Chapter 389: Changing Uniforms

A young soldier, probably only nineteen, stood holding the uniform he had been issued. He opened the package and picked up the M1916 steel helmet—its shape completely different from the Sakura Nation's Type 90 iron hat, rounder, deeper, with protruding ventilation holes on the side.

"Put it on and try," the sergeant beside him said.

The young soldier hesitated, slowly placing the steel helmet on his head. It was too large, almost covering his eyes. He adjusted the strap, and the helmet settled. The deep‑gray shell bore a white‑painted Degjun eagle emblem on the side.

The surrounding comrades watched him, their eyes showing surprise, absurdity, and a trace of indefinable sorrow.

"Turn around," the sergeant ordered.

The young soldier turned. In that instant, every Sakura Nation soldier who saw him fell silent. The deep‑gray Degjun uniform, the unfamiliar steel helmet, only his Yazhou face remained familiar—yet even that face, set against foreign attire, looked jarring and strange.

A Sakura Nation soldier, dressed in Degjun uniform.

The scene was so discordant, so surreal, yet it unfolded before the eyes with stark reality.

"Next!" a Degjun logistics soldier shouted in halting Japanese.

The re‑uniforming lasted the whole afternoon. By dusk, the camp's appearance had completely changed. Deep‑gray figures replaced the tan uniforms, German‑style steel helmets supplanted Japanese‑style iron hats. Only the Type 38 rifles in the soldiers' hands and the 30‑year model swords at their waists still bore Sakura Nation markings.

Chai Wulang completed the re‑uniforming inside his own tent. He looked at his reflection: a deep‑gray officer's uniform, golden shoulder boards, two rows of medals—Deguo and Sakura Nation—across his chest, and an officer‑grade steel helmet inlaid with a golden eagle emblem.

The person in the mirror was both familiar and alien. He was still Chai Wulang, yet he no longer seemed to be the commander of the Sakura Nation's 3rd Division.

The deputy officer pulled back the tent flap and entered, also donning a Degjun uniform. He saluted—his movement a little awkward, because the Degjun and Japanese salute differed slightly.

"Commander, all battalions report that the re‑uniforming is essentially complete. But… morale is low. Many soldiers refuse to leave the tents, and some are quietly weeping,"

Chai Wulang closed his eyes: "Understood. Issue the orders—tonight's extra rations, each soldier gets an additional can of beef and a pack of cigarettes. Tell the troops that tomorrow a Degjun instructor will arrive for a week‑long joint training. One week later, we'll mobilize toward the Western Front."

"Yes," the deputy officer hesitated, "Commander, do we really have to…"

"Execute the order," Chai Wulang cut him off, his voice weary.

After the deputy left, Chai Wulang stepped outside the tent. The setting sun bathed the entire camp in golden light. Soldiers in Degjun uniforms moved among the tents, and in the distance someone played the harmonica, performing "Sakura Ballad"—a mournful melody drifting through the foreign dusk.

At that moment, a sedan bearing the Deguo flag rolled into the camp. After it stopped, several Deguo officers disembarked, led by a Major General—tall, with blond hair and blue eyes.

"General Chai!" the Deguo Major General greeted in halting Japanese, extending his hand, "I am Hans von Sekte, temporary commander of the Degjun 10th Group Army's liaison chief. Pleased to cooperate with you."

Chai Wulang grasped the hand, feeling the other's palm dry and firm.

"General Sekte, welcome," he replied in German—after eight months on the Eastern Front he had learned basic German—"the troops are re‑uniforming and may need more time to adjust."

"Understood, fully understood," Sekte nodded, scanning the camp, "but time waits for no one. Verdun urgently needs reinforcements. One week of training, then we must depart."

He paused, lowering his voice: "General Chai, I know this arrangement… is unusual. Yet trust that Deguo appreciates Sakura Nation's assistance. His Majesty Emperor William has personally pledged that every combatant will receive the highest level of treatment and respect."

"Thank you for His Majesty's concern," Chai Wulang replied formally, "my soldiers will fulfill their duties."

"Very well," Sekte smiled, though the smile didn't reach his eyes, "then let's begin work. First, we must determine the unit's new designation, new flag, and… the new command structure."

The two walked toward the command tent. The setting sun stretched their shadows long, two soldiers in identical uniforms but from completely different worlds, marching side by side.

Behind them, more cooking smoke rose in the camp. Dinnertime arrived; soldiers gathered around the fire, eating the extra canned rations and smoking Deguo cigarettes. Some were silent, some whispered, some stared at the eagle emblem on their Degjun steel helmets, eyes vacant.

Night fell. Kerosene lamps were lit across the camp, their dim halos flickering between tents. In the distance, the faint sound of the Dniester River's flow could be heard, like a long sigh.

The re‑uniforming was complete.

The Sakura Nation's 3rd Division, at least on the surface, had become a component of the Degjun temporary 10th Group Army.

Tomorrow, training will begin.

A week later, they will board a train heading west, toward Verdun, toward the place dubbed "the meat grinder."

And the beginning of all this traced back to a luncheon at Berlin's Carefree Palace, a late‑night meeting at the Tokyo Prime Minister's Residence, and three words spoken in the Dubai Presidential Palace:

He added money.

The world is changing, the rules are twisting, old boundaries are blurring.

June 25, the dense fog along the North Sea coast once again shrouded Port William.

Marshal Tirpitz stood by the window on the third floor of the headquarters building, a cup of long‑cooled coffee in hand. He gazed at the ship silhouettes in the harbor, faint through the fog—some under repair, scaffolding webbing the hulls like spider‑silk; others fully restored, yet their smokestacks silent, moored calmly on the water like sleeping steel beasts.

Three days have passed.

Since Berlin adopted Lanfang's "uniform ruse" plan and shifted all focus to the reorganization and western deployment of the Eastern Front Sakura Nation forces, naval pressure seemed to ease temporarily. Yet Tirpitz knew this was only the calm before the storm. Emperor William II would not forget the navy; he was merely distracted by the army's urgent needs for now.

"Marshal."

Chief of Staff Major General Trotter pushed the door open, holding a freshly received telegram. His complexion was poor, lips tightly pressed.

"Berlin is pressing again?" Tirpitz did not turn, his tone as calm as if discussing the weather.

"It's not a nudge, it's an order," Trotter placed the telegram on the windowsill table, "directly from the Emperor's Chamberlain, demanding the Navy submit a detailed timetable for the fleet's full sortie within forty‑eight hours. The wording… is quite harsh."

Tirpitz finally turned, lifted his coffee cup and took a sip. The bitter liquid made him frown slightly, but he needed the bitterness to stay alert.

"Let me see."

The telegram was written on top‑grade official stationery, the Ho‑Hohen‑Sollen family's eagle emblem stamped in the upper left. Its content was concise and cold:

"To the Navy: His Majesty the Emperor commands that the open‑sea fleet achieve full combat readiness by July 10 and draft a concrete sortie plan. Objective: break Yingguo's blockade of the North Sea, sink at least one Yingguo capital ship, to boost domestic morale and relieve army pressure. Submit a detailed proposal within forty‑eight hours. Chamberlain's Director, von Miller."

"July 10…" Tirpitz repeated the date softly, "still fifteen days away."