Chương 35: Militia Training Part 2

Day 20 & 21 Ebril 29th and 30th (Tuesday and Wednesday) For a moment, my brain simply froze up after the first group fired their muskets. I could hear Lieutenant Woolsly yelling at everyone to rotate, but all I caught was, "faster, damnit!" Sergeant Morgan tugged on my sleeve, and I looked at him. He slapped me lightly on the cheek and said, "Damnit Jacobson, get your shit together! Don't make me look bad!" My fear of making Hari look bad broke me out of my fugue.

I stepped forward and knelt, like I knew I needed to. I heard Woolsly yell, "Percussion caps!" I fumbled for my belt pouch and reached into the pouch containing the caps. I clumsily grabbed one, dropping several others in the process. I ignored them and shakily pulled one out, only to realize I hadn't half-cocked the rifle like I was supposed to. I did it as quickly as possible, then put the cap on the nipple below the hammer. I was only half a beat slow as I heard him yell, "Fire!"

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and fired at the target a hundred yards ahead of me. The targets were made of straw and canvas, and roughly shaped like a man. My UI flashed, indicating I had miraculously scored a hit. As I knelt, I felt a tug on my sleeve once again, and heard Sergeant Morgan yell at me to get up and move back so we could reload. As I followed his orders, he kept speaking to me.

"Alright, a lot of the fellows 'ad the same reaction you did, first time. Now take a breath, an follow proper procedure to reload. Next round we'll be standin' to fire. Got it?" I nodded, and he patted me on the shoulder before yelling out, "5th squad! Grab a cartridge!" He then went through the rest of the procedure to bite off the end and pour the powder down the barrel, then grab the ramrod and tamp down the bullet. I could see he was keeping an eye on me to make sure I didn't mess things up.

Luckily, I followed procedure, and I saw him absentmindedly nod as he turned to make sure everyone else had followed orders. We had close to a minute before it was our turn to fire again. This time I was more ready, and I didn't drop any percussion caps on the ground when Woolsly yelled his order. I was also perfectly in sync with the men on either side of me as we fired.

By the time we rotated back to reload again, my ears were ringing, and I was having trouble hearing Sergeant Morgan as he called out the reloading procedure. In thirty minutes, we fired twenty times before Lieutenant Woolsly called a halt. My UI indicated I had hit the target eighteen times in those twenty shots. I was happy with myself. I didn't know what the average was, but it was my first time in a drill situation. I heard Woolsly call out, "Alright, clean your rifles!

Then move back to the two hundred yard marker and we will shoot twenty more rounds from there. Then we will shoot ten more from three hundred yards before we take a break to re-supply." After he was done, Sergeant Morgan gave me a sly grin and said, "Go grab those caps you dropped or you'll find yourself out before the end of the drill. I know a few other people dropped some too, looked like you dropped three." I gave him an embarrassed smile and complied with his orders.

I saw that there were probably fifteen or so caps lying on the ground, but I just picked up three of them before walking back and cleaning my barrel with the rest of my squad. Black powder was a filthy propellant, and it necessitated constant cleaning to keep your barrel from becoming fouled. At home, with good ammunition, I could go two-thousand rounds between cleaning my barrel on my AR15. I cleaned my shotgun far more frequently, but it was still every couple hundred rounds.

Once we were done cleaning our guns, we marched back to the two hundred yard marker. This time around, I was only fourteen for twenty. Not the best, but I wasn't too upset with myself. I missed the first three times. Twice I shot too low, then my third shot was high as I compensated for the first two misses. I only missed three times in my last seventeen shots. When we moved back to three hundred yards, I was six for ten. Once that was done, the sergeant showed me how to look up my combat logs.

Drill counted as a combat situation as far as the System was concerned, and I sent them over to him. My little mess-up with Colin had prompted me to figure out how to work my UI a little better. All in all, I did all right. My shooting average put me at thirty-third in the company. I'd take that for my first day of drill. Once the massed shooting part of drill was done, we went and got new boxes of ammunition, and then we started shooting from longer distances on our own. At 1 p. m.

we had a hearty lunch of chili and cornbread. Then most of us watched as the scouts and sharpshooters competed to see who could hit a target from the farthest distance. The winner was an older scout who had been in the army before he got a slot as a homesteader. He had actually taken the farmer subclass, not Woodsman, but he still had a sniper combat specialty. He hit a target from 1, 100 yards with his specialized sniper rifle.

After that, we marched around for a couple of hours before the Captain called a halt to the day's proceedings at 5 p. m. I was surprised we didn't go until 7 p. m., but Brendan informed me that regulations required them to feed us during drill time, and we would have to clean the barracks during that time as well. Dinner was pork and bean stew, with more cornbread. It was plenty tasty.

Then we all spent thirty minutes sweeping and mopping the barracks before the Captain told us we were on our own time at exactly 7 p. m. The men who lived in town, or close to it, left to go home for the night, while a bunch of the rest of us went and got beers in the inn before we made our way back to the barracks for the evening. Curfew was 9pm for those of us who were staying.

Most of our talking was done at a shouting level with our deafness after so much shooting, but everyone assured me my hearing would be fine when I woke up the next morning. It was, so that was nice. The second day's drill was only a half-day, so those who were going to go home to celebrate Bhealtaine with their families could make it before it got too late. I was growing more and more apprehensive as lunch came to a close. I hadn't been hazed yet.

When lunch was finished around 12: 30, Lieutenant Woolsly called my name and told me to grab a fresh box of bullets and caps. I did so, and he, along with most of the four hundred men left, led me to the shooting range again.

"Mr Jacobson," Woolsly said.

"I want you to take twenty bullets, and you are going to shoot at that target in front of us every fifty yards, out to a thousand yards. And you are going to drink a beer for every shot you miss." I let out a nervous peal of laughter and said, "Really, Sir?"

"Did I stutter, or slur my words in any way, Mr Jacobson?" He said sternly.

"No, Sir." I said. So, I followed orders and began shooting. I hit my first six shots, from fifty yards to three hundred yards. I missed my next shot. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Someone handed me a beer immediately.

"Sir, I need to drink it now?" Woolsly didn't smile.

"Do you plan to try and shoot with the beer in your hand?" The entire crowd erupted in laughter at that. I just shook my head and chugged the wheat beer as fast as I could. I hit my target at four hundred, and again at four-fifty. I think everyone was a little shocked and impressed with me there. Then, I missed at five hundred and at five-fifty. I chugged both beers. At six hundred yards, I just aimed my rifle a good distance above the target, and shockingly, I scored what would be counted as a headshot.

Everyone erupted into applause. Lieutenant Woolsly asked, curiosity in his voice, "Was that a calculated shot? Do we have a future sniper in our midst?" It was my turn to laugh there.

"No sir, I just aimed my rifle in the general direction of the target and fired. Got lucky." Several people behind me excitedly yelled out, "Check your UI and your militia quest log!" I did as they said and looked at my quests. Militia Quests: Successfully load and hit a target with your weapon (Repeatable through level 3) - 1XP (47XP so far) Train with a recognized militia (Repeatable) - 10XP/day up to 15 days per year.

(20XP so far) Fight in combat with a recognized militia (Repeatable) - 50XP per day of combat Successfully defend home territory while an activated member of a militia (Repeatable) - 250XP for a victory as defined by the System. Lucky Shot, long distance 1/1- 100XP Congratulations, you have earned enough XP to achieve level 3! You now have 22/156 XP needed for level 4. I laughed as I saw my Lucky Shot XP. It looked like there were random things that didn't show up that could give me XP.

"Well, I'm level 3 now!" The lieutenant smiled and said, "Very good, now it is about time for me to go have bourbon with the mayor, so finish your shooting and drinking." I gave him a crisp salute. One that made me slightly uncomfortable, since it was just an arm straight out.

"Yes, sir!" Then I shot from 650 yards and missed. After I chugged my beer, I repeated the process at 700, 750, 800, 850, 900, 950, and 1, 000 yards out. Nine beers later, I was close to puking. Not because I was already drunk. It was way too soon for that. But it was a lot of liquid in a very short period of time. In college, I'd been on my fraternity's keg race team for four years.

I don't think I even ended up drunk after one of those keg races because everyone inevitably threw up from the sheer amount they'd drunk in such a short time. This was fewer beers, but I still felt rough. No doubt I'd soon also be drunk. Still, not the worst hazing I'd encountered. After way too much time spent being congratulated on becoming a full member of the militia, as I began to feel the effects of the alcohol, Brendan and I were able to break away from everyone and make our way towards the inn.

Just as I could see Colin and Aiden, who were standing in front of the inn, waiting for us to get back, I heard a voice behind me yell out, "John Jacobson, just a moment! I'd like a quick word in private." Brendan and I turned around to see Thomas Roberts making his way towards us. Brendan looked at me in confusion, but I told him I'd be back in a couple of minutes. He nodded and turned towards the wagon.

"Thanks for your time," Roberts said.

"You're not too drunk right now for a talk, are you?" I laughed and said, "I'll be fine, well, I'll be drunk here soon enough. But, I was in a fraternity back in college, I can handle myself. Does that mean anything to you?" He looked around, looking half panicked, before hissing out.

"Don't say things like that, ever. I know you saw my tattoo, you clearly knew what it was too. If anyone else found out, we'd be fucked, okay." He stopped speaking and looked around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear us. Once he confirmed we were safe, he started talking again.

"Listen, I won't say too much more right now. Clearly we're both outsiders here. I like it here, and I don't want to do anything that endangers that. I'm not saying anything more than that right now." He took a calming breath and continued on.

"How about we meet at your homestead after the corn planting is done, say two more weeks from now? We can talk some more out there. Away from that boy and woman on your place of course." I didn't care much for his tone, and I was admittedly beginning to feel drunk, but I wasn't a complete idiot and kept my words neutral.

"Do we need to? You don't seem like you're too interested in talking anyway. I'd hate to inconvenience you." He sneered at me and shook his head.

"Listen up, I'm going to hope you're just being a bit of an asshole because you're drunk. We need to talk to make sure we have everything in order. Shit can get ugly if we don't. I'll be over to your place in two weeks. Say the 15th just to be safe."

"Alright," I said. I didn't think I really wanted to have any more contact with this man, but it probably needed to happen.

"Good, now I hope you have a wonderful Bhealtaine." With that, Roberts turned and walked away. When I got to the group, Brendan raised his eyebrows as if to say, "what was that all about?" I just shook my head.

"I'll tell you about it some other time. I'm getting drunker by the minute and I need to eat, or maybe throw up then eat?" Brendan laughed, but Colin blurted out, "What? You were at drill, why are you drunk?" Brendan continued laughing and told Colin he'd explain it inside. I simply sighed and made my way into the tavern, beginning to sway as I put one foot in front of the other. I sat down at a table while Ben and Mary laughed at my sorry state.

Ben said in his booming voice, "I hope the wheat beer was the right choice for you out there. Seemed like it would be easier to chug than the brown." Then he and his wife broke into an even louder fit of laughter. I just shook my head dejectedly.

"It probably was the better choice. Now, should I eat or throw up?" That brought out a renewed bout of laughter, and it was close to a full minute before they brought themselves under control enough so they could grab me some water and a small bowl of stew with a large chunk of bread. After I had eaten, I made my way upstairs. I barely got my boots off before darkness claimed me.

Militias were first formed in the Albion Empire in the first half of the 8th century. For the first 600 years, the presence of enough high-level people capable of defending against roving monsters, or occasional raids from the elves or dwarves, combined with the standing army, was sufficient to keep the realm safe. But around the year 640 CE, an event of unknown origin occurred, called the Great Impediment by scholars.

The Great Impediment forced people to undertake an extraordinary task in order to evolve past level 20. The System did not explain what that extraordinary task would be on a class by class basis. As a result, very few people evolved beyond level 20.

While evolving past level 20 led an extended lifespan, as high as 300 years for someone at level 80, those of sufficient level eventually died off, and within a hundred years there simply weren't enough people with a high enough level to allow for the average male in the empire to ignore their own safety.

In 748CE King John the Sixth issued a royal decree, establishing a charter for a militia for every recognized town in the empire that required every male citizen from the age of sixteen through forty-five to attend training one weekend every two months, and for a full week after the fall harvest festival. The charter also established that any man who is serving, or who has honorably served, in the militia, was guaranteed the right to vote in parliamentary elections.

This angered many of the more remote nobles in the empire, who had not always held open elections to parliament as they were supposed to. There were even a few clashes between noble retinues and militias exercising their right to vote in the first round of truly open elections. In 750 CE King John the Sixth called a special session of the House of Lords and hashed out a compromise that has held for more than four hundred and fifty years.

The details of which have not been made public, but the clashes between noble retinues and militias ceased thanks to whatever was agreed upon in that meeting. Excerpt from The History of the Middle Years of the Empire, Volume 1 by Archbishop William Fowler. This book is available for purchase in the Territory Guild Store.