World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Matsumoto-kun?"

A familiar voice came from behind him. Matsumoto turned around and froze.

Standing before him was Sergeant Yamada's daughter, Miho Yamada. She was sixteen years old, dressed in a simple school uniform, and carrying a small package.

"Miss Miho? What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see my friend off," Miho said softly, her eyes red, clearly having cried. "Her brother is in the second batch; he's leaving today."

Matsumoto didn't know what to say. He remembered Sergeant Yamada's last words: "Tell my daughter that her father is not coming back." But he hadn't told Miho yet. He wasn't ready.

"My father..." Miho brought it up herself, "Any news? His last letter was a month ago, saying he was near Augustov and everything was fine."

Matsumoto's heart clenched. Yamada's death notice should have been sent home by now, but Miho probably hadn't received it yet, possibly due to a change of address or a mailing delay.

Or perhaps she received it, but refused to believe it.

"Your father..." Matsumoto began with difficulty, "He was an excellent soldier. Very brave."

"I know." Miho smiled, but tears streamed down her face again. "He always said that after the war ended, he would retire, open a small shop, and our family would live a good life."

She looked at the soldiers boarding the ship on the dock:

"Matsumoto-kun, when do you think... the war will end?"

Matsumoto couldn't answer that question. He could only shake his head.

Miho wiped away her tears and took out a small amulet from her package: "Could I ask you for a favor?"

"Please speak."

"If you go back to Europe, could you bring this to my father?" Miho asked. "I got this from the shrine yesterday for his safety."

Matsumoto took the amulet. It was a small cloth bag embroidered with the words "May your martial fortune last forever." It was almost identical to the one he had found on Ono's corpse.

"Okay," he said. "If I go back, I will definitely bring it to him."

But he knew he wouldn't be going back. His injury wasn't serious, but the medic said it might affect the flexibility of his arm, making him unsuitable for frontline combat. He might be transferred to the rear or retired.

But Miho's father will never come back.

A long, resonant ship's horn sounded in the distance. The first transport ship began to depart from the port.

The crowd erupted in cheers, cries, and shouts. The military band played even louder.

Matsumoto and Miho stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the ship slowly leave the dock and head towards the fog-shrouded sea.

On board were 100,000 young men, 100,000 Kenichi Matsuo, 100,000 Sergeant Yamada, and 100,000 Oshima. They carried the expectations of their families, the fantasies of glory, and the fear of death as they sailed towards a battlefield thousands of miles away.

There, machine guns wait, artillery waits, bayonets wait, and death waits.

"Matsumoto-kun," Miho suddenly asked, "What's Europe like...?"

Matsumoto thought of the snow in the Masurian Lake District, the trees in the Augustov Forest, the blood in the ruins of farmhouses, the frozen corpses, and Oshima's smile before he died.

"It's cold," he finally said. "Very cold."

Miho nodded, seemingly understanding but not quite.

Another ship began to leave port. Then came the third, and the fourth.

The fog gradually dissipated, and sunlight pierced through the clouds, shining on the sparkling sea surface of Nagasaki Harbor.

But Matsumoto felt that the sunlight had no warmth.

Just like the current fervor in this country, it has no foundation.

Like the hope in the eyes of those soldiers boarding the ship, there was no future.

Everything is burning, everything is slipping away. And what drives all of this is money, foreign exchange, and the desperate need to survive.

Matsumoto gripped the amulet tightly in his hand.

He decided to go to the Ministry of the Army tomorrow to apply for a transfer back to the European theater.

It wasn't because of glory, nor because of patriotism.

It was simply because he had promised Sergeant Yamada that he would take care of his daughter.

The best way to take care of her is to tell her the truth—even if that truth will shatter all her illusions.

But before that, he had to go to Europe to find Miho's father, or at least, to find the place where he died.

Then bring back that amulet, bring back that promise that can never be fulfilled.

The whistle continued to sound, one after another, like the weeping of this nation.

The fleet had already disappeared from sight, sailing towards distant, bloody Europe.

Potsdam firing range, early morning, April 7, 1915.

A thin mist shrouded the forests of Brandenburg, the air thick with the scents of earth, pine needles, and a faint smell of gunpowder. The test range was situated in an open valley, surrounded by low hills, which naturally formed an excellent acoustic barrier.

Chen Feng stood on the observation platform, dressed in a dark gray custom-made suit with a black wool overcoat. The April morning in Berlin was still chilly, and his breath condensed into white mist in the air. Wang Wenwu stood beside him, holding a leather folder containing the artillery's technical specifications and a draft contract.

"They're here," Wang Wenwu said in a low voice.

In the distance, a convoy entered the test firing range. Leading the way were three Mercedes-Benz sedans, followed by several military trucks and staff vehicles. The convoy stopped in front of the observation platform, and guards quickly dispersed to form a perimeter.

The door of the first car opened, and Emperor Wilhelm II stepped out.

Today, the German Emperor was dressed in the dress uniform of a Field Marshal, his dark blue uniform adorned with medals and ribbons, and the highest honor—the Black Eagle—on his chest. He leaned on an exquisite cane, but his steps were steady, showing no signs of the sluggishness expected of someone fifty-six years old. Following him were the Chief of the General Staff, Moltke the Younger, and several high-ranking generals and civilian officials.

Chen Feng stepped down from the observation platform and went to greet him.

"Your Majesty the Emperor," he greeted in fluent German, bowing slightly. Lanfang was not a monarchy; as the supreme leader, he only needed to perform diplomatic etiquette and did not need to be as obsequious as a subject.

"Commander-in-Chief Chen!" Wilhelm II's voice boomed, carrying the distinctive accent of a Prussian nobleman. "Welcome to Berlin! I hope the journey hasn't been too tiring for you."

"Thank you for your concern, Your Majesty. The journey was smooth," Chen Feng replied. "Lanfang Shipping's ships are very fast; it only took seventeen days to travel from Dubai to Hamburg."

"Fast, very good! I like things that are fast." Wilhelm II laughed, pointing with his cane to the distant firing positions. "Well then, let's see the treasure you brought. You say it can change the course of the war with our artillery?" (Is there anything wrong with saying that? It seems like men aren't fond of the word "fast.")

"I think so, Your Majesty."

The group walked toward the observation platform. A high-powered telescope, a map table, and several chairs were already prepared there. Attendants brought hot coffee and brandy, but Wilhelm II waved them away.

"Watch the performance first, then drink."

Chen Feng nodded to Wang Wenwu. Wang Wenwu stepped down from the observation platform and waved a signal flag toward the distant launch site.

Five hundred meters away, in an area covered by camouflage netting, Lanfang's artillery team began operations. The camouflage netting was removed, revealing the three cannons.

That was the leFH 18 105mm light field howitzer. The gun barrel was painted in the German Army's field gray, but its shape was different from any other artillery currently in service with the German Army—more compact, simpler, with a streamlined gun shield, and pneumatic rubber tires instead of traditional wooden wheels.

"The design is...modern," Moltke commented, raising his binoculars.

Wilhelm II also picked up the telescope: "105 mm aperture? The same as our S.FH 13. But it looks much lighter."