World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Eastern Auxiliary Forces, over there!" A British lieutenant pointed to an open area in the distance. "Wait there for reorganization!"

The so-called "reorganization area" was a muddy field with no shelter whatsoever. Wounded soldiers were carelessly dumped on the ground, there were very few medics, and medicine was scarce. Kim Soon-sik found a corner to sit down, and Lee Sung-chan helped him treat his wounds.

The bayonet wound was penetrating; the edges of the wound had turned white, and the bleeding was slowing down. Without any disinfectant, Li Chengcan could only hastily bandage it with relatively clean strips of cloth torn from the corpse.

"You can get infected," Li Chengcan said.

"Being infected is better than dying," Kim Soon-sik gritted her teeth and endured the pain.

After bandaging themselves, the two leaned against each other, watching the survivors gradually return in the twilight. Of the 1,200 who set out, less than 200 had returned. Each one was wounded, each one utterly dejected.

"We lost," Lee Sung-chan suddenly said.

"Um."

"We lost badly."

"Um."

Silence. Raindrops pelted my face, icy cold.

In the distance, they could hear a conversation between British officers, spoken in English, but they understood a few key words.

"Retreat... twenty kilometers..."

"German tanks...cannot withstand..."

"Reinforcements are needed...more reinforcements..."

Kim Soon-sik closed his eyes. Twenty kilometers. The land they had gained with the lives of over sixty thousand people was lost in a single day, and they even had to pay an extra twenty kilometers. What a ridiculous calculation.

"Soon-sik," Lee Sung-chan asked in a low voice, "you said... those German tanks, were they also made by Lanfang?"

Kim Soon-sik opened his eyes: "What do you mean?"

"I overheard British officers talking. They said the Germans' new tank technology came from Lanfang, and that it was the same rifles we were using." Li Chengcan's voice was laced with sarcasm. "Lanfang sold tanks to the Germans to fight the British, and sold us rifles to be cannon fodder. They made money from two sources."

Kim Soon-sik stood there stunned for a long time. Then, he laughed, a hoarse and unpleasant laugh that sounded like crying.

"So...we're not just cannon fodder for the British, but also part of Lanfang's business." He took out Yonghao's tin box from his pocket, opened it, and inside were photos of Yonghao's family. Yonghao stood in the middle, smiling shyly.

"How much is a life worth, Sung Chan?"

"I heard it's two hundred pounds."

"Two hundred pounds..." Kim Soon-sik pressed the photo to his forehead. "Yong-ho's life, my life, everyone's life, are only worth two hundred pounds. And how much can Lan-fang earn selling a tank? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand?"

"Don't think about it." Li Chengchan pressed down on his shoulder. "Thinking too much will drive you crazy."

But Kim Soon-sik couldn't stop. He remembered the ropes in Incheon Port, the stench in the cargo hold, his mother's heart-wrenching cries, Young-ho's dying eyes, the burning tanks on the battlefield, the smashed faces of the Japanese soldiers, and the seven identification tags on his waist.

It's all a business deal.

And they are the raw materials consumed in the business.

"Sung-chan," he looked up, his eyes vacant, "if we can get back alive... what do you want to do?"

Lee Sung-chan remained silent for a long time.

"I want to read," he said. "Read lots of books, figure out what this world is all about. Figure out why some people's lives are valuable and others' are worthless. Figure out... why we have to die like this."

"and then?"

"And then?" Lee Sung-chan looked towards the dark east. "And then, maybe something can be changed. Even if it's just a little bit."

Kim Soon-sik remained silent. He looked at the photograph in his hand, then at the hellish scene around him. Change? What a luxurious thought. They were lucky to survive tonight.

Night fell completely. The rain stopped, and the temperature plummeted. The groans of the wounded echoed in the cold wind, like the weeping of ghosts. In the distance, the sound of German artillery fire drew ever closer; the British new defensive line was being bombarded.

A new day, a new massacre, is about to begin.

Kim Soon-sik knew that no matter what happened tomorrow, the number of identity tokens on his waist would increase.

Until he became one of the brands.

Or, until this damn business is over.

But will the business end?

he does not know.

All he knew was that in the far East, in Tokyo, in Dubai, in London, in Berlin, those doing business must be sleeping well tonight.

Because they made a profit.

The cost, however, is borne by others.

The rain in London never stops.

Herbert Henry Asquith stood at the window of his study at 10 Downing Street, watching the rain trickle down the glass, distorting the Whitehall street scene outside into a blurry gray-green. It was eleven o'clock at night, but he was wide awake. The document lying on the table felt like a red-hot iron, making it impossible for him to sit still.

"Analysis Report on Battle Damage and Situation in the Third Phase of the Battle of the Somme".

The title was neat, the content bloody. He didn't need to read it closely; the numbers were already etched in his mind: 31,472 British dead, over 18,000 seriously wounded or disabled, and countless minor wounded. French casualties were nearly 10,000. The Eastern Auxiliary Force—the report used this euphemistic term—had confirmed over 63,000 dead, with an estimated 20,000 missing or seriously wounded.

The most glaring line is the last one: German casualties are estimated at 12,000, of which about half were Japanese mercenaries.

"A casualty ratio of one to ten," Asquith muttered to himself, his fingers unconsciously tapping the windowsill. "No, if you include the Koreans, it's one to fifteen."

The study door was gently pushed open. His wife, Margot, entered with a glass of hot milk. Seeing his back as he stood in the darkness, she sighed.

"Herbert, it's time to rest."

"A break?" Asquith didn't turn around. "Margot, do you know how many mothers received death notices this afternoon?"

Margot paused for a moment, then placed the milk on the table. "Lord Kitchener, Secretary of War, Sir Grey, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and Sir Balfour, First Lord of the Admiralty, are waiting for you in the conference room downstairs. They say... there's an emergency."

Asquith closed his eyes. What's meant to happen will happen.

"Let them in."

Three minutes later, the four men who would decide the fate of the British Empire sat around the fireplace in the study. The fire flickered, casting their shadows on the oak-paneled walls like a group of weary ghosts.

Kitchener spoke first, his voice hoarse like sandpaper: "Prime Minister, we must withdraw three divisions from the Sinai Peninsula. The western front cannot hold out."

"Three divisions?" Asquith frowned. "What about the Palestinian front? The Turks are still eyeing Gaza covetously."

"Use the remaining five divisions to consolidate the defensive line and switch to defense." Kitchener spread out the battle map. "The eight divisions in Sinai were originally for defense, not offense. With three divisions withdrawn, we'll still have 120,000 troops left, plus naval artillery support, enough to hold the Suez Canal."

"What about Lanfang's division in Holdesa?" Balfour interjected. "It's about fifty kilometers to our flank."

Mentioning Lanfang immediately sombered the atmosphere in the study.