World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

He recalled something his secretary had reported during the day: an elderly man named Matsuo, in an izakaya in Kanda Ward, said that his son had died and he had received 300 yen.

This must be Kenichi Matsuo.

Saionji picked up a pen and wrote a line on a sticky note: "Inquire about the family situation of Kenichi Matsuo. If there are difficulties, grant additional subsidies."

Then he hesitated for a moment and crossed out the line.

We can't set this precedent. If we give special treatment to one family, other families will also make demands. And the country doesn't have that much money.

He tore off the note and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

A clock struck midnight outside the window.

Saionji continued working. He needed to review all the documents and make all the decisions before the cabinet meeting the following morning.

To decide who will die and who will live.

It determines how this country will continue to exist.

The fog was thick in Nagasaki Port in the early morning.

Koji Matsumoto stood on the pier, gazing at the familiar yet unfamiliar scene before him. Two months ago, he had boarded a ship bound for Europe here. Now he was back, but of the thirteen men in his squad, only he had returned.

His left arm was in a sling—a shrapnel wound sustained during the defensive battles of the final phase of the Battle of Augusto. The injury was not serious, but enough to classify him as a "lightly wounded" soldier and allow him to return home to recuperate on the first rotation of ships.

In fact, he knew another reason why his superiors wanted him to return: as a "combat hero," he was to go back to China to spread propaganda.

In the past week, he gave three interviews, attended two medal ceremonies (receiving a Golden Kite Medal and a German Iron Cross), and was also given a lecture at the Army Academy on "the heroic battles of the Reich soldiers in Europe".

He told the story, but concealed most of the truth. He didn't talk about Kawahara's machine gun jamming, Ono's expression when he was shot in the chest, Oshima's gruesome death by a bayonet, or Sergeant Yamada's last words as he was pinned under the rafters: "Tell my daughter, Daddy is not coming back."

He only talked about the victory, the bravery of the Japanese army, and the praise from the Germans.

And now, he stands in Nagasaki Port again. This time it's not a departure, but... a farewell?

No, it wasn't a farewell. It was a testament.

Witness the second batch of four divisions, 100,000 soldiers, boarding ships to Europe.

The docks were packed with people: soldiers, officers, family members, reporters, officials, and curious citizens. The atmosphere was completely different from two months ago. Back then, it was oppressive, sad, and confusing. Now... it was a strange kind of excitement.

The military band was playing the Army March, its rhythm lively. Reporters crowded in front of the police cordon, their camera shutters clicking incessantly. Officers, in crisp uniforms, their chests adorned with medals, smiled at the cameras.

Matsumoto spotted a familiar face—Major Yoshida, the young officer he'd met during a presentation at the Army Academy. Yoshida was being interviewed by a reporter from the Mainichi Shimbun.

"...Yes, it is an honor for me to lead the troops to Europe. The heroic fighting of the first expeditionary force has set an example for us, and we will carry on their spirit to bring even greater glory to the Empire!"

The reporter asked, "Aren't you afraid? I heard the fighting there is very brutal."

Yoshida straightened his back: "As soldiers of the Empire, we have long since disregarded life and death! Moreover, we have advanced equipment, the cooperation of our German allies, and the experience of our first comrades. We are confident of achieving even greater victories!"

Applause erupted from the crowd. Several soldiers' family members surrounded Yoshida, asking for his autograph.

Matsumoto turned his head away, not wanting to look anymore. He walked slowly along the edge of the pier, away from the bustling center.

In a relatively quiet berth, he saw the troops boarding the ship. The soldiers lined up and walked up the gangway, their expressions varying: some excited, some nervous, and some numb.

A young soldier—who looked no more than eighteen—stopped at the gangway and looked back at the shore. His mother and sister stood outside the cordon, waving and crying at him. The soldier hesitated, wanting to turn back, but was pushed by the soldiers behind him and had to continue up.

"Hey, you."

A voice called out to Matsumoto. He turned around and saw a man in his thirties wearing a naval officer's uniform with a stern face.

"You're Private First Class Koji Matsumoto? The hero of the Battle of Augustov?"

"I am Koji Matsumoto," Matsumoto replied, but did not acknowledge the title of "hero."

The naval officer looked at his sling-up arm: "Injured? Is it serious?"

"Minor injury, almost healed."

"That's good." The officer nodded, then lowered his voice, "Listen, my brother is in the second batch, the 13th Division. His name is Shinichi Muto. If... if you ever have the chance to go back to Europe and meet him, tell him..."

The officer paused, seemingly organizing his thoughts:

"Tell him not to be a hero, not to follow those 'Hail to Heaven' charges. Coming back alive is more important than anything else."

Matsumoto looked into the officer's eyes and saw deep worry. This naval officer was completely different from those army officers who gave impassioned speeches on the docks.

"I'll remember," Matsumoto said. "If I see him, I'll tell him."

The officer nodded and took a letter out of his pocket: "If you happen to meet him, give this to him. If... if you don't, then forget it."

Matsumoto took the letter and put it in his pocket.

The officer saluted, turned and left, disappearing into the crowd.

Matsumoto continued walking. He came to an area where supplies were stored and saw workers hoisting crates of goods onto the ship. The crates were marked with various symbols: some in German, some in Japanese, and some in Chinese characters from Lanfang.

A box tilted during hoisting and almost fell. The workers below shouted, and the crane operator quickly adjusted it.

The box landed smoothly, but a crack appeared on its side. Matsumoto saw what was inside—a machine gun magazine, made by Lanfang, exactly the same as the one Kawahara used.

"Hey! You wounded guy over there! Come help me!"

A foreman-like man called out to Matsumoto. Matsumoto walked over.

"Help me straighten this box and re-tie it." The foreman handed him a bundle of rope.

Matsumoto helped with his uninjured right hand. While binding it, he noticed the markings on the box: "Type 2 Light Machine Gun Improved Model (Enhanced Heat Dissipation), manufactured by Lanfang Arsenal, February 1915."

An improved version. The improved version of the weapon that the Lanfang people were talking about has already been produced.

"Is this thing any good?" the foreman asked casually, while pulling the rope taut.

Matsumoto recalled Kawahara's face, Kawahara's curses when the machine gun jammed, and Kawahara's use of snow to cool his scalded hands when the machine gun overheated and started smoking.

"It's a little better than the old model," he finally said, "but it still jams and overheats."

The foreman laughed: "Anyway, it's not for us to use, so who cares? Just make sure it's tied tightly."

The crates were hoisted back up and steadily lifted onto the ship. Matsumoto looked up at them, wondering which machine gunner would receive these ammunition bins, and whether that machine gunner, like Kawahara, would encounter a jam at a crucial moment and die from enemy fire.