Chapter 24: Special Forces Training Methods

Lin Chuan was indeed a master!

Hu Dayong finally believed this to be true. Consequently, he subconsciously uttered his first "Master." Having followed the General for many years, he had learned two principles: first, "be brave in killing the enemy," and second, "be thick-skinned." As long as one adhered to these two, the General would be very pleased. Since Platoon Leader Lin was so favored by the General, it must be because the General saw something others could not. Therefore, to be able to study under such a master must mean that he, Hu Dayong, had accumulated immense virtue from his ancestors; his family’s ancestral grave must be emitting auspicious smoke. Thinking of this, his heart surged with excitement.

"Hu Datou, oh Hu Datou, a few days ago you actually dared to question Master’s training methods; that truly shouldn't have happened..." He squatted at the edge of the training field, staring at the blood blisters on his palms while scolding himself. After a night of exertion, his body was utterly exhausted, yet his spirit felt invigorated.

A muffled thud came from the distance; the new recruits were roaring while carrying logs during their morning drill. Hu Dayong had never seen such strange training methods—the mud-caked log weighed at least three hundred jin, requiring ten men to move it in unison; it was harder to lift than a stone lock. There were also two-zhang high wooden walls to scale, rope bridges to cross, and straw dummies to hack in the mud. Take the straw dummy practice, for instance: Lin Chuan demanded that everyone strike with the fastest possible speed, with every blade hitting three vital points: the throat, the heart, and the lower abdomen. Even a seasoned veteran like Hu Dayong had to push himself to the limit to accomplish this.

In reality, these were all "special forces training methods" Lin Chuan had created by combining ancient and modern techniques. There was no shortcut, just one mantra: "The battlefield does not believe in tears; it only believes in the instincts etched into your muscles."

...

The equipment for the expansion of Tielin Fortress finally arrived. The supply carts from the garrison camp creaked as they rolled over the drawbridge. Lin Chuan stood in the center of the training ground, watching as two ox carts came to a halt, the new recruits jostling forward.

"All stand back!" Hu Dayong shouted. "The Platoon Leader has orders!"

Twenty-six men formed up. Although the formation was uneven, their spirits were high. Lin Chuan scanned the crowd and cleared his throat. "Weapons and uniforms will be issued shortly. But let it be clear: once you put on this skin, you must consider yourselves forged of iron!"

"Did you all hear that?!" Hu Dayong barked.

"Yes!" the twenty-plus men shouted at the top of their lungs, stretching their necks.

As the crates were opened, veterans and recruits alike gasped. The quilted battle jackets were thick, with triple-layered cotton armor stitched in a fine hemp pattern—at least three times thicker than standard coarse cloth tunics. When the waist sabers were drawn a few inches, the cold glint from the blades was enough to make one’s skin crawl.

"Platoon Leader, can this battle jacket stop arrows?" Wang Tiezhu asked excitedly.

"It can stop standard arrows," Lin Chuan nodded.

His gaze swept over their shining eyes, but his heart felt heavy. Although these cotton armors were several times thicker than regular clothes, they lacked solid protection over the chest. If they encountered the powerful bows and sharp arrows of the Tatars, they would be no better than thin paper. The newly issued waist sabers, while gleaming, were made of cast iron. They looked sharp, but if they struck an enemy’s chainmail or shield, the blades would shatter in an instant. They were nowhere near the quality of the long saber that Uncle Zhao, the blacksmith, had spent half a year tempering.

Fortunately, he now had the blacksmith shop under his control; there was still room to improve the weapons. But these battle jackets... at best, they were thick padded coats, still a long way from true combat armor.

"Squad Leader Hu!" Lin Chuan called out.

"Yes, Platoon Leader!" Hu Dayong trotted over.

Lin Chuan grabbed a battle jacket and instructed, "Starting tomorrow, find some women with nimble hands to add a layer of cowhide to the lining of these jackets." He pointed his finger to the shoulders, knees, and cuffs. "Sew iron plates onto these vital areas, and equip the cuffs with cowhide bracers. Uncle Zhao, you take the apprentices and hammer refined iron into scales the size of fingernails, then add some protection here on the chest..."

The moment he finished speaking, the field fell into silence. Hu Dayong and the other veterans exchanged glances, all of them wearing expressions of shock. It was well known that scale armor was elite equipment reserved only for the General's personal guards. While the Platoon Leader's modifications didn't constitute full scale armor, the protective performance would rival that of elite gear. On the battlefield, one extra layer of protection meant one more chance at survival. The new recruits might not understand this, but the veterans knew it all too well.

Hu Dayong said, "P-Platoon Leader, making iron scales... that consumes too much material."

"Too much?" Lin Chuan sneered, his eyes sweeping across the men like blades. "If you spend your days muddling through life, even half an iron nail is a waste! But if you can train to become elite soldiers who can fight ten men each, then even if you wear full-body scale armor, who would dare utter a word of complaint?"

Hearing this, the eyes of the twenty-plus men turned red. The Platoon Leader was treating them like human beings! The border troops of the Great Qian Dynasty were hailed as an elite force, and their pay and rations were more generous than those of the inland camps. However, after layers of exploitation, the common soldiers were nothing but ants in the eyes of the officials. Their superiors frequently used sticks and beatings, and it was a daily occurrence for platoon and squad leaders to embezzle their rations. Even General Chen’s Xilong Garrison, touted as the model of the border forces, only saw sixty percent of their monthly pay reach the hands of the new recruits. The armor and weapons issued were always used goods recovered from the battlefield. When had they ever seen someone like Lin Chuan, who cherished his subordinates and treated them like brothers?

"Platoon Leader!" Hu Dayong roared at the top of his voice. "From this day on, my life belongs to the Platoon Leader!"

"Yes! It belongs to the Platoon Leader!"

Twenty-plus voices exploded in unison, save for one stuttering sound: "Y-yes, y-y-yes, it be-be-belongs to..."

"Smack!" Wang Tiezhu slapped Zhang Xiaonian on the head. "Shut up."

Zhang Xiaonian closed his mouth, but his eyes flashed with intensity. Ever since he had joined Brother Lin as a combat soldier, he felt time was flying by. Every day, he woke up to train, rested when tired, and ate when hungry. He felt an inexhaustible amount of energy surging through his body. He felt like roaring every single day!

...

Lin Chuan dismissed the group and tossed the battle jacket back into the crate. Suddenly, a jar in the crate caught his attention. A piece of paper was pasted on it, with two words written clearly: "Gunpowder."

Lin Chuan pinched a bit of the powder from the pottery jar and rubbed it between his fingers. A pungent scent of sulfur mixed with the smell of earth hit him. This reminded him of an exhibit he had seen in a military museum in his previous life. The gunpowder sample in the glass case was identical to what was before him: coarse granules mixed with sand and bits of grass.

He took a pinch of the powder and sprinkled it on a blue brick. The moment he brought a fire-starter close, the powder hissed and flared up with a greenish-black flame. The thick smoke was laced with the acrid stench of sulfides, leaving behind a fingernail-sized scorch mark after burning out. It was far inferior to the homemade black powder used by the militia during the War of Resistance in his memory.

"The ratio of sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal is all wrong..." Lin Chuan muttered to himself.

In special operations training, crafting homemade explosive devices was a mandatory course, and the precise ratio of sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal was the key to life and death. He knew all too well that the "one part saltpeter, two parts sulfur, three parts charcoal" formula circulating in time-travel novels was nothing but a misconception. A mixture made in a 1:2:3 ratio wasn't even gunpowder; at most, it was a poorly burning mixture, suitable only for making fireworks for festivals. Trying to generate explosive power with it was nothing more than a pipe dream.

True gunpowder formula had to be dominated by saltpeter and sulfur, with charcoal as an auxiliary. The ratio of saltpeter to sulfur was the core: a 9:1 ratio was suitable for muskets, burning steadily to minimize the risk of barrel explosions, while a 7:3 ratio was the perfect choice for demolition; once ignited, it could release enough power to destroy fortifications.

Lin Chuan stared at the inferior powder in the pottery jar, his eyes burning with intensity. It was clear that the ratio of this batch of gunpowder was completely wrong.