World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"How are the new weapons?" Matsumoto changed the subject. "Those mortars."

"It worked." Muto nodded. "Without those mortars suppressing the machine guns, we wouldn't have been able to break through. But..."

"But what?"

"The quantity is too small," Muto said. "Our company was only allocated four cannons, and each man only carried six rounds of ammunition. Once we run out, we'll have to rely on rifles and bayonets."

That's the problem. Matsumoto thought. Lanfang provided new weapons, but in limited quantities, and ammunition supplies were also insufficient. The Germans were clearly controlling rations and didn't want the Japanese army to be too "independent."

"And those machine guns," Muto continued, "the improved versions are better, but they still jam. During today's attack, one machine gun jammed at a crucial moment, and the entire fire team was wiped out by the Russian machine guns."

He paused, then lowered his voice: "That machine gunner's name is Sato, he's eighteen years old. He was telling me yesterday that he wanted to go back to university and become a teacher after the war ended."

Matsumoto remained silent. It was the same story again, the same death, the same shattered dreams.

"Instructor," Muto suddenly asked, "what do you think... is the reason we're fighting here?"

Matsumoto has been asked this question many times, but he has never been able to give a satisfactory answer.

"For the country," he said, adding that this was the official line.

"For the country?" Muto smiled, a bitter smile. "My brother said in his letter that back home they're promoting us as 'European heroes,' 'the glory of the empire.' But here, all I see is mud, cold, death, and..."

He pointed to the corpses in the trenches: "And these people who will never return. Where is their 'glory'?"

Matsumoto could not answer.

“You know what, Instructor,” Muto continued, “I received a letter from home last month. It said that because I was fighting in Europe, my family received a ‘special allowance for military dependents,’ which is twenty yen a month. My father used this money to cure his lung disease that he had suffered for many years, and my sister can continue to go to school.”

He looked at his hands: "So I thought, maybe I didn't fight for any glory, but just for these twenty yen. To let my family survive and live a better life."

This stark honesty shocked Matsumoto. Muto spoke the truth that many dared not utter—for many soldiers, this war was a job where they risked their lives to provide for their families.

"Do you regret it?" Matsumoto asked.

Muto thought for a moment, then shook his head: "No regrets. If my death can make my family's life better, then it's worth it. It's just..."

He looked into the distance, where the Russian army's second line of defense lay, stronger and more dangerous.

"I just hope I can earn a little more before I die, so my family can live a little longer."

Just then, a messenger ran over: "Sergeant Muto! Regimental headquarters has ordered your squad to be reorganized into the 3rd Company and participate in the next wave of attack in one hour!"

"The next wave?" Muto frowned. "We just finished a battle, and more than half of us were killed or wounded. We need to rest!"

"This is an order!" the messenger said expressionlessly. "The Russian army is organizing a counterattack, and we must consolidate our positions. Depart promptly in one hour."

After the messenger left, Muto smiled wryly at Matsumoto and said, "Look, instructor, this is reality. No rest, no respite, until we're all out of commission."

He stood up and shouted to the four surviving soldiers, "Prepare your equipment! Check your ammunition! We'll continue the attack in one hour!"

The soldiers silently rose and began to prepare. No one complained, no one questioned, they simply carried out orders mechanically.

"Instructor," Muto said to Matsumoto one last time, "if I don't make it back, could you please pass on a message to my brother?"

"you say."

"Tell him I don't regret it. And... tell him to take good care of his parents and sister."

Matsumoto nodded: "I will."

Muto saluted and turned to walk toward his soldiers.

Matsumoto looked at his thin but upright back and recalled the worried look in the eyes of the naval officer at Nagasaki Port. The two brothers, one worried in the navy and the other risked his life in the army, both did it so that their family could survive.

This is the true face of war. There is no glory, no heroism, only the most primitive exchange for survival.

He left the front lines and returned to the rear. On the way, he encountered the German observer Schmidt.

"The combat data from just now has been recorded," Schmidt said. "The new artillery performed well, the mortars were very effective, but the machine guns still have room for improvement. I will explain in detail in the report."

"What about the casualty figures?" Matsumoto asked.

"Forty-one Japanese soldiers were killed, thirty-eight were seriously wounded, and sixty-seven were slightly wounded," Schmidt said, looking at his notebook. "The Russians suffered about sixty killed and fifteen captured. The exchange ratio is about 1:1.5, which is favorable to us, but the Japanese casualties are still too high."

He paused, then continued, "At this rate, the second batch of four divisions can only hold out for six months at most. Then we'll need a third, a fourth, and so on..."

"Until what?" Matsumoto asked.

Schmidt did not answer, but the answer was obvious—until the cherry blossom country ran out of young men to send, or Germany ran out of money to pay.

Back at the training camp, Matsumoto encountered Major Yoshida. The major was reading a telegram, his face grim.

"What's wrong, Major?"

"News from home." Yoshida handed him the telegram. "The mobilization order for the third batch of dispatched troops has been issued. Four more divisions, departing next March."

Matsumoto quickly glanced at the telegram. The content was concise and cold: In order to maintain the fighting force on the Eastern Front, the Cabinet decided to mobilize the third batch of dispatched troops, with a total strength of about 108,000 men, for a contract period of eighteen months, with the German side paying 8% more than the second batch.

"With such heavy casualties, why keep sending troops?" Matsumoto asked incredulously.

"Because they need money." Yoshida smiled wryly. "The telegram said that the foreign exchange earnings from the second batch of dispatched troops stabilized rice prices domestically for three months and lowered the unemployment rate by five percentage points. The government has tasted the benefits and can't stop now."

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag: "You know, Matsumoto, sometimes I wonder, what exactly are we soldiers? Are we warriors protecting the country, or... commodities for export?"

Matsumoto already has the answer to this question.

He learned the answer from Shinichi Muto.

They were both warriors and commodities. They traded their lives for foreign exchange and their blood for the nation's survival.

"There's one more thing," Yoshida said in a low voice, "Lanfang has put forward another 'improvement plan' for a new weapon. This time it's not a machine gun, not an artillery piece, but... a personal weapon."

"What kind?"

"Extremely inexpensive, easy to produce, and can be mass-produced," Yoshida said. "The design concept is 'to give every soldier lethal close-range firepower.' But we haven't seen the specific details yet; it's still in the concept stage."

Matsumoto frowned. Extremely cheap, easy to produce, mass-produced—these words combined were unsettling.

Are Germans interested?

“Very interested,” Yoshida said. “The trench warfare on the Eastern Front has reached a stalemate and needs a breakthrough. If there were a weapon that could give ordinary soldiers an absolute advantage inside the trenches… you know what that means.”

It means more brutal close-quarters killings, higher casualty rates, and war sliding further into complete inhumanity.

"Will we be asked to test this weapon?" Matsumoto asked.

"Very likely." Yoshida nodded. "Just like testing new machine guns or artillery. We use our soldiers to test the effectiveness of new weapons, collect data, then improve them, produce them again, and test them again."

He exhaled a smoke ring: "Until we find the most efficient and cheapest way to kill."

Matsumoto felt a chill. Not from the weather, but from this cold logic.

"Major, we..."

"We can only obey orders, Matsumoto," Yoshida interrupted him. "Like those new recruits, like Shinichi Muto, like you and me. In this war, we are all pawns, symbols moving on a larger chessboard."

He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. "Get ready for tonight's training. More recruits are going to the front lines tomorrow, and we need to train them as quickly as possible—at least, teach them how to use those new weapons so they can survive a few more days."

Yoshida left. Matsumoto stood alone on the training field, watching the smoke rising from the distant front lines.

It started snowing again. Snowflakes fluttered down, landing on the muddy ground, on the corpses in the trenches, and on the shoulders of the survivors.

This snow will cover everything—blood, corpses, pain, fear.

But it cannot cover up the truth: the war continues, the death continues, and what drives all of this is political calculation and monetary transactions from thousands of miles away.

Matsumoto took out the amulet that Yamada Miho had given him from his pocket and held it in his hand.

The amulet is light, but heavy.

Because inside lies a sixteen-year-old girl's longing for her father, an unfulfilled wish, and a tiny glimmer of human warmth in this cruel world.

He gripped it tightly.

Grip tightly when you can.