Chapter Twenty-Two

The common people of the region near the capital had clearly not witnessed such large-scale troop movements in many years. Yet, there was no sense of fear here; ever since the Han army had established its rule, all the people had become acutely aware of the realities of war. Now that the Han had even beheaded the Tartar emperor, it was obvious that this conflict could end only in total victory or annihilation—there was no need for further propaganda or education on the matter.

In truth, as the Han army advanced, the prevailing sentiment among the populace was not fear, but rather astonishment. The reason for this was simple: the current style of the Han military uniforms was quite novel to Eastern eyes, possessing a certain elegance from an aesthetic standpoint. The sight of thousands of soldiers marching in perfect formation was so impressive that it drew crowds of onlookers to the roadside wherever they passed.

Faced with such scenes, Lin Feng had every reason to feel proud. Since the Ming and Qing dynasties, military forces had generally been viewed by the public as nothing more than ruthless bands of brigands. That people now dared to stand openly by the road to watch the army pass was testament to the excellent reputation the Han troops had built for themselves. It was clear that Lin Feng’s efforts in both military and political reforms had been remarkably successful.

This was precisely the kind of army Lin Feng had always dreamed of—a disciplined, formidable force. He had spared no effort in making it a reality. From the very beginning, he had pondered how to forge a military that could both fight valiantly and maintain strict discipline. Discipline, in particular, posed the greatest challenge. Many Chinese intellectuals, whether intentionally or not, had long misled the public, often appending “highly disciplined” to descriptions of “valiant and capable” armies, as if the two qualities naturally went hand in hand. In reality, these were entirely separate issues. The ability to fight and the ability to refrain from harassing civilians were not at all the same; if anything, history showed the opposite. Armies that fought well were often the worst when it came to discipline—hence the saying about “standing out at both ends of the spectrum.”

To address this, Lin Feng racked his brains. The first problem he tackled was the class composition of the army. Both historical experience and current realities led him to choose a stable approach: allowing smallholding farmers to serve, or rather, turning soldiers into smallholding farmers themselves. In the context of the time, this was the most reliable and manageable social class—far more suitable for professional soldiering than the so-called “poor tenant farmers.” This was not to say that the rootless or proletarian classes lacked courage in battle, but rather that they were difficult to control, prone to rebellion and violence, and often harbored resentment against society. Making them the backbone of the army might quickly enhance combat effectiveness, but discipline would be impossible to enforce in the short term.

Such regulations had little effect on the rootless drifters; these people had nothing to tie them down. Having already dared to rebel, the fate of their ancestors’ graves was of no consequence to them. Soldiers like these were likely to desert, loot, and seek pleasure wherever they could, living for the moment without fear of military justice. The most alarming aspect was their utter lack of loyalty—whoever fed them was their “mother.” Trying to impose strict discipline on such men would be nearly impossible, and a heavy hand might well drive them to defect to the enemy the very next day. This was no mere theory—the armies recruited in the late Ming era, for example, had proved impossible to discipline, not for lack of regulations, but because officers dared not enforce them.

Beyond the composition of the troops and harsh military discipline, much else needed attention. People, after all, were not machines; even with systems in place, human nature required lubrication and coordination. The Han government undertook a great deal of work in this regard, instituting indoctrination campaigns, raising military pay and status, providing generous benefits for soldiers’ families, and attending to countless small details—such as military uniforms.

The story of Han army uniform reform was full of curious twists. From the army’s founding, the evolution of its uniforms had been tumultuous, largely due to Commander Lin’s stubbornness. Ultimately, the uniforms became a unique blend of Western-style dress and traditional martial garb. The collars were modeled after the high-necked Zhongshan suit, while the lapels incorporated a diagonal, distinctly Han-style overlap. The button concept Lin had introduced was retained, but the buttons now ran in a slanting row from the neck down to the ribs in line with the lapel—an odd design, but a strikingly attractive one.

Having won the debate over uniforms, Commander Lin seized the moment to increase funding for their production. Not only were the fabrics and workmanship of the highest quality, but the buttons themselves were elevated to an art form—crafted entirely from metal, polished to a lustrous sheen, and coated with anti-rust lacquer so that each one sparkled like a jewel. When the new uniforms were distributed, even senior civil officials envied the soldiers. For the ordinary officers and men, most of whom had never worn anything so fine, the ceremonial bestowal of uniforms and ranks became a grand occasion. Amidst fanfare, troops lined up in perfect formation; each officer strode forward to swear eternal loyalty to Commander Lin before kneeling to receive their commission and uniform, and so on until the last soldier had been honored.

But this was only half the work. As Lin had anticipated, the dazzling new uniforms immediately caused a sensation throughout society, sparking a fashion trend in major cities like the capital and Zhili. Human aesthetics, after all, are universal; in this, Beijingers and Parisians were no different. Soon, the sons of wealthy families vied to buy Han army uniforms or commission identical ones from tailors, strutting about in borrowed glory. This fashion craze lasted only a few days, however, before Commander Lin personally oversaw a crackdown by the Han military police. Those impersonating soldiers were heavily fined, and a strict decree was issued: only the brave and loyal soldiers of the Han army were permitted to wear the sacred uniform—no civilian, not even government officials, was allowed to do so.

The uniform system was but one element in the vast psychological project of fostering military honor. The most crucial aspect was pay and benefits. After Lin Feng reformed the mess system, the General Staff introduced a new rationing plan: soldiers now received three meals a day totaling two and a half catties—equivalent to forty taels of steamed bread, with one catty equaling sixteen taels. Meat was still scarce, but there was never any question of going hungry. A tiered salary system was also implemented, replacing the previous flat high-wage policy. Now, new recruits, veterans, officers, and those with or without battlefield merit all received differentiated treatment, more humane and suited to the army’s current needs.

Thanks to Lin Feng’s relentless efforts, military service had become the first choice of young men throughout Han territory. Though the risks were significant, the rewards were irresistible. After crushing the traitorous landlords who had collaborated with internal enemies, the Han army confiscated vast tracts of farmland, which Lin Feng then distributed to soldiers under various pretexts. The majority of Han soldiers thus became property owners, and the regular monthly salaries, though not enormous, provided a secure, worry-free livelihood. The pride of soldiers’ families was plain for all to see.

Because of this, hopeful young men constantly gathered outside army barracks, eager to enlist. Recruitment officers, once ignored, were now the most sought-after officials in the service—so much so that bribery and even the use of beauty to win favor had become rife, with even landlords’ sons and scions of great families desperately trying to squeeze into the army. Despite all this, most failed, for since the introduction of the regimental number system, strict controls had been imposed on the army’s size. Given the current economic situation, the Han government could barely support its existing force of over fifty thousand men, with no plans for expansion—much to the disappointment of those “patriotic” youths.

Amusingly, when the General Staff discovered this situation, they swiftly added a new regulation: soldiers could be stripped of their military status. The first to fall foul of this rule were those who had led the movement demanding leave for spring plowing. Though they achieved some results—such as the formal adoption of the “double seven” system, granting officers and men seven days of agricultural leave and seven days off for the New Year in peacetime—the ringleaders faced Lin’s retribution. The chief instigators were beheaded and displayed as a warning, while the rest were expelled from the army. Upon returning home, these men soon realized what they had lost, leading to some farcical scenes as they organized petitions to the General Staff, knelt in the streets to beg officials for mercy, and wept openly, pleading for Lin to allow them to return to the army and redeem themselves with merit.

Thus, the Han army troops marching down the official road were brimming with confidence, the entire force exuding an air of pride and arrogance. The guards on either flank, tasked with security, looked down on all around them, and when the young men of nearby villages watched in envy, these soldiers strutted and barked orders with the self-satisfaction of peacocks in full display.

With the supreme leader on the move, every local official along the route was anxious not to offend. Each relay station was swept spotless, the roads near the towns leveled and watered, and ceremonial arches erected. Yet, they soon found their efforts wasted, for neither the Han army nor Lin himself ever entered the towns, making camp in the fields instead. To prevent corruption and the erosion of discipline, Lin had long ago ordered that all field units, except for fortress garrisons, were not to enter urban areas without necessity—now, with the commander himself setting an example, how could he risk exposure by feasting with local officials?

For several days, Lin took the opportunity to visit the lower ranks, sharing meals with the soldiers and sleeping in their tents to win their hearts. Though such gestures were predictable—sharing food and bedding—the simple soldiers were so moved that they often wept tears of gratitude. Lin’s modest habits left a deep impression, and it was easy to imagine that, years later, countless sentimental essays would be written about “Commander Lin’s Rice Bowl” or “The Commander’s Bedsheet.”

After several days of marching, the troops entered Wang Dahai’s district. Wang had already led his officers to the border in welcome, but was taken aback by the sight before him. According to General Staff orders, the commander was there to negotiate with the Liaodong volunteer army, with his own troops providing support and protection. Yet Lin had brought over seven thousand men, including a large force of elite cavalry and even dragging along artillery—this force alone likely outmatched Wang’s entire command. Wang and his officers exchanged uneasy glances; they all knew the true situation in Liaodong: nearly two million unsettled refugees, resettlement and reclamation work barely begun, and the region on the brink of chaos. To start a war now would be madness.

Of course, none dared question the General Staff for failing to inform them of these details, nor would they dream of asking the commander about his troop strength. Commander Lin was the supreme leader—how many men he chose to bring was not for Wang Dahai to question.