Chapter 291: Lanfang's New Equipment

"This is your most important friend on the battlefield." Matsumoto patted the machine gun. "It can suppress enemy charges, cover your comrades' advance, and save your life at a critical moment. The prerequisite is—you have to know how to use it."

He opened the feed tray and showed the internal structure: "The biggest change in the improved model is here. The old model would overheat and jam after ninety rounds of continuous fire; the new model can fire up to one hundred fifty rounds. And also…"

He quickly swapped the barrel—a simple latch design, pull out the old barrel, insert the new one, the whole process took less than twenty seconds.

"The barrel can be quickly replaced. The assistant gunner must carry at least two spare barrels on his person at all times."

The recruits took careful notes. Most of these young men were eighteen or nineteen, even younger than Matsumoto had been when he first arrived in Europe. There was none of the confusion and fear of the first dispatch in their eyes; in its place was a strange sort of… anticipation?

"Instructor," a tall, thin recruit raised his hand, "I heard this kind of machine gun is amazing, that at the Battle of Augustów it kept the Russians from lifting their heads."

Matsumoto was silent for a moment. He wanted to say that at Augustów, Kawahara's gun had jammed, Ono had died, Oshima had died, and nearly the entire squad had been wiped out.

But he didn't say it. What he said was: "Yes, this kind of machine gun is amazing. But what's even more amazing is the person who uses it. Remember, the weapon is only a tool; it's the person who decides victory or defeat."

Training continued. Matsumoto taught them how to quickly load the feed tray, how to choose a firing position, how to disassemble and maintain the gun in an emergency. The recruits learned very seriously, even with some excitement.

During the break, Matsumoto sat on an ammunition crate smoking. A young soldier came over and handed him a rice ball—made from rice newly shipped from home.

"Instructor, is it true you fought in the Battle of Augustów?"

Matsumoto nodded.

"Then… have you killed Russians?"

The question was very direct. Matsumoto looked at this soldier and saw in his eyes that worship of "combat experience."

"I have," he answered briefly.

"Amazing!" The soldier's eyes lit up. "I want to be like you, kill lots of enemies, and bring glory to the Empire!"

Matsumoto did not respond. He wanted to tell this young man that the feeling of killing is not good at all, that seeing an enemy fall brings no glory, only… emptiness. But he knew it would be useless to say it.

"Instructor!" Major Yoshida, the training camp's commanding officer—the same officer Matsumoto had met at Nagasaki harbor—walked over. "How is the recruits' training going?"

"They've all mastered the basic operations, Major. But actual combat is another matter."

Yoshida nodded, his expression grave: "There's no time to let them adapt slowly. Tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, they'll be sent to the front. The Russians have massed at least three divisions on the far bank of the Neman River; an attack could begin at any moment."

Matsumoto frowned: "So soon? They've trained for less than two weeks."

"The front is short on men." Yoshida gave a wry smile. "The 7th Division lost an entire battalion in yesterday's counterattack. We urgently need replacements."

He lowered his voice: "And… orders came from above to test the effectiveness of the new equipment."

"New equipment?"

"Besides machine guns, there's newly arrived artillery, mortars, and even…" Yoshida paused, "some 'special weapons.' The Deguo people are pressing hard, and Lanfang also hopes to get actual combat data as soon as possible."

Matsumoto understood. These recruits were not only soldiers, but also test subjects.

"By the way," Yoshida recalled something, "do you know a soldier named Mutō Shin'ichi? 13th Division, 25th Infantry Regiment."

Matsumoto recalled the naval officer's entrustment at Nagasaki harbor and nodded: "I know him. What about it?"

"His unit is launching a probing attack tomorrow to test the support effectiveness of the new artillery." Yoshida said, "If you're free, you could go take a look. You might run into him."

"I'll go."

After Yoshida left, Matsumoto continued smoking. The sky was lead-gray, the low-hanging clouds seeming about to press down to the ground. From afar came the faint sound of artillery—not intense crossfire, but tentative firing, like a great beast's breathing in its sleep.

A young medic walked past, carrying a medical kit on his back, his face bearing a gravity beyond his years. Matsumoto recognized him as the training camp's medical officer, named Kobayashi, only nineteen.

"Kobayashi-kun," Matsumoto called out to him, "are the medical supplies still sufficient?"

Kobayashi shook his head: "The painkillers are almost used up, and there's not enough disinfectant alcohol either. Five severely wounded came in yesterday; I could only wash their wounds with saline, and then… and then watch them slowly die."

His voice was trembling: "One of them was only seventeen, younger than me. He kept calling for his mother until he died. I held his hand, but there was nothing I could do."

Matsumoto patted his shoulder: "It's not your fault."

"I know." Kobayashi wiped his eyes. "But I can't take it anymore, Instructor. Back home, they said we were here to help our Deguo allies, to show the glory of the Empire's soldiers. But here… here there's only mud, cold, and death. Where is any glory?"

This was a question Matsumoto could not answer.

He thought of the charm Yamada Miho had given him, still tucked in his pocket. He had inquired about Sergeant Yamada's unit number, but that unit had been nearly wiped out in the summer offensive, and the survivors had been reassigned to other units. No one knew whether Sergeant Yamada was alive or dead, or where his body was.

Perhaps he would never be found.

"Get ready," Matsumoto finally said. "Tomorrow there will be more people who need your help."

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked toward his tent. The tent was damp and cold; the bed was just a wooden board with a thin blanket. He took out a notebook from his pack and began writing today's training record—this was also required by Lanfang, to record in detail the usage and problems of the new weapons.

"November 12, 1915, Neman River front. Training situation for the improved Type 11 light machine gun: recruits mastered it relatively quickly, average barrel replacement time 22 seconds, meeting requirements. However, during live-fire it was found that the new feed tray still has jamming issues, with a frequency of approximately once every two hundred rounds…"

At this point, he stopped writing. From outside the tent came singing—the recruits singing a military song. Young voices drifted through the cold air, the lyrics about cherry blossoms, samurai, and glory.

Matsumoto closed his eyes.

He missed Hokkaido's winters. The snow there was clean, the air was fresh, and at home there was a warm hearth and hot soup made by his mother.

Not like here, this land soaked in blood, forever muddy.

The next morning at dawn, the bombardment began.

Matsumoto stood in the observation post of the second defensive line, looking through the periscope at the scene ahead. Today's test attack was not large in Scale—one reinforced company, about two hundred fifty men, with the objective of seizing a Russian outpost position on the far bank of the river.

But the supporting firepower was very powerful.