World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"But General, General Chai said his troops have already..."

"I know what he's talking about." Falkenhayn turned around, his eyes like tempered steel. "But that's war, Hoffmann. There are always people who have to stand in the most dangerous places, there are always people who have to die. The Japanese took the money, so they have to pay the price. As for what the price is... that's their own choice."

The order was issued at two in the morning. The telegraph operator tapped the key, turning the cold text into radio waves, which were transmitted to the Verdun front, five hundred kilometers away.

In a corner of the General Staff's basement, a young staff officer was sorting through death notices. His name was Friedrich, twenty-two years old, and he had just dropped out of the history department at the University of Berlin to join the army three months earlier. His job was to verify the information of the fallen, fill out the notices, and then send them to their families.

Tonight, he was dealing with the list of casualties from the Battle of the Seydlitz. Fifty-seven names, fifty-seven lives, were simplified to rank, name, unit number, and the words "died heroically in the North Sea." The youngest was only seventeen—sailor Hans Meyer, from Kiel, who had only been in the army for three months.

Friedrich froze when he picked up the next document. It was a supplementary report from Verdun, containing the names of a dozen or so Japanese soldiers, written in illegible German transliterations: Yamada, Sato, Suzuki… Each name was followed by the note "Killed on Hill 304" or "Killed on Dead Man's Hill." The report ended with a note: "Identification was difficult; most bodies were too mutilated to be identified, confirmed only by military tags."

He recalled a collection of poems about cherry blossoms he had read in college, which contained the line: "When cherry blossoms fall, they drift down like snowflakes, leaving no trace."

These soldiers from the Cherry Blossom Country were like cherry blossoms, falling onto French soil ten thousand kilometers from their homeland. No one would remember their names, no one would know why they died here. They were merely a syllable on a report, a number on a map, a pawn on the generals' sand table.

Friedrich shook his head, forcing himself to continue working. Berlin outside the window was asleep, the streets deserted except for the occasional sound of patrolling footsteps. The war continued, the death continued, and all he could do was write "a glorious sacrifice for the Reich and the Emperor" on the notices, though he increasingly doubted how much glory there was in such a sacrifice.

Northeast of Verdun, in the rear assembly area of ​​the 3rd Division, at 6:00 AM on July 13.

The rain began at dawn, fine and cold, turning the entire camp into a muddy mess. The tents shivered in the wind, raindrops dripping from the edges of the canvas and pounding into the muddy ground, creating countless tiny craters. The soldiers huddled inside their tents, wrapped in damp blankets, listening to the rain and the faint distant sounds of artillery fire—the battle for Verdun had never truly ended.

Lieutenant General Shiba Goro stood outside his command tent, clutching the telegram he had received that morning. The edges of the paper were damp from the rain, and the German writing was somewhat blurred, but the content was glaringly clear:

"Order: The 3rd to 10th Divisions (Japanese troops) of the Provisional 10th Army shall immediately withdraw from the Verdun front and transfer to the Somme region within four days, and be incorporated into the 2nd Army's operational order. Transport trains have been arranged, and the first batch will depart from Baldik station at 12:00 today. This order is hereby issued to the Western Front Headquarters."

Rainwater streamed down the edge of his helmet, dripping into his collar. Shiba Goro remained motionless, like a statue. Behind him, Chief of Staff Colonel Matsumoto and the other staff officers stood silently, awaiting his reaction.

In the tent area, the soldiers gradually awoke. They crawled out of their tents and lined up in the rain to receive breakfast—a bowl of thin oatmeal, a slice of dark bread, and a spoonful of jam for each person. There was no hot water, and the coffee supply had been cut off three days ago. The soldiers squatted in the mud, grabbing food with their frozen fingers and stuffing it into their mouths, their eyes vacant.

Corporal Imamura's 3rd Regiment, 1st Battalion, had fewer than three hundred men left. They sat huddled on a slightly elevated earthen slope—at least the water would drain away there. Sergeant Yoshida was checking the weapons, and Kobayashi was winding up his French pocket watch—it was still ticking, though whether it was accurate was another matter.

"Corporal, how long do you think we can rest?" Kobayashi asked, his voice filled with cautious anticipation. "The soles of my boots are almost falling off; I need to get a new pair. Also, I want to write a letter home..."

Imamura didn't answer. He saw that the officers were gathered together at the division commander's tent, and the atmosphere was tense. A few minutes later, a messenger came running through the mud, his face looking like he was about to cry.

"All squadrons, assemble! The regimental commander orders that all equipment be organized within one hour! Prepare for relocation!"

"Relocate?" Sergeant Yoshida stood up. "Where to? Back to the rear for rest and reorganization?"

The messenger lowered his head and whispered, "To... the Somme region. A new battlefield."

A brief silence fell. Then the spoon in Kobayashi's hand fell into the mud.

"No..." he murmured, "I can't fight anymore... I can't fight anymore..."

Imamura grabbed the messenger's shoulder: "Are you sure? The unit has suffered over 40% casualties, everyone needs rest! Division Commander Shiba promised..."

"The order comes from Berlin and is being delivered directly." The messenger broke free and ran almost fleeing to the next company.

The news spread like wildfire. The camp erupted in chaos. Soldiers rushed out of their tents, surrounding the officers and demanding answers. Some wept, some roared, but many more simply stood there, like puppets whose souls had been ripped from their bodies.

"Liars! You're all liars!"

"What happened to the promised rest? What happened to the promised rotation?"

"Let us die! You want us all to die here!"

The officers tried to maintain order, but their voices were drowned out by the tide of despair. Shiba Goro finally moved, walking toward the high ground in the center of the camp, raindrops trickling down his dark gray German overcoat.

"Silence!"

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the authority of a division commander. The commotion gradually subsided, and hundreds of eyes turned to him. What did those eyes hold? Anger? Despair? Pleading?

"I know what you're thinking," Shiba Goro said, rain streaming down his graying temples. "Me too. I asked Berlin for a break, for a rotation, for even just a month to recover. But..."

He paused, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth: "War doesn't listen to requests. An order is an order. The Somme region is about to face a large-scale British offensive, and the German forces are insufficient; they need our reinforcements. It's that simple."

"But we are not Germans!" a soldier shouted. "Why should we die for Germans!"

"Because you're wearing these uniforms!" Shiba Goro pointed to the Iron Cross on his chest. "Because you've been paid! Because you're soldiers! Soldiers don't have the right to choose their battlefield; they only have the obligation to obey orders!"

His gaze swept across every face: "I know you're tired, I know you're scared, I know you want to go home. I want to too. But when we can't go home, we can only keep fighting. Because stopping means death, retreating means death, and disobeying orders... means death."