A brutal "death march" began.
Two hundred soldiers staggered over the scorching sand, carrying weights far beyond their current physical limits.
Heavy footsteps, rough breathing like a broken bellows, suppressed sobbing and painful groans replaced the previous silence.
The scorching sun rcilessly roasted them; each grain of sand felt like burning iron sand, scorching the soles of their feet.
Sweat dripped into their eyes, bringing stinging pain and blurring their vision. Their lungs hurt as if being torn apart, each breath carrying a bloody taste.
Ti passed by the second. The penal team quickly spread out from the initial chaotic running.
People kept falling, struggling to climb back up, running a few steps before falling again.
Soone started vomiting, yellow-green bile mixed with undigested food debris splattering onto the hot sand.
Soone clutched a cramping calf, writhing in pain, imdiately dragged to the sidelines by the patrol team mbers coldly announcing "elimination," stripped of equipnt, leaving only a bottle of water, left to survive in despair.
The quota for the penal area was being cruelly cleared.
On the high platform, General Haftar had arrived beside Song Heping at so unknown ti.
He furrowed his brows, looking at the scene below like a purgatory, especially those soldiers struggling, vomiting, or even fainting on the track, with complex confusion and a trace of hard-to-notice heartache in his eyes.
These were, after all, his only remaining seeds.
"Mr. Song..."
Haftar pondered as he spoke, his voice carrying confusion, "I understand the necessity of basic training. But... we are pressed for ti, only three months. Learning shooting, tactics, combat, these skills to kill the enemy are what's urgently needed now. This... this standing to attention and having soldiers run to exhaustion under the scorching sun, what is the aning? This seems... a bit of a waste of precious ti."
He pointed to a soldier at the edge of the penal area who had just fainted and been dragged away.
Song Heping's gaze remained fixed on the training grounds, looking at the veterans standing tall under the scorching sun like javelins, at the struggling figures on the penal track, and at the formation where newcors, though exhausted, had clearly tightened considerably.
He slowly spoke, "General, you've asked the fundantal question."
He turned his head, looking into Haftar's eyes deeply.
"In the PLA, the army I once served in, there are three major regulations: the 'Internal Affairs Regulation,' 'Discipline Regulation,' and 'Formation Regulation.' They are the foundation of all combat capability, their importance even placed before shooting and tactics. Why?"
He pointed below.
"Look at them now, how are they different from before?"
Haftar looked over.
Though there were still people swaying, the degree of tilt in the entire formation had noticeably reduced, the soldiers subconsciously straightened their backs, and their gazes also gathered more; at least they were all trying to look forward instead of being distracted.
A kind of invisible, weak but certainly present "spirit" seed to be gathering.
"Formation training may seem tedious and useless, but it's the first step in forging a military's soul!"
Song Heping said resolutely and decisively: "This basic training forges discipline! It's obedience! It's the instinct to follow orders precisely! It's the furnace that forcibly twists scattered personal wills into one!"
"Do you know what African armies lack most?"
Song Heping sighed, then looked up at the sky, asking himself and answering.
"Not weapons, not the soldiers' bravery. It's discipline!"
He paused, his gaze sharp as a knife: "And the harsh, almost brutal formation training and internal affairs requirents, starting from the most minute, from standing, aligning, walking, lying—these basic movents—are the way to hamr discipline, obedience, tenacity as if using a sledgehamr to drive a nail inch by inch into their marrow! To erode the bandit-like laziness and loose freedom off their bodies!"
He suddenly changed his tone, with a bit of cold black humor: "General, do you think we're the only ones? Look at the US Army in its heyday; soldiers had to shine their shoes until they could be used as mirrors! A bit more dust on the boots, and officers might be dismissed on the spot! You think they care about that little shine? No! They care about reminding soldiers every mont with such nearly obsessive detail requirents: discipline! Discipline! Discipline again! Any detail oversight is a lethal flaw on the battlefield! An army that can't even clean its boots, hoping it would maintain calm and order under the hail of bullets? That's wishful thinking!"
Listening, Haftar's confused expression gradually transford into one of solemnity and contemplation.
He looked below, at those soldiers gritting their teeth in the formation, at the track where people kept falling down and being dragged away, and at those veterans standing immovable like rocks, as if understanding sothing.
The seemingly useless "standing to attention," the cruel "running to faint," was forging the core and soul of an army, the spine, and soul most difficult to obtain!
"I understand now, Mr. Song."
Haftar took a deep breath, his gaze becoming determined, "I've been shallow... From today, I will no longer inquire about the training matters, my people... are all given to you."
Song Heping nodded slightly, his gaze returning to the training grounds.
In the penal track, Musa's figure had already disappeared into the horizon's heat waves, perhaps having finished running, or fallen sowhere.
And in the field, the first blaze of tempering fire had just reached its peak.
This was only the first day, only the first procedure of honing sharpness—using the fire of discipline to burn away all impurities, forging the army's most basic shape.
The real "hell" is behind; only three months is the ti for a recruit to join the squad, too pressing.
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