Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 679 Military Training
The military train rattled westward, laden with new recruits like Ibrahim, and with the renewed hope of Istanbul and the entire empire. The air inside the carriages was foul, a mixture of sweat, tobacco, and the smell of leather gear, but the atmosphere was unusually fervent. The young men chatted excitedly, passing around crumpled newspapers reporting victories, their faces filled with anticipation for the future.

"Have you heard? We're going to Edirne. I heard we'll be assigned there, and if we're lucky, we might get into the Imperial Guard!"

"The Guards? I want to be a cavalryman! Like my brothers in the Caucasus, riding a horse and slaying Russians!"

"Come on, riding a donkey is more like it! I think it would be best to be assigned to the artillery, firing from a distance, which is both safe and impressive!"

Ibrahim didn't join the heated discussion. He sat by the window, watching the scenery rush past. Early summer in the Anatolian highlands brought forth vibrant green fields, and the distant mountains appeared like dark ink paintings. This ancient land, which had witnessed the rise and fall of countless empires, now seemed to be nurturing new life. He touched the small, bilingual (Persian and Turkish) "Soldier's Handbook" and "Elementary Tactics Guide" in his pocket. These were extras given to him by an officer when he left the recruitment station, because he was literate.

Currently, Ottoman soldier training typically lasts 12 weeks. The General Staff believed this timeframe was sufficient to transform a conscript into a qualified infantryman with basic military skills, rudimentary tactical awareness, and unwavering resolve, enabling rapid deployment to frontline units. However, given the current state of war, all training focused on battlefield survival and combat effectiveness, eliminating any impractical or superficial elements.

This also marked the first time that ideological shaping and political loyalty were systematically elevated to the same level of importance as military skills. Speeches by accompanying mullahs and officers emphasized the shared interests and glorious destiny of the Ottoman and Iranian empires, downplaying ethnic and sectarian differences and cultivating a unified imperial military identity. Furthermore, the wise leadership and illustrious military achievements of the Shah/Sultan were promoted, portraying him as a symbol of imperial revival and resistance against foreign aggression.

Those who pass the comprehensive military skills and physical fitness assessment will be awarded the rank of private and assigned to various front-line units based on their assessment results and the needs of the troops.

"Those who can read should take on more responsibilities." The words of that stern-faced officer still echoed in my ears.

After several days of bumpy travel, the train finally arrived in Edirne. The former capital of the Ottoman Empire had now become a massive military camp and logistical hub. Soldiers were everywhere in the city, speaking various accents of Turkish, Persian, Arabic, and even Albanian. Military depots were piled high with supplies, and new recruits were conducting drills and shooting exercises on the parade grounds. The air was thick with a tense yet orderly atmosphere of war.

Ibrahim and his comrades were assigned to a newly formed infantry regiment. Because he was literate, he was directly appointed as the deputy squad leader of his infantry platoon, assisting the squad leader. A veteran from Ankara, who had participated in suppressing the Bulgarian rebellion, was in charge of ten new recruits.

Training was arduous and monotonous. Every day, they were awakened before dawn by bugle calls, enduring endless drills, physical training, rifle exercises, and tactical maneuvers. The instructors were extremely strict; even the slightest mistake was met with beatings or verbal abuse. At first, Ibrahim struggled to adapt; his scholarly body felt like it was falling apart, and his hands were covered in blisters. But whenever he wanted to give up, he would recall the pride he felt when leaving Istanbul, the silent yet resolute figure of his veteran sergeant, and the large slogan painted on the training camp walls: "Today's sweat, tomorrow's less blood! For the Empire, for the Sultan!"

He gritted his teeth and persevered, and began to use his rest time to proactively ask veteran soldiers for tactical maneuvers and battlefield experience. He even started trying to learn a few simple Persian commands. His efforts and perseverance gradually earned him the respect of his squad leader and comrades.

However, the atmosphere in the training camp gradually differed from the optimistic sentiment portrayed in the newspapers back home. The wounded soldiers rotating off the front lines for rest and the exhausted veterans brought a more realistic and brutal picture of war.

During a break, Ibrahim saw an old soldier who had lost an arm sitting alone in a corner, staring blankly into the distance. He mustered his courage, went up to him, and offered him a cigarette.

The veteran glanced at him, silently took the light, lit it, and took a deep drag. "New here?" the veteran's voice was hoarse.

“Yes, sir,” Ibrahim replied respectfully.

"Don't call me 'sir,' I'm just a seasoned veteran." He exhaled a smoke ring. "Look at your delicate skin, were you a scholar before?"

"I've worked as a clerk."

"The clerk is good... why come to this godforsaken place?" the veteran asked, squinting.

Ibrahim was momentarily speechless. The grand pronouncements in the newspapers seemed somewhat unspeakable after experiencing rigorous training and witnessing the real wounded. He paused, then said, "I want to do something for the Empire."

The old soldier chuckled, but there was no mockery in his laughter, only desolation: "The Empire... young man, you'll understand once you get to the front lines. What Empire, what Sultan, it's all an illusion. At that time, you'll only have three things on your mind: how to survive, how to keep your brothers alive, and how to kill the enemy on the other side."

He pointed to his empty sleeve: "Serbian bullets don't care if you're fighting for the Empire. They fight fiercely, and their marksmanship is excellent... and there are landmines, damn it, landmines everywhere..."

The veteran's words were like a bucket of cold water poured over Ibrahim's heart. He began to realize that war was not just about victories and glory, but also about mud, blood, and death.

A few weeks later, an urgent order was issued, and this newly formed regiment, which had not yet completed its training, was swiftly transferred to the Macedonian front. The Serbian army, after its reorganization, intensified its pressure on the Ottoman defenses, and the front lines urgently needed reinforcements.

Once back on the train, the atmosphere was completely different from when they arrived. The recruits were much quieter, their faces less excited and more solemn, with a hint of barely perceptible fear. Ibrahim silently checked his rifle and equipment, polishing each bullet he was issued. He looked out the window at the increasingly desolate landscape, where the traces of war were becoming visible: burned villages, fields riddled with shell craters. This sight filled him with mixed emotions.

He was finally about to step onto the real battlefield. The young man who had been so full of passion in the café was now filled with fear of the unknown, but also with a calmer resolve ignited by his sense of responsibility and the words of the veterans. He knew that he was about to face not the heroic tales in the newspapers, but the cruelest reality. He gripped his rifle tightly, as if only in this way could he grasp a sliver of security. The fate of the empire, and his own personal fate, would both face their most severe test on this unfamiliar land.

(End of this chapter)