World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Kobayashi suddenly rushed out of the crowd and knelt in the mud: "Commander! I beg you! My squad... thirteen men, only three left! Corporal Imamura has broken his ribs, Sergeant Yoshida is almost deaf, I... I have nightmares every night! Please, let us rest, even just for a week..."

Shiba Goro walked up to Kobayashi and squatted down. Rain pattered between them. Something twitched on the old general's face.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Ten...nineteen, Your Excellency."

"My son is also nineteen," Shiba Goro said softly, so that only Kobayashi could hear him. "He's studying law at university in Tokyo. He wrote to me and asked: 'Father, what does war feel like?' I replied: 'It's doing what you have to do, even if you don't want to.'"

He stood up and raised his voice: "Third Division, listen up! Complete preparations within one hour! All wounded will be transferred to field hospitals. Those who can walk, pick up your weapons and come with me to the train station. This is an order, there is no room for negotiation."

At 8 a.m., the soldiers began silently organizing their equipment. No one protested anymore, no one cried out. A cold, almost numb obedience enveloped the camp.

Imamura was inspecting the squad's weapons. Of the thirteen rifles, only five were still functional—the others had deformed barrels, damaged firing pins, or were simply lost in the battle. Ammunition was severely depleted, averaging less than thirty rounds per man. They had no grenades left; they had all been used in the trench warfare at Verdun.

Sergeant Yoshida was sharpening his bayonet. His Type 30 sword had several nicks and bends from hand-to-hand combat. He was sharpening it meticulously, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Kobayashi was writing his will. He wrapped it in waterproof oil paper and handed it to a seriously wounded soldier who was certain to stay: "If I don't come back, please find a way to send this to my sister. The address is on the back."

The seriously wounded man lay on a stretcher, his abdomen wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. He nodded and tucked the oil paper into his pocket: "I will. You too... take care."

At 10:00 AM, the troops set off. More than eight hundred men—the last remaining force of the Third Regiment—formed three columns and trudged through the muddy road towards the Baladik railway station, twenty kilometers away. The rain continued to fall, turning the road into a river of mud. The soldiers' boots sank into the mud, making a popping sound as they pulled them out.

Shiba Goro walked at the head of the column. He wasn't riding a horse—all the horses had been lost at Verdun. His back was hunched in the rain, and the hem of his dark gray overcoat was covered in mud. This fifty-eight-year-old veteran had participated in the Russo-Japanese War, commanding sieges, mountain battles, and plains battles, but he had never felt so exhausted.

It wasn't physical exhaustion, but spiritual exhaustion. He knew he was leading these young people to another hell, and he was powerless to stop it.

On the railway line, a freight train was already waiting. It wasn't a passenger car, but a boxcar used for transporting livestock—a wooden plank carriage with no windows, only a few cracks letting in light. Hay and animal droppings remained on the floor.

"Get in! Quickly!"

The soldiers squeezed into the carriages. Fifty men were crammed into each carriage, leaving almost no room to turn around. The doors closed and were secured from the outside with wooden bolts. The carriages were instantly plunged into semi-darkness, with only light filtering through the cracks illuminating the swirling dust.

The train started moving, slowly heading north through the rain and mist, towards the Somme River, towards the place that was about to become a new meat grinder.

Imamura sat in the corner, waves of pain shooting through his ribs. He peered through the crack at the passing French countryside: bombed farmhouses, barren fields, and bare tree trunks like skeletal fingers reaching for the sky.

Kobayashi leaned against him, holding a rifle in her arms, her eyes closed, but her eyelids were trembling.

Sergeant Yoshida was humming a song, a very soft melody, a folk song from the land of cherry blossoms: "Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms, in late spring, as dawn approaches..."

The other soldiers in the carriage slowly began to hum along. At first, only a few people joined in, but more and more joined in until the entire carriage was filled with their singing. The song echoed in the dark, stuffy space, mingling with the sounds of wheels hitting the rails, raindrops pattering on the roof, and suppressed sobs.

They sang songs from their homeland as they sailed towards a foreign battlefield.

3 p.m. on July 15, south of Albert town in the Somme region.

The terrain here is completely different from Verdun. Vast fields stretch as far as the eye can see, the wheat ripe but unharvested, turning a golden hue under the summer sun. The Somme River and its tributaries meander through the landscape, their steep banks forming natural barriers. Small villages are scattered among the hills, most destroyed by war, leaving only ruins.

The headquarters of the German Second Army was located 15 meters underground in an abandoned quarry in the town of Albert. Originally used for quarrying limestone, it was converted into an underground command post after the outbreak of war. The rock walls were damp, seeping water droplets, and the air was filled with the smell of mildew and disinfectant.

Army Group Commander General Fritz von Bellow is receiving a report from the chief engineer. The fifty-three-year-old Prussian nobleman is dressed in a neat general's uniform, but the dark circles under his eyes betray his lack of sleep.

"General, the first line of defense is basically complete." The chief engineer pointed to the huge sand table, "It's three kilometers deep, with three trench lines connected by communication trenches. Four layers of barbed wire have been laid, and landmines have been planted in key areas. The machine gun bunkers are made of reinforced concrete and can withstand direct hits from artillery with a caliber of 152 mm or less."

"Where's the gunnery position?"

"Dispersed across the reverse slope. A total of three hundred gun emplacements, including one hundred and twenty heavy guns. Ammunition reserves... calculated at fifty rounds per gun per day, enough for twelve days."

Bello frowned. "Only twelve days? What if the battle lasts longer?"

"That depends on whether logistical support can keep up, General. The railway lines are frequently bombed by British aircraft, and transport convoys suffer heavy losses."

At this moment, the chief of staff walked in, his face grave: "General, the lead train of the Japanese forces has arrived. The remnants of the 3rd Division, about 8,000 men, are being unloaded at Albert Station."

"Send them to the second line of defense." Bello said without looking up. "The fortifications there aren't fully completed yet; they need reinforcement."

"But General, these troops have just withdrawn from Verdun, are extremely exhausted, and have suffered heavy losses..."

"I know," Bello finally looked up, "but I had no choice. The British artillery could start at any moment, and every hand is precious. Tell their commander I'll give them twenty-four hours to rest, and then they'll be in position immediately."

The chief of staff hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded: "Yes, General."