World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"This is your most important friend on the battlefield." Matsumoto patted the machine gun. "It can suppress enemy charges, cover your comrades' advance, and even save your life in critical moments. The prerequisite is—you have to know how to use it."

He disassembled the magazine to demonstrate its internal structure: "The biggest change in the improved model is here. The old model would overheat and jam after firing ninety rounds in succession, but the new model can fire up to one hundred and fifty rounds. And..."

He quickly changed the barrel—a simple latch design—pulling out the old barrel and inserting the new one, the whole process taking less than twenty seconds.

"The barrel can be quickly changed. The assistant gunner must carry at least two spare barrels."

The recruits diligently took notes. Most of these young men were eighteen or nineteen, even younger than Matsumoto had been when he first arrived in Europe. Their eyes lacked the confusion and fear of the first wave of troops; instead, they held a strange…expectation?

"Instructor," a tall, thin recruit raised his hand, "I've heard that this machine gun is very powerful, and it made the Russians unable to raise their heads in the Battle of Augustov."

Matsumoto paused for a moment. He wanted to say that in Augustov, Kawahara's machine gun jammed, Ono died, Oshima died, and the entire squad was almost wiped out.

But he didn't say that. What he did say was: "Yes, this machine gun is powerful. But even more powerful is the person using it. You must remember, weapons are just tools; people are the key to victory."

Training continued. Matsumoto taught them how to quickly load the ammunition hopper, how to choose a firing position, and how to disassemble and maintain the ammunition in an emergency. The recruits studied diligently, some even showing excitement.

During a break, Matsumoto sat on an ammunition box and smoked. A young soldier came over and handed him a rice ball—made with rice that had just arrived from the country.

"Instructor, you participated in the Battle of Augustov, is that true?"

Matsumoto nodded.

"So... have you ever killed a Russian?"

The question was straightforward. Matsumoto looked at the soldier and saw the reverence in his eyes for his "combat experience."

"I've killed them," he replied briefly.

"Amazing!" The soldier's eyes lit up. "I want to be like you, kill more enemies, and bring glory to the empire!"

Matsumoto didn't respond. He wanted to tell the young man that killing felt terrible, that seeing an enemy fall didn't bring glory, only... emptiness. But he knew it would be pointless.

"Instructor!" Major Yoshida, the training camp commander—the same officer Matsumoto had met at Nagasaki Port—came over. "How's the recruit training going?"

"You've mastered the basics, Major. But real combat is another matter."

Yoshida nodded, his expression serious: "There's no time for them to adjust slowly. Tomorrow, or at the latest the day after, they'll be on the front lines. The Russians have amassed at least three divisions across the Neman River, and an offensive could begin at any moment."

Matsumoto frowned: "So fast? They've only been training for less than two weeks."

"We're short-handed at the front," Yoshida said with a wry smile. "The 7th Division lost an entire battalion in yesterday's counterattack. We urgently need reinforcements."

He lowered his voice: "And... we've received orders from above to test the effectiveness of the new equipment."

"New equipment?"

"Besides machine guns, there are newly delivered artillery pieces, mortars, and even..." Yoshida paused, "...some 'special weapons.' The Germans are pressing us hard, and Lanfang also wants to get combat data as soon as possible."

Matsumoto understood. These recruits were not only soldiers, but also test subjects.

"Oh, right," Yoshida remembered something, "Do you know a soldier named Shinichi Muto? The 25th Infantry Regiment of the 13th Division."

Matsumoto, remembering the naval officer's request in Nagasaki Harbor, nodded: "I know him. What's wrong?"

"His unit is going to launch a probing attack tomorrow to test the effectiveness of the new artillery," Yoshida said. "If you have time, you can go check it out. You might run into him."

"I will go."

After Yoshida left, Matsumoto continued smoking. The sky was leaden gray, and the low-hanging clouds seemed to press down on the ground. In the distance, faint sounds of artillery fire could be heard, not fierce exchanges of fire, but tentative firing, like the breathing of a giant beast in its sleep.

A young medic walked by, carrying a medical kit and wearing a heavy expression that belied his age. Matsumoto recognized him as Kobayashi, the medical officer of the training camp, who was only nineteen years old.

"Kobayashi-kun," Matsumoto called out to him, "Do you have enough medicine?"

Xiaolin shook his head: "The painkillers are almost gone, and we don't have enough disinfectant alcohol either. Yesterday, five seriously wounded soldiers were brought in, and all I could do was clean their wounds with saline solution, and then...and watch them slowly die."

His voice trembled: "One of them was only seventeen, younger than me. He kept calling for his mother before he died. I held his hand, but there was nothing I could do."

Matsumoto patted him on the shoulder: "This isn't your fault."

"I know," Kobayashi wiped his eyes, "but I can't take it anymore, Instructor. Back home, they said we were here to help our German allies, to show the glory of the Reich soldiers. But here... here there's only mud, cold, and death. Where's the glory?"

Matsumoto couldn't answer that question.

He remembered the amulet Miho Yamada had given him, which he still carried in his pocket. He had found out Sergeant Yamada's unit number, but that unit had been almost completely wiped out during the summer offensive; the survivors had been reassigned to other units. No one knew whether Sergeant Yamada was dead or alive, or where his body was.

Perhaps it will never be found.

"Get ready," Matsumoto said finally. "Tomorrow, even more people will need your help."

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked towards his tent. The tent was damp and cold; the bed was just a wooden plank with a thin blanket. He took out his notebook from his backpack and began writing today's training log—this was also required by Lanfang's side, to record in detail the use and problems of the new weapons.

"November 12, 1915, Neman River Front. Training with the improved Type 11 light machine gun: New recruits mastered the weapon quickly, with an average barrel change time of 22 seconds, meeting the requirements. However, during live-fire exercises, it was discovered that the new magazine still experienced jamming, occurring approximately once every two hundred rounds..."

He paused, pen in hand. Singing drifted from outside the tent; it was the new recruits singing a military song. Their young voices floated in the cold air; the lyrics were about cherry blossoms, samurai, and glory.

Matsumoto closed his eyes.

He missed the winters in Hokkaido. The snow there was clean, the air was fresh, and there was a warm fireplace and hot soup made by his mother at home.

Not here, this land soaked in blood, forever muddy.

The shelling began the next morning.

Matsumoto stood in the observation post of the second line of defense, watching the scene ahead through the periscope. Today's test attack was small-scale—a reinforced company of about 250 men, with the objective of capturing a Russian outpost on the opposite bank of the river.

But the supporting firepower is very strong.