World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Useless! You can't even hold a gun steady, how are you going to the battlefield?!"

"Thrust! With all your might! Imagine the bayonet as your hatred! The enemy is right in front of you!"

"Crawl forward quickly! Bullets won't wait for you!"

Koji's hands were calloused, and his knees and elbows were covered in abrasions. But he didn't feel the hardship; instead, he felt a strange sense of fulfillment. During training breaks, when they sat on the field to rest, Nakamura would often rub his shoulders and complain, "This is so tiring..."

"You only get results if you work hard," Koji said earnestly. "The instructor said the European battlefield is a hundred times more brutal than training. The more you sweat now, the less blood you'll bleed on the battlefield."

Yamaguchi leaned closer and said mysteriously, "I've inquired, and most of us will be assigned to Germany. It'll be safe by land."

"How well did Germany play?" someone asked.

"Of course! Aren't the newspapers reporting victories every day? The great victory at the Somme! The German army—including our troops—has launched a counterattack for twenty kilometers!"

Koji recalled the latest issue of the Asahi Shimbun, whose front-page photo showed a group of Japanese soldiers standing beside destroyed British tanks, beaming with smiles. The caption read: "The Imperial Army assisted the German Army in destroying the British steel behemoths, demonstrating outstanding combat capabilities."

"I also want to stand next to the tank and take a picture," Koji said.

"Yes, you will." Yamaguchi patted him on the shoulder. "Once you get to the front lines and make a contribution, you'll get not only photos, but also medals."

After dinner was "spiritual education" time. All the new recruits were assembled in the auditorium to listen to lectures by officers. Today's lecturer was a major, wearing glasses and looking like a scholar.

"Gentlemen," the major's voice boomed through the loudspeaker, "you are about to embark on the most glorious journey in the history of the Empire. Not to invade, not to plunder, but to aid our allies, to demonstrate the courage and honor of the Yamato people!"

Behind him, a map of Europe was projected onto the screen. The major pointed his pointer at northern France: "Here, on the Somme, the men of the Empire are making history. Do you know? Britain and France, those white nations, have always looked down on us Asians. But now, they have to admit—on the battlefield, the bravery of the soldiers of the Sakura Kingdom is second to none!"

Applause erupted in the auditorium.

"Furthermore," the major's tone shifted, "your sacrifices will be rewarded. Every month, your salaries will be sent home on time. Those who died in action will receive compensation for their families and educational subsidies for their children. Those who survived will be given priority in job placement upon returning home. This is not only serving your country, but also investing in your own future!"

Koji was deeply moved. He remembered how his father had secretly slipped him ten yen before he left home, saying, "Take care of yourself." His mother had cried all night, but still helped him pack his luggage the next day. His younger brother, Kenta, said, "Brother, bring me some foreign candy when you come back."

"For their sake, I must come back alive," he thought. "And I must come back with honor and money."

After the training, the recruits returned to their barracks. Sixteen people shared a room, in bunk beds. Koji lay on his hard bed, listening to the chorus of snores around him, unable to sleep.

He quietly pulled a photo from his jacket pocket—a family portrait taken last New Year at Senso-ji Temple. In the photo, his father was still wearing the only decent suit he owned, his mother was smiling, Kenta was making a face, and he himself stood on the far left with a somewhat stiff expression.

"I will make sure you have a good life," he murmured to the photograph. "I promise."

Outside the window, the searchlights of the training camp swept across the night sky like a giant lightsaber, cleaving through the darkness.

Cao County, during the same period

Transportation at Incheon Port has never stopped.

Every three days, a cargo ship, fully loaded with "laborers," would depart from the port. The ships had different names—"Donghai," "Nihonkai," and "Fusang"—but the scene on board was always the same: cargo holds crammed with people, foul-smelling air, and a despairing silence.

Jin Shuntai has been adrift on the "Huanghai" for twenty days.

He didn't know where he was, only that the ship kept moving. In the first few days, many people suffered from seasickness; vomit and excrement mingled, turning the cargo hold into a living hell. Several people died—no one knew exactly how they died, perhaps from illness, perhaps from suffocation. The bodies were dragged out by the Japanese crew and thrown directly into the sea.

Food was provided once a day: a cold rice ball and a bowl of water. The rice ball often got moldy, but when you were starving, you had no choice but to eat it. Jin Shuntai learned to break the rice ball into three pieces and eat a little bit each in the morning, noon, and evening, so that at least he wouldn't faint from hunger.

A fever began to spread in the cargo hold. Some people developed high fevers, and in other words, rashes all over their bodies. Japanese crew members occasionally came down to spray disinfectant; the pungent smell was nauseating, but the disease still spread.

"Where...will we be sent?" a weak voice asked in the darkness.

Nobody knows. Some say it went to Japan, some say to Southeast Asia, some say to a place called "France." Kim Soon-tae thought of his brother, Soon-sik—who left a few months ago and should be somewhere by now. Is he still alive?

"I want to go home..." the boy next to me cried. His name was Park Jae-young, and he was only fifteen years old. He was digging for wild vegetables in the field when he was arrested.

Kim Soon-tae didn't say anything, he just patted him on the back. What should he say? Say "It will be alright"? That would be a lie. Say "Accept your fate"? That would be too cruel.

The cargo door suddenly opened, letting in a blinding beam of light. Several Japanese crew members, wearing masks, got out and shone their flashlights around.

"Those who can still move, get up! Move the supplies!"

Jin Shuntai struggled to his feet. His legs were swollen, and every step felt like being pricked by needles. But he knew that if he didn't work, he wouldn't eat.

They were taken to a cargo hold on the lower deck, which was piled with sacks containing unknown contents. Their job was to move the sacks from one side to the other—meaningless, repetitive labor, done simply to exhaust them and prevent any "trouble."

During a break in the transport, Jin Shuntai glanced out the porthole. The vast ocean stretched out before him, with no land in sight, only a gray sky and gray water. Occasionally, seabirds flew by, free and unrestrained.

Freedom. What a luxurious word.

During the break, an older man approached and whispered, "I heard we're going to war."

"War?" Park Jae-young's eyes widened.

"Yeah. Go to Europe to help the British fight the Germans. Or help the Germans fight the British." The man smiled bitterly, "Anyway, you're going to be cannon fodder."

"But we don't know how to fight..."

"You don't need to know how. Just know how to shoot. Or... just know how to die."

The cargo hold was deathly silent. Only the sound of waves crashing against the hull, monotonous and eternal.

Kim Soon-tae closed his eyes. He remembered the lullaby his mother had taught him; when he couldn't sleep as a child, his mother would hum that lullaby to soothe him. He moved his lips and hummed it almost inaudibly:

"Arirang, Arirang, Arariyo..."

"My beloved has traveled a long way, crossing mountains and valleys..."

Park Jae-young hummed along softly. Then a third person, a fourth person... In the darkness, the faint singing was like a thin stream, struggling to flow in an ocean of despair.

"You're so heartless, abandoning me like this..."

"You'll miss home if you walk less than ten miles from your door..."

The song was swallowed by the sound of the waves. But at that moment, on this ship heading towards death, they at least still had this song, and the memory of their homeland.

Even though those memories are being swallowed up by the sea, little by little.