Chapter 287: leFH 18 105‑mm Light Field Howitzer

"Matsumoto?"

A familiar voice came from behind. Matsumoto turned and froze.

Standing before him was Sergeant Yamada's daughter—Yamada Miho. She was sixteen this year, dressed in a plain school uniform, holding a small parcel.

"Miss Miho? Why are you here?"

"I'm here to see off a friend," Miho said softly, her eyes red, clearly having cried, "her brother is in the second batch, departing today."

Matsumoto didn't know what to say. He recalled Sergeant Yamada's final request: "Tell my daughter that dad won't be coming back." But he hadn't told Miho yet. He wasn't ready.

"My dad…" Miho began, "any news? His last letter was a month ago, saying everything was fine near Aogusituofu."

Matsumoto's heart tightened. Yamada's death notice should have been mailed home, but perhaps due to an address change or postal delay, Miho hadn't received it.

Or she had received it but refused to believe it.

"Your dad…" Matsumoto said with difficulty, "He was an excellent soldier. Very brave."

"I know," Miho smiled, but tears fell again, "He always said that when the war ended he'd retire, open a small shop, and our family would live well together."

She looked at the soldiers boarding at the pier:

"Matsumoto, you tell me… when will the war end?"

Matsumoto couldn't answer that question. He could only shake his head.

Miho wiped away her tears, took a small talisman from the parcel, and said, "Can I ask you a favor with this?"

"Please, go ahead."

"If you go back to Europe again, could you give this to my dad?" Miho said, "I prayed for it at the shrine yesterday, for safety."

Matsumoto took the talisman. It was a tiny cloth pouch embroidered with "May martial luck endure." It was almost identical to the one he had found on a corpse in the field.

"Alright," he said, "If I go back, I'll definitely give it to him."

But he knew he would never return. His wound wasn't severe, but the army doctor said it might affect his arm's flexibility, making him unsuitable for front‑line combat. He might be transferred to the rear or discharged.

And Miho's father would never come back.

From afar a long, resonant whistle sounded; the first transport ship began to depart.

The crowd erupted in cheers, cries, and shouts. The military band played even louder.

Matsumoto and Miho stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the ship slowly pull away from the pier toward the mist‑filled sea.

On board were one hundred thousand youths, one hundred thousand Matsuo Kenichi, one hundred thousand Sergeant Yamada, one hundred thousand Oshima. They carried their families' hopes, fantasies of glory, and fear of death, sailing toward a battlefield thousands of miles away.

There, the machine guns waited, the artillery waited, the bayonets waited, death waited.

"Matsumoto," Miho suddenly asked, "What is Europe like?"

Matsumoto recalled the snow of the Mazuri Lake region, the trees of the Aogusituofu forest, the blood in the ruined farmhouse, the frozen corpses, and Oshima's smile before he died.

"Very cold," he finally said, "Extremely cold."

Miho nodded as if she partly understood.

Another ship began to depart, then the third, then the fourth.

The fog gradually lifted, sunlight pierced the clouds, shining on the sea at Nagasaki Harbor, making the waves sparkle.

But Matsumoto felt the sunlight had no warmth.

Like the current frenzy of this country, lacking foundation.

Like the hope in the eyes of those boarding soldiers, with no future.

Everything burns, everything passes. What drives it all is money, foreign exchange, the desperate need to survive.

Matsumoto clenched the talisman in his hand.

He decided to go to the Army Ministry tomorrow to apply for a transfer back to the European front.

Not for glory, not for patriotism.

Only because he promised Sergeant Yamada to look after his daughter.

And the best way to care for her is to tell her the truth— even if that truth will shatter all her fantasies.

But before that, he must go to Europe, find Miho's father, or at least find where he died.

Then bring back that talisman, bring back that promise that can never be fulfilled.

The whistle kept blowing, one after another, like the nation's lament.

And the fleet had already vanished from sight, sailing toward distant, blood‑stained Europe.

Potsdam Test Range, April 7, 1915, dawn.

A thin mist shrouded the Brandenburg forest, the air filled with earth, pine needles, and a faint smell of gunpowder. The test range lay in an open valley, surrounded by low hills that naturally formed an excellent acoustic barrier.

Chen Feng stood on the observation platform, wearing a dark‑gray tailored suit beneath a black wool coat. Berlin's April morning was still cold, his breath condensing into white mist. Wang Wenwu stood at his side, holding a leather folder containing the artillery's technical specifications and contract draft.

"They're here," Wang Wenwu whispered.

In the distance, a convoy entered the test range. Leading were three Mercedes sedans, followed by several military trucks and staff vehicles. The convoy halted before the observation platform, and the guards quickly spread out on alert.

The first car's door opened, and Emperor Wilhelm II stepped out.

The German Emperor today wore an Army Field Marshal uniform, his deep‑blue attire festooned with medals and sashes, the highest‑grade Black Eagle Medal pinned to his chest. He leaned on an ornate cane, yet his stride was steady, showing none of the sluggishness a fifty‑six‑year‑old might have. Behind him were Chief of the General Staff Xiao Maoqi and several senior generals and civilian officials.

Chen Feng descended from the observation platform and went to greet him.

"Your Majesty," he greeted in fluent German, bowing slightly. Lanfang was not a monarchy; as President he only needed to perform diplomatic protocol, not bow as a subject.

"President Chen!" Wilhelm II's voice rang loudly, with the distinct tone of Prussian aristocracy, "Welcome to Berlin! I hope the journey hasn't left you too weary."

"Thank you for Your Majesty's concern; the journey was smooth," Chen Feng replied, "Lanfang Shipping's vessels are fast— the trip from Dubai to Hamburg took only seventeen days."

"Fast, very good! I like fast things." Wilhelm II laughed, pointing his cane toward the distant firing positions, "Then, let's see the treasure you brought. You said it could let our artillery change the war?"

"I believe so, Your Majesty."

The party walked toward the observation platform. On the platform, high‑magnification telescopes, a map table, and several chairs had been set up. Attendants brought hot coffee and brandy, but Wilhelm II waved them away.

"First the performance, then the drink."

Chen Feng nodded at Wang Wenwu. Wang Wenwu stepped down from the observation platform and waved a signal flag toward the distant firing position.

Five hundred meters away, within an area covered by camouflage netting, Lanfang's artillery squad began to move. The netting was removed, revealing the true form of three guns.

It was a leFH18-type 105mm light field howitzer. The barrel was painted in Deguo army field gray, but its shape differed from any Degjun service artillery—more compact, more streamlined, the gun shield was aerodynamic, and the wheels were pneumatic rubber tires rather than traditional wooden wheels.

"The design is… modern," Xiao Maoqi raised the telescope and commented.

William II also lifted the telescope: "Caliber 105mm? Same as our s. FH13. But it looks much lighter."