Chương 3: WHEN THE COUNT IS GOOD (3)
Moa had found a place to leave his moped, not too far from the headquarters, which was not easy every day.
So he arrived on time for the report and even had a little bit of leeway, enough to buy a pastry if he wanted to. The battle for the day was scheduled for 10:00 a.m., a fairly standard schedule that saved people from looking a shocking show at breakfast time.
As usual, he greeted the porter who did not answer him. He used to have his entry unnoticed. He went up to the briefing room, knocked, and finally entered when he was told he could. The room was not yet full, which left him the choice of a place in the back of the room.
The briefings were all alike.
It was first of all the colonel speaking to introduce the agenda and to give general information. He then gave the floor to the press officer of the regiment who explained that in a poll commissioned from the civilian population, the third regiment had bad general records and that an advertising campaign was going to be launched in an attempt to improve its reputation however the most effective way would be to chain a few wins. A lieutenant, who did a job as a psychologist, nodded, saying that in addition, for the morale of the troops, it would not be bad.
The debate would have dragged on but the colonel knew there were more points to approach. So he asked the audience, how had it been yesterday? A simple question but an end point for the passionate exchanges about positive psychology; the press officer and the lieutenant shut up. Overall, yesterday was calm, not much to report, for once the enemy's army had been fairly conservative, they had limited the damage.
Moa was boiling inside, the losses were still thirty-two of them, it was not a record in itself, they traditionally did a lot worse, but it was not negligible either. When his time came to report, he gave the number, thirty-two guys of theirs, joining the demonstration with his fingers and realizing the number was too huge, even adding his foot, it couldn't to be figured like that. The press officer and the lieutenant giggled at the same time, looking at each other with knowing looks.
After a long afterthought of the thinking-heads, yesterday had been sunny, and at a critical hour, bad luck and the sun in their eyes, the guys could not do anything. Moa knew that this systematic research was intellectual masturbation but it was important to find a rational explanation, even if only in memory of all those dead.
Finally, it was still true that the day had been fairly calm, the proof, the equipment had not suffered too much, and finally, the enemy army had above all been efficient, leaving no quadriplegics as it happened sometimes. When all the counters, all the doctors and the inventory managers had spoken, a commander said that one day the wheel would turn, that luck would come. For the Coué method it all was reassurance, because in fact the officers were not fools, the day would probably once again end on a rout.
A deep sight helped restoring the calm. They had to talk a little about strategy for this day.
At the beginning of his career, Moa thought that it was very important. A whole bunch of tactical elements were distilled, as much information he took note of to be able to adapt, to know the places where to look to best accomplish his mission. With nine years of experience, the strategic briefing seemed less important to him. The plan was generally the same and it was never followed. Often, the orders did not even arrive to the soldiers, and even so in the heat of the action, it was especially necessary to adapt to the adversary; to save their skin, the soldiers did not have the leisure to respect the tactics implementation.
Moa didn't care much about the strategy. It had never prevented or provoked dead soldiers. So he took advantage of these few moments to get in condition, focus and also daydream a little.
That day, he wasn't really in the mood for the jousts, so he daydreamed.
He wondered what would have happened to his life if this war had not happened. He doubtless saw himself as a garbage collector, a public service mission he would certainly have accomplished with great class and pride. He saw himself freed from all professional obligations at around 2:00 p.m. which would allow him to devote himself to his passion for the rest of the day, the Mikado.
It was more than a passion; it was the goal of his life.
He had discovered this sport by chance when he was a teenager during a competition in his village. He signed up without really knowing what it was, had briefly read the rules and he had won; the price: a pretty basket that was used by his mother for Sunday meal.
As he had shown certain skills for this activity, he decided to deepen his game skills. More than skills, he even had talent. He had created a club at school to convert classmates and afterwards at the base, he participated in a few tables in an officers' circle where he had converted a small handful of colleagues who provided him with a very appreciable additional income to liven up his life and his comfort outside the base.
He saw himself practicing for hours on end, relentlessly but with the greatest diligence, two qualities he had. He saw himself facing and why not standing up against Tanth Decan-Ping, the man considered the best player in the world, which was not really questionable given his record. Tanth was the world champion, qualified as a genius of Mikado, a jewel in the discipline as there was one, and no more, by generation. He was a real star who went far beyond the circle of Mikado players. His exploits were even told on television news. In the last final of the world championship, he even managed to win three rounds without his opponent being able to play himself.
Facing Tanth, this was a fantasy. He was not a professional player and even if he was gifted, Moa could never have seen victory against the one who remained for him a true living god.
He always carried a photograph of his idol, cut from a specialized magazine, on the improbable assumption that he would meet him and might ask him to sign it. At the start of the war, when all was well, he had the opportunity to participate in the looting of a Mikado museum in a city further north. He had thus been able to recover exceptional pieces which he kept in a furniture repository which he was the only one, with his lessor, to know. At home, he still hooked a life-size poster that beautifully decorated the closet in his room.
Dreaming like that, he forgot himself and his body took it in hand.
The collective protests brought him back to a less poetic reality.
Rumbles in his lower abdomen indicated to him that his transit was disrupted by pockets of gas and he had let go of this practice condemned for ships by the laws of protection of the marine environment. Briefly he was asked to get out of the room, not by his real name but his sobriquet, the olfactory infection. He could have feigned ignorance but the air circulation in the briefing room was weak and going back to the source was very easy.
A little sheepish, Moa apologized, got up and since he was useless, he headed for the exit. He was greeted and even thanked for the initiative even if a spoilsport pointed out that he should have taken the lead to leave the room.
Nevertheless, he would be free to concentrate in the corridor.
It was not normal for him to suffer from stomach ache. Moa was someone who had an irreproachable hygiene and who did not take many risks in his life, especially not with his diet.
He was always very careful with his food, a lifestyle that all top athletes should have, taking care its menus included all the major food groups, in optimal proportions. Thus, it was rich certainly, but healthy, balanced and without excess. Nothing in what he had eaten in recent days could explain the appearance of gastroenteritis. Still thinking, no one was sick around him. He once again blamed fate, even if the militaries often related to it; this was not the assumption that convinced him the best.
From time to time he encountered military personnel passing through the corridor and Moa did everything he could to hold back. His attention was obsessed with his good behavior. His concentration in his task was now disturbed and thus, he risked rendering a rather pitiful performance today. This was especially the case if his job was disturbed by his belly.
It couldn't last; he had to be treated and he decided to go to the infirmary. He still had some time ahead of him.
Normally, to get an appointment at the infirmary, it was quite complicated.
A simple consultation with a real doctor outside of the jousts was difficult to obtain and it was better to go to a civilian doctor when ill. During job time, it was a bit difficult to do so but Moa couldn't wait until the evening. The emergency of his situation made him go in search of medicine to the infirmary. If luck was on his side, the doctors had also left the briefing room after their reports, the strategy was of no concern for them, and one of them might even be there if he did not stop to flirt with the feminine personal. In a case similar to Moa, it was usually possible to be dealt with immediately, provided that the doctors were there. The doctors traditionally left the briefing after having reported on their exercise.
By the time he arrived on site, there were no doctors; they were having their coffee, according to the assistant whose eyes indicated that they were really flirting.
The assistant led Moa to a treatment room, telling him that someone was going to come and take care of him. Two minutes later, his room was opened and he saw a woman come in. He recognized her immediately; it was Cunnie, the beautiful Cunnie, the one he had fallen in love with a few years earlier.
SUY NGHĨ CỦA NGƯỜI SÁNG TẠO 
ludo2776
ludo2776 ... to be continued in the next chapter
I don’t really know if the Coué method is something known outside from France, so this note... Coué method for ‘méthode Coué’ is a method of healing and personal development based on self-suggestion, for example, even if it’s freezing outside, as long as I persuade myself that I am not cold, I won’t shiver. This method is from Emile Coué de la Châtaigneraie, a French psychologist and pharmacist of the beginning of 20th century, I think Wikipedia can provide further explanations.
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