Chapter 286: Setting Off Again from Nagasaki Port

He recalled the secretary's report from earlier that day: an elderly man surnamed Songwo, at an izakaya in Jinda district, said his son had died and he received three hundred yen.

It must be Songwo Jianyi.

Xiyuanji picked up a pen and wrote on a sticky note: "Investigate Songwo Jianyi's family situation; if there are difficulties, grant special additional assistance."

Then he hesitated and crossed out that line.

He couldn't set this precedent. If one family received special care, other families would also demand it, and the state doesn't have that much money.

He tore off the sticky note and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

A bell rang outside the window; it was midnight.

Xiyuanji continued working. He needed to finish reviewing all documents and make all decisions before tomorrow morning's cabinet meeting.

Decide who will die and who will live.

Decide in what manner this nation will continue to exist.

In the morning at Nagasaki Port, the fog was thick.

Songben Haodi stood on the pier, looking at the familiar yet strange scene before him. Two months ago, he had boarded a ship here bound for Europe. Now he was back, but of the thirteen‑man squad, he was the only one who had returned.

His left arm was bandaged—injured by shrapnel during the defensive battle in the final stage of the Augustov Battle. The wound was not serious, but it was enough to list him as a "lightly wounded" soldier, to be rotated back home with the first batch of ships for convalescence.

In truth, he knew another reason his superiors sent him back: as a "combat hero," to promote the homeland.

Over the past week, he had undergone three interviews, two award ceremonies (receiving a Gold Eagle Medal and a German Iron Cross), and was assigned to give a report at the Army School about "the Imperial soldiers' heroic battles in Europe."

He spoke, but concealed most of the truth. He did not mention Kawahara's machine‑gun jam, did not recount Ono's expression when his chest was hit, did not describe Oshima being pierced through the abdomen by a bayonet, did not relay Sergeant Yamada's last words as he was crushed under a beam: "Tell my daughter, dad won't be coming back."

He only spoke of victory, of the Japanese army's bravery, and of the German people's admiration.

And now, he stood again at Nagasaki Port. This time it was not a departure, but… a farewell?

No, not a farewell. It was a witnessing.

To witness the second batch of four divisions, one hundred thousand soldiers, boarding ships for Europe.

The pier was a sea of people. Soldiers, officers, families, reporters, officials, and curious citizens. The atmosphere was completely different from two months ago. Then it had been repressed, sorrowful, confused. Now it was… a strange exhilaration.

The military band played the "Army March," brisk and lively. Reporters crowded the security line, camera shutters clicking up and down. Officers wore crisp uniforms, chest full of medals, smiling at the cameras.

Songben saw a familiar face—Major Yoshida, a young officer he had met while giving a report at the Army School. Yoshida was being interviewed by a Daily News reporter.

"…Yes, I am honored to lead the troops to Europe. The heroic battles of the first dispatched forces have set an example for us; we will inherit their spirit and strive for greater glory for the Empire!"

The reporter asked: "Aren't you afraid? I've heard the fighting there is brutal."

Yoshida straightened his back: "As Imperial soldiers, we have long placed life and death beyond consideration! Moreover, we have advanced equipment, the cooperation of our German allies, and the experience of the first comrades. We are confident of achieving even greater victories!"

Applause rose around. Several soldiers' families approached, asking Yoshida for an autograph.

Songben turned his head, not wanting to watch any longer. He walked slowly along the edge of the pier, away from the noisy center.

In a relatively quiet berth, he saw the troops boarding. Soldiers lined up and walked up the gangway, each with a different expression: some excited, some nervous, some numb.

A young soldier—appearing no older than eighteen—stopped before the gangway, turned back to look at the shore. His mother and sister stood beyond the security line, waving and crying. The soldier hesitated, wanted to step back, but was nudged by a soldier behind him and had to continue upward.

"Hey, you."

A voice called out to Songben. He turned and saw a person in a Navy officer's uniform, in his thirties, with a cold expression.

"Are you Songben Haodi, Private First Class? Hero of the Augustov battle?"

"I am Songben Haodi," Songben replied, but did not accept the title "hero."

The Navy officer examined his bandaged arm: "Injured? Serious?"

"Just a light wound, healing quickly."

"Good then." The officer nodded, then lowered his voice, "Listen, my brother is in the second batch, the 13th Corps. His name is Mutou Shinichi. If you… if you ever have a chance to go back to Europe and meet him, tell him…"

The officer paused, seeming to gather his words:

"Tell him not to act like a hero, not to copy those reckless 'long live' charges. Coming back alive is more important than anything."

Songben looked into the officer's eyes and saw deep worry. This Navy officer was completely different from the Army officers who were making grand speeches on the pier.

"I will remember," Songben said, "If I meet him, I will tell him."

The officer nodded, took a letter from his pocket: "If you really can meet him, give this to him. If… if you can't, then never mind."

Songben took the letter and slipped it into his own pocket.

The officer saluted, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.

Songben kept walking. He arrived at an area where supplies were stacked, seeing workers hauling a crate of cargo onto the ship. The crates bore various markings: some in German, some in Japanese, and some with Lanfang's Chinese characters.

One crate tilted during the lift, nearly falling. The workers below shouted loudly, and the crane operator quickly readjusted.

The crate finally settled evenly, but a crack ran along its side. Songben saw inside—machine‑gun ammo boxes, made by Lanfang, identical to the ones Kawahara used.

"Hey! That wounded one over there! Come lend a hand!"

A foreman‑like figure shouted at Songben. He walked over.

"Help me straighten the crate and re‑tie it." The foreman handed him a bundle of rope.

Songben used his uninjured right hand to help. While binding, he read the label on the crate: "Model 1911 Light Machine Gun Improved Type (Enhanced Cooling), Lanfang Arsenal, February 1915."

Improved type. The Lanfang people said the weapon had been improved and was already in production.

"Is this thing useful?" the foreman asked casually, pulling the rope tight.

Songben thought of Kawahara's face, of his curses when the machine gun jammed, of his using snow to cool his burnt hand when the gun overheated.

"A bit better than the old model," he finally said, "but it still jams, still overheats."

The foreman laughed: "Anyway, it's not us who use it, so who cares. Just tie it up tight."

The crate was hoisted again, rising steadily onto the ship. Songben looked up at it, wondering which machine gunner would receive those ammo boxes, and whether that gunner would, like Kawahara, encounter a jam at a critical moment and die under enemy fire.