planning to dump new tasks on me, are you?”
It’s an age-old rule to ensure maximum freedom and rest for personnel nearing retirement, whether it’s a soon-to-discharge private, a senior sergeant, or even a junior officer.
Even though this logistics chief was a soon-to-retire colonel, the principle remained the same.
Giving tasks to someone in their final days of service? That’s a surefire way to get badmouthed for years.
“I wouldn’t dare. I’ve only come with a small favor to ask.”
At my words, the chief of staff furrowed his brow and bit his lower lip slightly.
A “small favor” from someone with access to the Emperor’s authority and resources? He probably assumed it was practically an order and that his workload was about to increase.
I had no choice but to rely on the age-old wisdom that money solves most problems.
I casually placed a pouch filled with dried seaweed on the table.
“This is a small token of appreciation for all your tireless work for the nation. Please, accept it.”
I subtly opened the pouch to show him its contents. The production cost was no more than half a copper coin, but thanks to its monopoly status, this small amount was worth one gold coin.
For a minor favor, this was a considerable bribe, and the colonel’s expression immediately softened.
“These days, the younger officers lack proper manners. But you, Lieutenant Rothschild, are truly respectful. Alright, I may be close to retirement, but I still have duties to perform. What do you need from me?”
“I’d like you to lend me 50 soldiers from the division.”
“Fifty soldiers? That’s not a difficult request, but why do you need them?”
“As you know, maintaining soldiers’ morale before battle heavily relies on ensuring they’re well-fed. I’m planning to assign soldiers specifically to food preparation.”
Nobody disputes the importance of feeding soldiers properly.
Even the impulsive Japanese Army, obsessed with one-off schemes, did their best to ensure their soldiers were fed.
The 1st Division of the Tuscany Empire, having witnessed firsthand the improved training efficiency of well-fed soldiers, would hardly oppose the premise of better food.
“Hmm, that’s certainly true. That’s why officers, myself included, have been wracking our brains trying to provide fresh meat and vegetables to the soldiers.”
The chief of staff tapped his fingers on the desk.
“But is there a specific reason to assign soldiers solely to cooking? Haven’t meals already improved considerably?”
It was true. Since I took over logistics and addressed procurement corruption, the quality of soldiers’ meals had drastically improved.
Before my intervention, the main dish was rice topped with slightly expired seafood sauce. Afterward, it was upgraded to something akin to a $6 set meal from a local diner.
‘In normal times, this would be more than sufficient.’
“It’s actually cheaper to use soldiers for cooking than hiring civilian laborers. Our division spends 50 silver coins monthly on civilian cooks—60 gold coins annually. That’s a lot of money.”
While this wasn’t a massive expense for the division’s budget, it was enough to buy two standalone houses in Florence. Cutting costs where possible made sense.
“Moreover, civilian cooks are unsuitable for deployment in war zones. They don’t fire weapons, and they demand two to three times higher pay.”
“That’s true. Civilians aren’t usually taken to the battlefield. They’re costly, and they flee at the first sign of danger.”
“Yet having squads prepare their own meals with distributed ingredients, as we do now, is inefficient.”
Until World War I, the concept of army cooks didn’t exist. Soldiers cooked in groups, tossing everything—salted meat, herring, fresh vegetables, beans, and hardtack—into a single pot.
Eating each ingredient separately wasn’t bad, but the combination created a revolting mess—bad enough to remind you of British cuisine.
The absurdity of this approach was undeniable. Forcing soldiers to eat this for months on end during war was cruel.
But for the colonel, focusing on cost-efficiency rather than humanitarian concerns was the way to persuade him.
“Preparing meals for an entire battalion at once saves firewood compared to splitting the task among squads.”
Firewood might seem trivial, but gathering it for thousands of soldiers was no small task.
Before building a campsite, soldiers might spend one or two hours just collecting enough wood.
The chief of staff, being a logistics officer, understood this burden well.
“And cooking at the battalion level allows for better meals even in the field.”
Smaller units made tastier food, but transporting extra cooking equipment during marches made centralized cooking more practical.
“I’ve compiled a report comparing the morale and training efficiency before and after improving our division’s rations. Reviewing it will prove this plan’s validity.”
The chief nodded thoughtfully.
“Indeed, even if most soldiers are lowly peasants, they’re still human. They’d want good food.”
He was almost convinced.
“Of course, soldiers alone can’t prepare high-quality meals. That’s why I’ve already arranged to recruit skilled chefs from inns, supervised by master-level professionals. A battalion needs only five cooks, with chefs overseeing them.”
The chefs would each earn two silver coins monthly, but this was a necessary investment for my long-term monopoly on military food supplies.
“Using a slightly larger team than civilian laborers isn’t a bad idea. I may be retiring soon, but I won’t stand in the way of a capable young officer.”
The colonel’s pretense of bearing all burdens for the sake of a junior officer was amusing, especially after taking a gold coin’s worth of seaweed as a bribe.
Still, he was my superior, so I handed him an official document.
The order detailed my initiative to improve rations and credited the logistics chief as the architect of the plan, leaving room for refinement.
While the Emperor and other high-ranking officials might not fully believe it, the logistics chief would oversee its implementation as the official in charge.
This would serve his interests post-retirement, especially since brigadier general status came with far better perks than that of a colonel.
With the system for dedicated cooks established in the division and soon adopted elsewhere, deployment orders finally arrived.
It was time to start making real money.