Chapter 293: Until the Homeland Has No Young People to Send

"How's the new weapon?" Songben changed the subject, "those mortars."

"Useful," Wu Teng nodded, "If we didn't have those mortars suppressing the machine guns, we couldn't have broken through. But..."

"But what?"

"The quantity is too small," Wu Teng said, "Our company only received four pieces, Shell each person only carries six rounds. After they're spent we can only rely on rifles and bayonets."

That was the crux of the problem, Songben thought. Lanfang supplied the new weapon, but the quantity was limited and ammunition supply insufficient. Degjun was clearly controlling rations, not wanting the Japanese forces to become too "independent."

"And those machine guns," Wu Teng continued, "the improved model is a bit better, but they still jam. During today's assault, a machine gun jammed at a critical moment, and the entire fire team was killed by the Russians' machine guns."

He paused, his voice lowered: "That machine gunner was named Zuoteng, eighteen years old, and yesterday he was telling me he would go back to take the university entrance exam after the war, become a teacher."

Songben fell silent. The same story again, the same death, the same shattered dreams.

"Instructor," Wu Teng suddenly asked, "What do you think... why we are fighting here?"

That question Songben had been asked many times, but each time he could not give a satisfactory answer.

"For the country," he said, that was the official line.

"For the country?" Wu Teng laughed, his smile full of bitterness, "My brother wrote in a letter that the home front now propagates us as 'Europe's heroes', as the 'Empire's glory'. But here I only see mud, cold, death, and..."

He pointed at the corpses in the trench: "And these people who can never return. Where is their 'glory'?"

Songben could not answer.

"Do you know, instructor," Wu Teng continued, "last month I received a letter from home. The letter said that because I was fighting in Europe, the family received a 'military family special allowance', twenty yen per month. My father used that money to cure his long‑standing lung disease, and my sister could continue schooling."

He looked at his own hand: "So I was thinking, maybe I'm fighting not for any glory, but for those twenty yen. To let my family survive, to live a little better."

That stark confession shocked Songben. Wu Teng voiced a truth many dared not speak—the war, for many soldiers, was a job exchanging their lives for their families' food and shelter.

"Then do you regret it?" Songben asked.

Wu Teng thought for a moment, shook his head: "I don't regret it. If my death can make my family live better, it's worth it. It's just..."

He looked into the distance, where the Russian second defensive line lay, sturdier and more dangerous.

"I just hope, before I die, I can earn a bit more. Then my family can live a little longer."

At that moment, a runner sprinted over: "Corporal Wu Teng! The brigade command orders your squad to be merged into the third company, join the next wave of attack in one hour!"

"Next wave?" Wu Teng frowned, "We just finished, casualties over half, we need to regroup!"

"It's an order!" the runner said expressionlessly, "The Russians are organizing a counterattack, we must consolidate the position. In one hour, depart on time."

After the runner left, Wu Teng gave a wry smile to Songben: "See, instructor, this is reality. No rest, no breathing room, until we run out of ammo."

He stood up, shouted to the four surviving soldiers: "Ready your gear! Check ammunition! In one hour, continue the assault!"

The soldiers rose silently and began preparations. No one complained, no one questioned, they simply executed orders mechanically.

"Instructor," Wu Teng finally said to Songben, "If I don't make it back, could you pass a message to my brother?"

"Go ahead."

"Tell him I don't regret it. Also... tell him to take good care of our parents and sister."

Songben nodded: "I will."

Wu Teng saluted, turned and walked toward his soldiers.

Songben watched his thin yet upright back, recalling the worried eyes of the navy officer at Nagasaki Port. The two brothers, one worrying in the navy, one fighting in the army, both for their families to survive.

This is the true face of war. No glory, no heroism, only the most primal exchange of survival.

He left the front line and returned to the rear. On the way he met Degjun observer Schmidt.

"The combat data from earlier has been recorded," Schmidt said, "The new artillery performed well, the mortars' effect was significant, but the machine guns still have room for improvement. I will detail it in the report."

"What about the casualty figures?" Songben asked.

"Japanese forces lost forty‑one killed, thirty‑eight seriously wounded, sixty‑seven lightly wounded," Schmidt said, looking at his notebook, "Russian forces lost about sixty, fifteen captured. The exchange ratio is roughly 1:1.5, favorable to us, but Japanese casualties are still too high."

He paused: "At this rate, the second batch of four divisions can last at most six months. Then we'll need a third batch, a fourth batch, until..."

"Until what?" Songben asked.

Schmidt gave no answer, but the implication was clear—until the Sakura Nation has no young people left to send, or Deguo has no money to pay.

Back at the training camp, Songben met Major Ji Da. The major was looking at a telegram, his expression grim.

"What's wrong, major?"

"News from home," Ji Da handed him the telegram, "The mobilization order for the third expeditionary force has been issued. Another four divisions, departing March next year."

Songben skimmed the telegram. The content was concise and cold: to maintain the Eastern Front's combat power, the cabinet decided to mobilize the third expeditionary force, total strength about 108,000, contract term eighteen months, Deguo's payment rate 8% higher than the second batch.

"With such heavy casualties, we still keep sending?" Songben said in disbelief.

"Because we need money," Ji Da smiled wryly, "The telegram says the foreign‑exchange earnings from the second expeditionary force stabilized domestic rice prices for three months, unemployment fell by five percentage points. The government tasted the sweet, can't stop now."

He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply: "You know, Songben, sometimes I wonder what we soldiers really are? Guardians of the nation, or... export‑earning commodities?"

Songben already had an answer to that question.

From Wu Teng Xinyi, he knew the answer.

They are both warriors and commodities. Exchanging lives for foreign exchange, blood for the nation's breathing room.

"One more thing," Ji Da lowered his voice, "Lanfang has again proposed an 'improvement plan' for a new weapon. This time not a machine gun, not artillery, but... a single‑soldier weapon."

"What kind?"

"Extremely cheap, easy to produce, can be mass‑equipped," Ji Da said, "The design Concept is 'give every soldier lethal close‑range firepower'. But the specifics haven't been seen yet, only at the Concept stage."

Songben frowned. Extremely cheap, easy to produce, mass‑equipped—those phrases together were unsettling.

"Are the Deguo interested?"

"Very interested," Ji Da said, "The trench warfare on the Eastern Front is stalemated, we need a Breakthrough. If a weapon could give ordinary soldiers absolute advantage in the trenches... you know what that means."

It means more brutal close‑range killing, higher casualty rates, the war sliding further into utter inhumanity.

"Will we be asked to test this weapon?" Songben asked.

"Very likely," Ji Da nodded, "Just like testing new machine guns, new artillery. Use our soldiers to test the weapon's effect, gather data, then improve, mass‑produce, test again."

He exhaled a ring of smoke: "Until we find the most efficient, cheapest way to kill."

Matsumoto felt a chill. It wasn't from the weather, but from this cold, ruthless logic.

"Major, we…"

"We can only obey orders, Matsumoto," Yoshida cut him off, "just like those new recruits, just like Muto Shinichi, just like you and me. In this war we are all pieces, symbols moving on a larger board."

He stubbed out the cigarette, stood up: "Prepare for tonight's training. Tomorrow more recruits will go to the front lines; we need to teach them quickly—at least teach them how to use those new weapons, so they can live a few more days."

Yoshida left. Matsumoto stood alone on the training ground, watching the smoke rise from the distant front.

The sky began to snow again. Snowflakes fluttered, landing on the muddy ground, on the corpses in the trenches, on the shoulders of the living.

This snow will cover everything—bloodstains, corpses, pain, fear.

But it cannot cover the truth: the war continues, death continues, and what drives it all are political calculations and money deals far away, thousands of miles distant.

Matsumoto pulled a talisman that Yamada Miho had given him from his pocket and held it in his hand.

The talisman was light, yet heavy.

Because inside it held a sixteen‑year‑old girl's longing for her father, an unfulfillable wish, a tiny, faint warmth of humanity in this cruel world.

He gripped it tightly.

When you can grip it, grip it as tightly as possible.