World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Eastern Front, newly occupied territory, a village in eastern Poland.

Koji Matsumoto sat on the threshold of the half-collapsed farmhouse, holding a letter he had just received. The letter had been sent from Japan, transited through Kiel, and had taken more than a month to arrive.

The envelope was crumpled, but the handwriting on it was still clear—it was written by her younger sister, Miho.

Matsumoto carefully opened the envelope and took out the letter. It was long, four pages long. Miho, in her delicate handwriting, recounted in detail what had happened at home over the past few months:

My father's rheumatism has flared up again, but he can still work in the fields.

My mother found a temporary job at a textile factory in town. Although it was hard work, it helped supplement the family income.

The neighbor's son was killed in action, and his family received a pension, but his parents cried so much they almost went blind.

A monument to the fallen soldiers of the European Expeditionary Force has been erected in the town, inscribed with the names of local soldiers who died in the war. The mayor said that an even larger monument will be built after the war ends.

In the last paragraph of the letter, Miho wrote:

"Brother, I saw the news of the great victory on the Eastern Front in the newspaper. The newspaper said that the Imperial Army is a force to be reckoned with in Europe, and the Russians were routed. The young people in town all admire you and say you are a hero. But brother, please be careful. The title of hero is not important; what matters is coming back alive. Mother goes to the shrine to pray for you every morning and evening, and so do I. Please stay safe."

Matsumoto read this passage three times.

hero.

It was a force to be reckoned with in Europe.

Come back alive.

These words swirled in his mind, like ripples created by a stone thrown into a pond, spreading outwards before colliding and shattering into countless contradictory fragments.

"Instructor Matsumoto!"

A voice interrupted his thoughts. Matsumoto looked up and saw Major Yoshida standing not far away, also holding a document in his hand.

"Major." Matsumoto stood up and saluted.

Yoshida waved his hand and walked over to sit down beside him. The major looked much older than he had a month ago; gray hairs had appeared at his temples, and the wrinkles around his eyes were deeper.

"A letter arrived from home?" Yoshida asked, looking at the letter in his hand.

"Yes, it was written by my sister," Matsumoto said.

"What good news did you say?"

Matsumoto hesitated for a moment: "They said the country was celebrating the victory on the Eastern Front, and that we were heroes."

Yoshida smiled, a smile tinged with bitterness: "Heroes...yes, we are all heroes."

He took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered one to Matsumoto, and lit one for himself. The two smoked silently, gazing at the village before them.

The Polish village was half empty. All the villagers who could escape had fled, leaving only the elderly, the weak, and the disabled. After the Japanese army moved in, they requisitioned the best houses as command posts and officers' quarters, while the soldiers lived in tents and makeshift barracks.

In the open space at the village entrance, a newly erected wooden sign reads "25th Regiment, 13th Division, Imperial Sakura Army." Next to the sign are dozens of newly dug graves—a small-scale firefight three days ago resulted in the deaths of several dozen more men from the regiment.

"I just received orders from division headquarters." Yoshida exhaled a puff of smoke. "Our division will be resting for two weeks, and then we'll be transferred to a new defense zone."

"A new defense zone? Where?"

"Further east," Yoshida pointed eastward, "after the Russians retreated to the Minsk line, they reorganized their defenses. The German command believes that they should continue the offensive while the Russians are still establishing themselves. Therefore, after our rest period, we will participate in the next phase of the offensive."

Matsumoto felt a chill run down his spine: "But our division... has already suffered over 30% casualties. Many companies are incomplete, and the new recruits haven't even finished their training..."

"I know," Yoshida interrupted him, "but an order is an order. Besides, the third batch of dispatched troops in the country has already begun mobilization. New reinforcements will be arriving soon."

The third batch.

Matsumoto recalled the first batch of dispatched troops' high spirits at the port, and the bewilderment and fear of the second batch as they boarded the ships. Now, the third batch was coming.

More people, more lives, will be filled into this bottomless pit.

"Major," Matsumoto suddenly asked, "Do you think...we really won?"

Yoshida glanced at him: "Why do you ask that?"

"I've read the battle reports," Matsumoto said. "We did advance 300 kilometers, and we did inflict over a million casualties on the Russians. But..." He gestured to the soldiers around him, "What about our losses? How many of the first wave of troops are left? What about the second? And when the third wave arrives, how long will they survive?"

Yoshida remained silent for a long time. The cigarette slowly burned between his fingers, and a long ash accumulated.

"Matsumoto," he finally said, "you're a smart man, that's why you ask these questions. But sometimes, being smart is a kind of pain."

He flicked away his cigarette ash: "The answer is simple—we didn't win, but we didn't lose either. We just...exist. Exist as commodities, exist as bargaining chips, exist as pieces on the German chessboard."

These words were blunt, even somewhat blasphemous. But Matsumoto knew it was the truth.

"Then why continue?" he asked. "Why send a third or fourth batch?"

"Because it's necessary," Yoshida said. "Germany needs manpower to wear down the Russians, the country needs foreign exchange to feed its citizens, the army needs battle achievements to maintain its position, and politicians need victories to win votes. As for us soldiers..."

He paused, his voice lowering: "All we need to do is obey orders and try to survive. That's our entire value."

A whistle sounded in the distance signaling assembly. Afternoon training was about to begin.

Yoshida stood up and dusted himself off. "Let's go. Let's teach those new recruits how to use their new weapons. At least, let's give them a little more chance to live before they die."

Matsumoto stood up, carefully folded his sister's letter, and put it back in his pocket.

The letter was pressed against my chest, still warm from my body.

That's the warmth of home, proof that you're alive.

It was also his last thought that kept him going.

On the training field, more than thirty new recruits stood in three rows. Their average age was less than twenty, and their faces still showed the immaturity of teenagers, but the light in their eyes was different—not the confusion and fear of the first and second batches, but a strange, instilled fanaticism.

Matsumoto stood in front of them, holding a newly arrived "prototype automatic short gun".

This is the latest "product" from the Lanfang Arsenal, based on the design concept of the Lanfang MP18 submachine gun, but with many simplifications to reduce costs. The gun is 80 cm long, weighs 4.2 kg, uses a 32-round magazine, has a rate of fire of 500 rounds per minute, and an effective range of 150 meters.

Extremely cheap, easy to produce, and can be mass-produced. (The production cost is cheap, but selling it to Japan isn't cheap; the editor won't hold back when it comes to Japan.)

Extremely deadly.

"Today I'll teach you how to use a new weapon." Matsumoto raised the gun. "A prototype automatic short-barreled gun, specifically designed for trench warfare. Its purpose is to provide overwhelming firepower at close range."

The recruits looked at the oddly shaped gun with curiosity. It wasn't as long as a rifle, nor as heavy as a machine gun, and it looked... rather unremarkable.

"Instructor," a tall, thin recruit raised his hand, "is this kind of gun...powerful?"

Matsumoto recalled the test data he had seen in the training briefing: at a distance of 50 meters, a target in a simulated trench was fired at for 10 seconds with a 70% hit rate. If it were a real person, no one in that trench would have survived.