World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"What about the travel expenses?"

"Fifty dollars each," Chen Feng said. "That's enough for them to buy boat tickets to Shanghai, and they can have some extra money to start a small business."

Huang Mingda quickly calculated: "Twenty thousand people, if they all go back, that's one million. But in reality, it probably won't be that many."

"Even if it's a million, it's worth it," Chen Feng said. "Remember, we're not giving alms, we're investing. These people work, live, and pay taxes in Lanfang. In the future, their children will study, grow up, and contribute to the country here. This investment will have a very high return."

This is typical businessman thinking, but Huang Mingda has to admit that it's very effective. Combining morality and profit is the key to making good things last.

The registration process lasted all day. By 8 p.m., all 20,327 people had completed registration, medical examinations, and initial arrangements. Of these, 12,000 chose to go to Borneo, 6,000 stayed in Dubai, 2,000 wanted to go to Singapore, and the rest were still considering or wanted to return to China.

The makeshift canteen at the docks offered hot meals: rice, braised pork, stir-fried vegetables, and egg drop soup. For the laborers who had been eating moldy bread and salted fish for months, it was a feast.

Chen Feng also stayed for dinner. He took his plate and sat with the workers. At first, everyone was reserved, but seeing him eating with relish, they began to relax.

"Commander-in-Chief," a middle-aged laborer mustered his courage to ask, "can we...can we really settle down in Lanfang? Won't we be driven away again someday?"

Chen Feng put down his chopsticks and looked at him seriously: "What's your name?"

"My name is Li Fugui, and I'm from Hebei."

"Li Fugui, in the name of the Grand President of the Lanfang Republic, I assure you: as long as you abide by the law and earn your own living, Lanfang is your home. No one can drive you away, including me."

He looked around at the workers: "You may have heard that Lanfang is a Chinese country. But I want to tell you that Lanfang is not only a Chinese country, but also a modern country. Here, we don't care about your background or your place of origin, we only care about your efforts and contributions. As long as you are willing to contribute to this country, this country will protect you, respect you, and give you a future."

Applause broke out, starting sporadically and then growing louder and louder. Many people clapped and wept at the same time.

After dinner, Chen Feng returned to the Presidential Palace. Although exhausted, he asked Huang Mingda to stay behind.

"The resettlement work is just the beginning," Chen Feng said. "Next, we need to prepare for the second and third batches of evacuations. This time it was 20,000 people, and next time it could be 30,000 or even more."

"We don't have enough ships," Huang Mingda stated bluntly. "We've used all the merchant ships we can. If we need to carry out another large-scale evacuation, we'll either have to rent ships or build new ones."

"The safety of our compatriots is our top priority!"

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Muddy.

An endless expanse of mud.

Shinichi Muto trudged through the newly captured Russian positions, his boots kicking up sticky black mud with each lift. The bandage on his left hand was so dirty that its original color was unrecognizable, and rainwater mixed with unknown stains seeped from the edges.

"Hey! Muto! Come take a look at this!"

Yamaguchi, from the same squad, waved from a distance. Muto walked over and saw Yamaguchi crouching in front of a half-collapsed Russian machine gun emplacement. Inside the emplacement lay two corpses, one mangled beyond recognition by artillery fire, and the other appearing to be a young soldier with three neat bullet holes in his chest—the handiwork of a Type 11 light machine gun.

"Our machine guns fired that," Yamaguchi said, pointing to the bullet holes with a strange sense of pride. "All three shots hit."

Muto didn't respond. He stared at the young face—at most eighteen, with pale blond hair plastered to his forehead, eyes still open, and a final, frozen terror in his blue pupils. This face reminded Muto of the boys who had crowded the docks to watch the farewell at Nagasaki Port.

"Search them," Sergeant Sato, the squad leader, said hoarsely as he approached. "Check for maps or documents."

Yamaguchi crouched down and began searching the body's pockets. Muto turned around and looked at the newly captured position.

As far as the eye could see, there were only remnants of war.

The blown-out trenches resembled a gaping wound in the earth, twisted barbed wire was draped with tattered military uniforms, charred tree trunks stood forlornly, and in the distance were several abandoned Russian wagons, the horses lying in the mud, their bellies swollen like balloons.

Further away, the retreating Russian troops stretched out like a long, gray snake, slowly crawling along the muddy road. Occasionally, sporadic artillery fire would land among them, sending up plumes of black smoke, but the fleeing soldiers didn't even stop; they simply avoided the shell craters and continued their retreat.

"Three hundred kilometers." Sergeant Sato lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. "The higher-ups said the Russians retreated three hundred kilometers in one go. The whole of Poland, Lithuania, and that vast expanse of Belarus to the west are all ours."

Yamaguchi pulled a soaked notebook and a few blurry photos from the corpse's pocket and handed them to Sato: "Sergeant, that's all."

Sato casually flipped through the notebook—it was all in Russian, which he couldn't understand. He tossed it back to Yamaguchi: "Hand it over. The photos... burn them."

Yamaguchi paused for a moment, then asked, "Burned?"

"Do you want to keep it to look at?" Sato stared at him. "That's someone else's family."

Yamaguchi silently brought the photograph to the tip of his cigarette. The photograph quickly curled up, charred, and turned into a small clump of ash, falling into the mud.

"Muto," Sato turned to him, "how's your injury?"

Muto raised his left hand and flexed his fingers: "I can still move it. The medic said the bone isn't broken, just a muscle strain."

"That's good." Sato exhaled a puff of smoke. "We've been notified that our division will be taking a two-week break. I heard that preparations for a victory parade are already underway back home."

"Celebrating victory..." Yamaguchi stood up, kicking away clods of mud at his feet. "How many of us died?"

Sato did not answer. He looked at the makeshift cemetery that had been erected behind the position—dozens of newly dug pits, each with a wooden plaque in front of it, inscribed with the names and unit numbers of the fallen soldiers in calligraphy.

The Fifth Company suffered 41 dead, 38 seriously wounded, and 67 slightly wounded.

Muto remembered that number. The attack three days ago had nearly wiped out the entire company. The new recruits were all eighteen or nineteen-year-old kids, some of whom couldn't even hold a rifle steadily.

"Sergeant!" A messenger ran up, stomping through the mud. "Regimental orders: all squads, assemble at assembly point number three. Important notification!"

Assembly Area No. 3, originally a Russian artillery position, is now piled high with Japanese supply crates. More than two hundred soldiers stand sparsely, their uniforms covered in mud, and many with bloodstains still on their faces.

Colonel Tanaka, the regimental commander, stood on a makeshift platform made of ammunition boxes, holding a telegram in his hand, his face filled with barely suppressed excitement.