World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Nakamura nodded. This was part of the contract—to prevent a mutiny by Japanese soldiers at sea and to avoid trouble under international law. They were no longer the Imperial Japanese Army, but the "Far East Volunteer Corps," theoretically a private military contractor.

Is it ironic? It is very ironic. But it's still better than starving to death in China.

The sound of a car engine could be heard in the distance. A black sedan drove into the dock and stopped in front of the makeshift viewing platform. The door opened, and Army Minister Kenichi Oshima stepped out, followed by several high-ranking military officers.

The reviewing stand was simple, just a platform made of a few wooden planks covered with a faded red carpet. Kenichi Oshima walked heavily onto the platform. Looking down at the 100,000 soldiers, he took a deep breath and picked up the megaphone.

"Soldiers of the Empire!"

The sound amplified through loudspeakers, echoing over the harbor. The soldiers stood at attention, their eyes fixed on the platform.

"Today, you are about to embark on a journey to faraway Europe to carry out a... special mission." Oshima's voice was somewhat hoarse. He paused, as if searching for the right words. "I know you have questions, anxieties, and even anger in your hearts. But please believe me, your sacrifice is for the survival of the Empire."

He held up a document: "This is a joint order from the Cabinet and the Military. Every battle you fight in Europe, every penny of foreign exchange you earn, will be used to import food and save our starving people at home. Your families, your compatriots, will survive because of your sacrifice."

The audience remained silent. No one cheered, no one applauded. Only the sound of the sea breeze could be heard.

Oshima continued, "I know this mission is difficult and dangerous. The European battlefield is hell, a meat grinder. But you are the Japanese Army, the warriors who defeated the Russian army in the Russo-Japanese War! You possess unwavering will, superb tactics, and an indomitable spirit!"

He raised his voice: "In Europe, you will earn respect through battle and wash away shame with blood! You will prove to the world that the soldiers of Japan are still the best soldiers in the world! Even... even in this way."

The last sentence was spoken very softly, but it still carried through the loudspeaker. Several officers in the audience lowered their heads.

Oshima put down the megaphone, remained silent for a few seconds, and then bowed deeply: "I entrust this to you, everyone. The fate of the empire is in your hands."

He held the bow for a full ten seconds.

One hundred thousand soldiers watched silently. Then, someone did it first, followed by a second, a third… the soldiers began to bow in return. There was no sound, only movement, like a field of yellow wheat undulating in the wind.

Jiro Nakamura also bowed. As he straightened up, he saw a young soldier in the front row wiping away tears. The boy looked to be under twenty, with a childlike face.

"Captain," the adjutant whispered, "that's my younger brother. He just enlisted this year and was supposed to be discharged..."

Nakamura patted his adjutant on the shoulder without saying a word. What could he say? That he would return safely? That would be a lie. He knew about the European theater: machine guns, heavy artillery, poison gas, trench warfare… the mortality rate exceeded thirty percent.

"Boarding!"

The order was given. The column began to move, the soldiers marching in formation toward the gangway. The footsteps were uniform, but heavy, like a funeral procession.

Nakamura led his squadron toward the designated transport ship, the "Taishan." It was Lanfang's ship, brand new with a wide gangway. As he boarded, he saw the Lanfang sailors on board scrutinizing them with complex expressions—curiosity, sympathy, and a hint of condescension.

A Lanfang officer stood at the gangway and said in broken Japanese, "Please board in order. Place your personal belongings in the designated area, and hand over your weapons to cabin number three. Dinner will begin at six o'clock in the dining room."

Nakamura nodded and walked up the gangway. The steel deck beneath his feet was stable and new. He glanced back at Nagasaki Harbor. On the dock, some soldiers' families were allowed to see them off; they crowded outside the security line, waving and crying.

He saw an old woman holding a sign that read, "My son, Takeda Ichiro, please return safely." The sign swayed in the wind like a withered leaf.

Nakamura turned his head away and stopped looking. He went into the cabin, where the conditions were better than he had imagined—it wasn't a dormitory-style dormitory, but four-tiered bunk beds, each with a curtain and storage cabinets. Although crowded, it was clean, had lights, and a ventilation system.

"The conditions are better than in our barracks," an old soldier muttered.

"Shut up," Nakamura said. "Tidy up your room. I'll check it in half an hour."

The soldiers began packing their belongings. Nakamura walked to the porthole and looked outside. The fog was gradually dissipating, and the sunlight shone on the sea, making it sparkle. In the distance, several Lanfang Navy destroyers were patrolling, escorting the convoy.

He knew that the commander of this fleet was Zhang Zhen—the general who had annihilated the combined fleet of the Japanese Empire in the East China Sea. Now, this general was escorting ten Japanese soldiers to Europe to their deaths.

History can be so ironic that it's not funny at all.

At the same time, fifty nautical miles away, on the bridge of the Yangtze battleship.

Zhang Zhen stood before the nautical chart table, looking at the route marked on it. From Nagasaki to the Persian Gulf, the entire journey was 12,000 nautical miles, with an estimated sailing time of 40 days. Along the way, they would pass through the Taiwan Strait, the Strait of Malacca, the Indian Ocean, and the Arabian Sea, finally entering the Persian Gulf.

This was a treacherous route. Although most of the seas were under Lanfang's control, Britain had a fleet in the Indian Ocean, the Ottomans had submarines in the Red Sea, and there were also pirates and storms.

"The escort fleet is in position," reported Deputy Captain Chen Qiming. "The four transport ships, Taishan, Huashan, Hengshan, and Songshan, form the core, surrounded by two Omaha-class cruisers and four destroyers. Our Yangtze River is 20 nautical miles ahead of the fleet, and the Yellow River is 20 nautical miles behind, providing long-range cover."

Zhang Zhen nodded: "What about the submarine?"

"U-19 formation, reconnaissance 100 nautical miles ahead; U-22 formation, on the left flank; U-25 formation, on the right flank. Report any suspicious targets immediately."

"Very good." Zhang Zhen walked to the observation window and looked at the huge fleet of ships on the distant sea. More than a dozen ships were lined up in a neat formation, black smoke billowing from their smokestacks, leaving long trails on the sea.

"One hundred thousand Japanese soldiers..." Chen Qiming said softly, "Sir, how many of them do you think will come back alive?"

Zhang Zhen paused for a few seconds: "This is not something we should be concerned with. Our mission is to safely deliver them to the Persian Gulf and hand them over to the Germans. What happens after that is none of our business."

"But……"

"No buts." Zhang Zhen turned to Chen Qiming. "Old Chen, I know what you're thinking. You think we're like human traffickers, sending these people to their deaths in Europe. But you have to understand, it was their own choice. The Japanese government needs foreign exchange, Germany needs troops, and these soldiers need jobs. We're just middlemen, providing transportation services and earning reasonable compensation."