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To conserve the warhorses’ strength, Colonel Jeska strictly forbade any soldier from riding, even the Dusacks had to lead their horses and walk on foot—unless they encountered the enemy or were on a reconnaissance mission.
"Even the knock-kneed guys have to walk on the ground now," the other militiamen muttered, "Let’s see if they can endure the hardships that we’ve gone through."
Seeing that the usually arrogant Dusacks also had to stride out on their knock-kneed legs, there was a hint of satisfaction in the hearts of the "farmers’ sons" from the mouths of the Dusacks.
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At first, Winters’ Dusacks would call the sons of farmers "Bumpkins," while the sons of farmers returned the favor by calling the Dusacks "Tartars."
Both terms were extremely derogatory, their psychological damage to each other was no less destructive than forty-eight-pound cannonballs.
If Winters was not present, a light-hearted "Tartar" or "Bumpkin" could provoke a fight.
Thus, the people of Wolf Town left their hometown under the disdainful gaze of each other.
What happened afterward does not need to be retold: some were no longer there, while others joined in to fill their places.
Newcomers also liked to say "Tartar" and "Bumpkin" at the beginning, but after supporting each other through several brushes with death, no one mentioned those two words again.
However, the antagonism caused by their different origins subtly persisted, so the derogatory terms also quietly changed.
"Knock-kneed" replaced "Tartar," and "farmers’ son" replaced "Bumpkin."
In Winters’ ears, "knock-kneed" and "farmers’ son" were still extremely serious insults.
"Can’t you use some normal terms of address?" Winters couldn’t help but talk to his militiamen about it.
According to the militiamen, these two terms only had an insulting connotation when heard by the other party; those who said them considered them neutral.
Discussing this with Bard, Winters was still indignant, "Nonsense! They are just fooling themselves! What does ’it’s not insulting when I say it, only when you hear it’ mean? Shouldn’t it be up to the listener to decide whether it’s a slur or not?"
"It’s still better sounding than ’Tartar’ and ’Bumpkin,’" Bard had no other choice.
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Some were waiting for the Dusacks to make a fool of themselves, and the Dusacks also knew that some were waiting for them to mess up.
So they didn’t complain or grumble, just silently carried on walking.
Their spirit was commendable, but their bodies could not be fooled; Pierre, Vashka, and other Dusacks had blisters on their feet, some the size of thumbs.
Winters took one look and understood what was happening, he couldn’t help but laugh and cry, "What good is warming by the fire? Go to the medic and let him prick them with a needle; don’t just squeeze them."
The Dusacks from Wolf Town were very close to Winters and were bold.
Pierre said in a low voice, "That barber is a ’farmers’ son,’ he will definitely laugh at us."
"What ’farmers’ son’?" Winters’ temper flared at that term, "Or do you want me to do it for you?"
Pierre shook his head desperately.
"Don’t shake your head," Winters reached out to grab Pierre’s leg, "I’ll do it."
"No need, no need…" Pierre retreated continuously, nearly falling over, "I’ll go to the medic."
"If you don’t want to hear ’Tartar,’ don’t call others ’farmers’ son,’" Winters didn’t know if the Dusacks would take it to heart, but looking at the blisters on their feet, he said, "Never mind, I’ll have the medic come over, be polite to him."
After walking a few steps, he turned back, "Tell the others, to go see Lieutenant Bard in the morning to get shoes… How are you supposed to walk in long boots?"
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When the militiamen began to extinguish the campfires, Winters returned to his tent.
In the war zone, to conserve "magic" for emergencies, he had temporarily stopped practicing spells.
He lit the oil lamp, there was one last thing he needed to do.
Winters took out paper, a pen, and an ink bottle, thought about what had happened that day, and began to write a letter to Anna:
"From now on, every moment, I am getting closer to you…"
The letter was very short, just a few sentences long. Winters carefully folded the paper and placed it inside a wooden box.
He pinched out the oil lamp and crawled under the blanket.
On the small table, inside the wooden box, the neatly stacked pieces of paper numbered in the hundreds.