World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The wind swept across the Masurian Lake District of East Prussia like a knife.

Major Jiro Nakamura buried his face in his rough wool scarf, leaving only his eyes visible, but his eyelashes were still covered in frost. With each breath he exhaled, white ice crystals formed at the edge of the scarf, which were then blown away by the wind and blended into the boundless snowfield.

"Major, the thermometer shows minus twenty-three degrees Celsius."

The speaker was Lieutenant Kobayashi Ichi, whose voice sounded muffled through his scarf, trembling uncontrollably. This twenty-four-year-old was in the warmth of his home in Kyushu just three months ago, but now he stood in the icy wilderness, ten thousand kilometers from his hometown.

"Understood," Nakamura replied briefly, raising his binoculars to look ahead.

A frozen lake stretched out before me, resembling a giant, shattered mirror against the grey sky. Further on, the outline of a dark forest stretched out, the spruce and pine trees bowing under the weight of snow like a group of silent giants.

This is the Masurian Lakes region. Nakamura had looked at a map before setting off—or rather, a map provided by the Germans. The map outlined dozens of lakes of varying sizes with blue lines. In summer, this area was swampy and wetland, difficult to traverse. But now, the bitter cold had transformed them into flat paths, and also into deadly traps.

"How's the situation with the troops?" Nakamura put down his binoculars and turned to ask.

"The Third Battalion is fully assembled, with seventeen non-combat casualties." Kobayashi opened his notebook and read in the dim light of dawn, "Nine suffered frostbite, five had severe diarrhea, and three were found after getting separated from the group. But..."

"But what?"

"But morale... isn't very high." Kobayashi lowered his voice. "The soldiers don't understand why we're here, Major. They say this is a war between the Germans and the Russians, why should we fight for the Germans?"

Nakamura remained silent for a few seconds. He couldn't answer the question, or rather, he couldn't give the real answer.

Because of money. Because of foreign exchange. Because those politicians in Tokyo need German marks to buy food, to pay reparations, and to keep the country running.

But these words cannot be said to the soldiers.

"Tell them this is an order from the Empire," Nakamura finally said, his tone as calm as if he were stating the weather. "We are soldiers; obeying orders is our duty."

"Yes." Kobayashi lowered his head, but Nakamura could see the confusion that flashed in his eyes.

The crunching of boots on the snow echoed in the distance. A tall figure walked from the front of the column, his steps steady, a stark contrast to the Japanese soldiers around him who were hunched over and stamping their feet.

He was Captain Hans von Streich, the German liaison officer.

"Major Nakamura," Hans said in broken Japanese, which he had crammed for the past two months and which had a heavy German accent, "we need to speed things up. According to the plan, we must cross the Third Lake District and reach our designated position before four in the morning."

Nakamura glanced at his pocket watch—11:23 p.m.

"Less than five hours, twelve kilometers away," Hans added, his blue eyes gleaming behind his goggles. "If we can't arrive on time, the entire flanking maneuver will be affected."

"I understand." Nakamura nodded, then turned to Kobayashi. "Pass down the order: rest time is over, continue marching. Tell the soldiers to hold on; this is a crucial stage."

Kobayashi saluted and turned to leave. Soon, the order spread through the ranks, accompanied by low grumbles and the sound of boots sinking back into the snow.

Hans didn't leave. He stood next to Nakamura, took out a flat metal flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, took a sip, and then handed it to Nakamura.

"Vodka, a good thing from the Russians," Hans grinned. "Found it among the spoils of war. A sip will warm you up."

Nakamura hesitated for a moment, then took the flask and sipped. The strong liquor burned like fire from his throat to his stomach, bringing a brief warmth.

"Thank you." He handed the wine jug back.

Hans put away his flask and his gaze fell on the pistol at Nakamura's waist—a Type 14 Nambu pistol, standard issue for the Japanese Army. But Hans's gaze quickly shifted to the Japanese soldiers carrying strange weapons further away.

"Those machine guns," Hans gestured with his chin, "your new equipment. They look... quite special."

"It was provided by Lanfang," Nakamura replied simply. "'Type 11 light machine gun,' that's what they call it."

In fact, the soldiers privately nicknamed this weapon "Crooked Handle" because its hopper was located on the left side of the gun, making loading an awkward posture, like tilting one's neck. But Nakamura didn't tell Hans about this nickname.

"Lanfang..." Hans repeated the word, his tone complex, "a strange country. They defeated you in Asia, and now they're selling you weapons and sending you to Europe to help us fight."

Nakamura remained silent. He knew Hans was probing, trying to learn more about the complex relationship between Lanfang and the Sakura Kingdom. But he couldn't speak—the contract contained confidentiality clauses, and besides, it concerned the dignity of the empire.

"That's how war is," Nakamura finally said, avoiding the main point, "There are no permanent enemies, only permanent interests."

Hans nodded, seemingly accepting the explanation. He patted Nakamura on the shoulder—a gesture that seemed a bit too casual for a Japanese officer, but Nakamura didn't flinch.

"Regardless, it's good that you've come," Hans said earnestly. "The Eastern Front needs soldiers, lots and lots of soldiers. The Russians come like a tide, one wave after another. We've heard about your bravery."

"Have you heard about it?" Nakamura raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, your performance in the Russo-Japanese War."

Hanston paused. "Shall we move on? Time is of the essence."

"go ahead."

Nakamura gave the order, and the troops began to move again. The 600-man contingent formed a long column on the snow-covered plain, each man struggling with his exhaustion, cold, and fear.

Marching is monotonous, but monotony gives room for thoughts to wander.

Nakamura walked in the middle of the group, his boots sinking deep into the snow, each step requiring extra effort. His thoughts drifted back two months, back to Nagasaki Port.

It was snowing that day too, but it was the wet, sticky kind of snow that's common in Japan. The dock was packed with people—soldiers, officers, and families allowed to see them off. Cries, shouts, and bugle calls mingled together, creating a heartbreaking symphony.

Nakamura remembers standing by the gangway of the transport ship "Taishan," watching the soldiers board. Most of them were young, around twenty years old, their faces filled with confusion and unease. Some looked back at their loved ones on the shore, tears streaming down their faces, which quickly turned cold in the chill.

"Captain."

A voice pulled Nakamura back to reality. He turned his head and saw Private Koji Matsumoto—no, he should be Private First Class now, having been promoted for his "good" performance on the transport ship.