World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Shiba Goro looked out the window again. Ten kilometers away, in the direction of Hill 304, smoke filled the air. He could imagine what was happening there: his soldiers stepping over the bodies of their comrades, charging into the French machine gun barrage.

He recalled what Army Minister Kenichi Oshima had said to him privately before he left Tokyo: "Mr. Shiba, I know this mission is difficult. But please remember: every soldier who falls is trading for the future of the Reich. The Germans promised us not only money, but also postwar technology transfer, industrial cooperation, and even... support for us on Asian issues."

The price. Everything comes at a price.

At 11:20 a.m., a Mercedes-Benz military sedan, escorted by armored vehicles, drove into the rear command post of the 3rd Division. The door opened, and General Erich von Falkingham, First Quartermaster General of the German General Staff (de facto Chief of the General Staff), stepped out.

The architect of the Battle of Verdun was dressed in a crisp army general's dress uniform, his chest adorned with medals. But he had heavy eye bags and looked exhausted—for the past five months, Verdun had been a bottomless meat grinder, devouring his most elite troops and his sleep.

Shiba Goro led all the officers of the command headquarters to line up and greet them.

"General Falkenhayn, welcome to the front lines," Shiba Goro said in German, giving a standard German military salute.

Falkenhayn returned the salute, his gaze sweeping over his surroundings: the rudimentary command post, the muddy road, the faint sound of artillery fire in the distance, and the soldiers in German uniforms but with Asian faces—they looked curiously at the number two figure in the German High Command, but no one dared to step forward.

"General Chai," Fakingham began, his voice hoarse, "I have come on His Majesty's orders to comfort the soldiers at the front. His Majesty is deeply impressed by the bravery of your troops."

The two entered the command post. Falkinhan refused the tea and went straight to the map.

"What is the current situation of the battle?"

Shiba Goro pointed his baton at Hill 304: "My 3rd Division has broken through to this point, 800 meters from the main peak in a straight line. But the French reserves are reinforcing us, and the artillery fire is getting increasingly fierce. The 2nd Division is encountering fierce resistance in the direction of Dead Man's Mountain and is advancing slowly. Overall, the advance has reached an average depth of 3 kilometers, with the deepest point reaching 4.2 kilometers."

"casualties?"

"As of one hour ago, the total number of dead and seriously wounded in the eight divisions exceeded 10,000. Minor injuries were not counted."

Falkenhayn tapped his finger on the map: "Ten thousand men... for ten kilometers. General Chai, do you think it's worth it?"

This is a very direct, even somewhat cruel, question.

Shiba Goro was silent for a few seconds: "The general is asking me my opinion as a soldier, or as the leader of the Sakura National Advisory Group?"

"Listen to both."

"As soldiers: we accomplished our mission objectives, breached the French defenses, and created an opportunity for the main German forces. A mission is a mission; there's no question of whether it was worth it."

"And what about as the head of the Sakura National Academy?"

Shiba Goro took a deep breath: "A quarter of my 20,000 soldiers have already fallen. They died on foreign soil, 10,000 kilometers from their homes, wearing foreign uniforms, fighting for a foreign war. The general asked me if it was worth it... I don't know how to answer."

Silence fell over the command post. Major Krauser shifted uneasily.

Falkenhayn stared at Shiba Goro for a long time, then suddenly said, "I understand. I've seen too many sacrifices on the Eastern Front. But that's how war is: someone always has to pay the price, someone always has to make difficult choices."

He walked to the observation post, picked up his binoculars, and looked towards the front lines: "General Chai, do you know what the Battle of Verdun means for Germany?"

Please advise.

"If we fail here, the Western Front will be completely stalled. A stalemate means a war of attrition, and Germany... cannot outlast Britain and France. They have endless resources from their overseas colonies and the covert support of the United States. We only have mainland Europe, and we are blockaded."

Falkingham lowered his binoculars and turned around: "So Verdun must be won, no matter the cost. The sacrifices of your soldiers, the sacrifices of German soldiers, are all for the survival of this country. In that sense, their blood will not be shed in vain."

Shiba Goro didn't speak. He understood these grand principles, but the broken young bodies lying in the field hospital couldn't comprehend them.

"His Majesty entrusted me with a message for you," Falkenhahn said, taking an exquisite wooden box from his adjutant. He opened it to reveal a First Class Iron Cross: "'The German Empire will never forget true friends.' This is awarded to you personally, General Chai. As for the commendation of the troops, that will be done uniformly after the battle."

Shiba Goro accepted the medal. The metal was heavy, and a cool touch came from his fingertips.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

At 1 p.m., Falkinhan insisted on inspecting the front-line field hospital.

It was a clearing in the woods, dozens of tents pitched there. The air was thick with the stench of blood, disinfectant, and decay. There were too many wounded; many lay on stretchers in the open. Groans, screams, and the doctor's shouts mingled together.

Shiba Goro accompanied Fajnhan past rows of stretchers. They saw: a soldier whose entire leg had been blown off, blood still seeping from the bandaged limb; another soldier shot in the abdomen, his intestines spilling out, the medic trying to push them back in; and a younger one, his face wrapped in bandages, only his eyes showing, his gaze heartbreakingly empty.

All the wounded were wearing German uniforms, but their exposed black hair, yellow skin, and occasional groans in Japanese gave them away.

Falkenham stopped in front of a middle-aged wounded soldier. The man had lost an arm but was still conscious.

"Where are you from?" Falkenhayn asked in German.

The wounded soldier looked at him blankly. (Translated from Shiba Goro's words in Japanese)

"Hiroshima, sir," the wounded soldier replied in a weak voice.

Why did you join the army?

The wounded soldier was silent for a few seconds: "It's about the money, sir. I have five younger siblings to feed... They said they'd give me twenty pounds a month..."

Fakingham nodded, signaling his adjutant to write down the man's name and unit number.

They continued walking. In a relatively quiet corner, a medic was injecting morphine into a seriously wounded soldier. The soldier looked to be under twenty, with a bullet wound to the chest, and bloody foam oozing from the corner of his mouth with each breath.

"Is there any hope for him?" Shiba Goro asked.

The military doctor shook his head: "His lung has been punctured, and the bleeding can't be stopped. The morphine is just to make him more comfortable as he passes away."

The soldier's eyes suddenly snapped open. He saw the star on Shiba Goro's shoulder and struggled to salute. Shiba Goro pressed his hand down.

"Division Commander... Your Excellency..." the soldier said with all his might, "Did we... win?"

Shiba Goro squeezed his hand: "You won. You played very well."

The soldier smiled, a very faint smile. Then the light in his eyes slowly faded.

Falkenhayn watched in silence the entire time. As they left the field hospital, the German general, known for his iron-fisted approach, murmured, "Sometimes I wonder... do we, the ones who formulate these plans, truly understand the meaning behind these numbers?"

No one answered.