Chapter 338: Eastern Front and the Sakura Nation: Illusory Glory

Eastern Front, newly occupied area, a village in eastern Poland.

Songben Haoer sat on the half‑collapsed farmhouse doorstep, holding a letter he had just received. The letter was sent from home, routed through Kiel Port, and took over a month to arrive.

The envelope was crumpled, but the handwriting remained clear—it was written by his younger sister Meihui.

Songben carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the paper. The letter was long, spanning four pages. Meihui, in her delicate script, detailed the events that had occurred at home over the past months:

Father's rheumatism flared up again, but he could still work the fields.

Mother found temporary work at the town's textile mill; it was hard, but it helped supplement the household.

The neighbor's son was reported killed, the family received a death benefit, and the parents wept until their eyes were almost blinded.

The town erected a "European Expeditionary Force Heroic Spirit Monument" inscribed with the names of local fallen soldiers. The mayor said that after the war ends, an even larger memorial will be built.

In the final paragraph of the letter, Meihui wrote:

"Brother, I saw news of a great victory on the Eastern Front in the newspaper. It said the Imperial Army thundered across Europe, crushing the Russians. The town's youths all admire you, calling you a hero. But brother, please be careful. The title of hero matters less than coming back alive. Mother goes to the shrine every morning and evening to pray for you, and I do the same. Please stay safe."

Songben read that passage three times over.

Hero.

Thundered across Europe.

Come back alive.

Those words whirled in his mind like ripples from a stone tossed into a pond, expanding in circles, then colliding and shattering into countless contradictory fragments.

"Instructor Songben!"

A voice interrupted his thoughts. Songben looked up and saw Major Jitian standing not far away, also holding a document.

"Major." Songben stood and saluted.

Jitian waved his hand, came over and sat beside him. The major looked far older than a month ago, with white hair at his temples and deeper wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"Did you get a letter from home?" Jitian asked, looking at the letter in his hand.

"Yes, from my sister," Songben said.

"What good news did it say?"

Songben hesitated briefly: "It said the home front is celebrating the Eastern Front victory, saying we are heroes."

Jitian smiled, a bitterness filling his grin: "Heroes… yes, we are all heroes."

He fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, handed Songben one, and lit one for himself. The two silently smoked, watching the village before them.

The Polish village was half empty. Those who could flee had fled; the remainder were the old, weak, and infirm. After the Japanese troops arrived, they requisitioned the best houses for headquarters and officer quarters, while soldiers lived in tents and crude barracks.

On the open ground at the village entrance, a newly erected wooden sign read "Great Sakura Empire Army 13th Division 25th Regiment." Beside the sign lay dozens of freshly dug graves—an skirmish three days earlier had claimed dozens more from the regiment.

"I just received orders from the division headquarters," Jitian exhaled a puff, "Our division will rest for two weeks, then move to a new defensive sector."

"New defensive sector? Where?"

"Further east," Jitian pointed eastward, "After the Russians fell back to the Minsk line, they reorganized their defenses. The Degjun command believes we should strike while they are still unstable. So after the rest period, we will join the next phase of the offensive."

Songben felt a chill: "But our division… casualties have already exceeded thirty percent. Many companies are incomplete, and the new recruits haven't finished training…"

"I know," Jitian cut him off, "But an order is an order. Moreover, the third batch of expeditionary troops at home has already begun mobilization. New reinforcements will arrive soon."

Third batch.

Songben recalled the first batch's swagger at the port, the second batch's bewilderment and fear when boarding. Now the third batch is coming.

More people, more lives, must be poured into this bottomless pit.

"Major," Songben suddenly asked, "Do you think… we really won?"

Jitian gave him a look: "Why ask that?"

"I read the battle reports," Songben said, "We indeed advanced three hundred kilometers and caused the Russians over a million casualties. But…" He gestured to the surrounding soldiers, "What about our losses? How many of the first batch remain? The second batch? When the third arrives, how long will they live?"

Jitian remained silent for a long time. The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers, the ash forming a long stub.

"Songben," he finally said, "You are clever, so you ask these questions. But sometimes cleverness is itself a pain."

He flicked off the ash: "The answer is simple—we didn't win, but we didn't lose either. We simply… exist. Exist as a commodity, as a bargaining chip…"

The words were blunt, even bordering on heresy. Yet Songben knew it was the truth.

"Then why continue?" he asked, "Why send a third batch? A fourth?"

"Because it's needed," Jitian said, "Deguo needs troops to wear down the Russians, the home front needs foreign exchange to sustain its people, the army needs battle honors to maintain its standing, politicians need victories to win votes. As for us soldiers…"

He paused, his voice dropping lower: "All we need is to obey orders and try to stay alive. That is our entire value."

From afar came the whistle calling for assembly. Afternoon training was about to begin.

Jitian stood, brushed the dust off himself, "Let's go. Teach those recruits how to use the new weapons. At least give them a slightly better chance to stay alive before they die."

Songben stood, carefully folded his sister's letter and slipped it back into his close‑fitting pocket.

The paper pressed against his chest, warm with his body heat.

It was the temperature of home, proof of being alive.

It was also the final thought that sustained him to keep moving forward.

On the training ground, over thirty recruits formed three rows. Their average age was under twenty; their faces still bore youthful naivety, but the light in their eyes was different—not the confusion and fear of the first and second batches, but a strange, indoctrinated fervor.

Songben stood before them, holding a newly delivered "prototype automatic short rifle."

It is Lanfang's latest "product," based on the Lanfang MP18 submachine gun design but heavily simplified to cut costs. The whole gun is 80 cm long, weighs 4.2 kg, uses a 32‑round magazine, fires at 500 rounds per minute, Effective Range 150 meters.

Extremely cheap, easy to produce, and can be mass‑equipped. (Production cost is low, but selling to the Sakura Nation isn't cheap; the editor won't take the Sakura Nation lightly.)

Extremely lethal.

"Today I'll teach you to use the new weapon," Songben raised the gun, "Prototype automatic short rifle, designed specifically for trench warfare. Its purpose is to deliver overwhelming firepower at close Distance."

The recruits watched curiously at the oddly shaped gun. It wasn't as long as a rifle, nor as heavy as a machine gun; it looked… a bit unremarkable.

"Instructor," a tall skinny recruit raised his hand, "Is this gun… powerful?"

Songben recalled the test data from the training briefing: Distance 50 meters, a 10‑second sweep on a simulated trench target, Hit Rate reached 70%. If it were real people, no one in that trench would survive.