Chapter 402: We Won. You Fought Well

Chai Wulang looked out the window again. Ten kilometers away, in the direction of Hill 304, smoke filled the air. He could imagine the scene there: his soldiers treading over the bodies of comrades, charging into the French army's machine‑gun fire.

He recalled the words that Oshima Kenichi, the Army Minister, had whispered to him before leaving Tokyo: "Chai‑kun, I know this mission is difficult. But remember: every soldier who falls does so to secure a future for the Empire. Deguo promises us not only money, but also post‑war technology transfer, industrial cooperation, and even… support on the Yazhou issue."

Cost. Everything is cost.

At 11:20 a. m., a Mercedes military sedan, escorted by armored vehicles, entered the rear headquarters of the 3rd Division. The door opened, and Grand General Erich von Falkenhayn, the Deguo General Staff's First Quartermaster (in fact the Chief of Staff), stepped out.

The planner of the Verdun battle wore a crisp army‑grand‑general uniform, his chest covered with medals. Yet his eye bags were deep and his face weary—over the past five months, Verdun had been a bottomless meat grinder, devouring his elite troops and his sleep.

Chai Wulang led all the headquarters officers in a formation to greet him.

"Grand General Falkenhayn, welcome to the front inspection," Chai Wulang said in German, rendering a standard Degjun salute.

Falkenhayn returned the salute, his gaze sweeping the surroundings: the makeshift headquarters, the muddy road, distant muffled artillery, and the soldiers in Degjun uniforms with Yazhou faces—curiously watching the second‑in‑command of the Deguo supreme command, yet none dared approach.

"General Chai," Falkenhayn began, his voice hoarse, "I come by Your Majesty's order to pay a visit to the front‑line troops. Your Majesty is deeply impressed by your unit's heroic performance."

The two entered the headquarters. Falkenhayn declined tea and walked straight to the map.

"What is the current battle situation?"

Chai Wulang pointed with his command baton at Hill 304: "My 3rd Division has achieved a Breakthrough to this point, Distance to the main peak is 800 meters in a straight line. But the French reserve is reinforcing, and artillery is getting heavier. The 2nd Division meets stiff resistance toward Dead‑Man Mountain, advancing slowly. Overall, the front's depth averages 3 kilometers, reaching a maximum of 4.2 kilometers."

"Casualties?"

"As of an hour ago, eight divisions have suffered over ten thousand killed and seriously wounded combined. Light injuries have not been tallied."

Falkenhayn's finger tapped the map: "Ten thousand… for ten kilometers. General Chai, do you think it's worth it?"

The question was blunt, even cruel.

Chai Wulang was silent for a few seconds: "Grand General is asking me for the view of a soldier, or of the Sakura National Master Corps commander?"

"Let's hear both."

"As a soldier: we have completed the set operational objectives, torn open the French line, and created opportunities for the Degjun main force. A mission is a mission; it's irrelevant whether it's worth it."

"And as the Sakura National Master Corps commander?"

Chai Wulang inhaled deeply: "One quarter of my twenty thousand soldiers have already fallen. They die on foreign soil ten thousand kilometers from home, wearing another nation's uniform, for another nation's war. Grand General asks if it's worth it… I don't know how to answer."

The headquarters fell silent. Lieutenant Colonel Kelao Ze shifted uneasily.

Falkenhayn stared at Chai Wulang for a long time, then suddenly said: "I understand. I have seen too many sacrifices on the Eastern Front. But war is like this: someone always has to pay the price, someone always has to make the hard choice."

He walked to the observation post, lifted his binoculars, and looked toward the front: "General Chai, do you know what Verdun means to Deguo?"

"Please enlighten me."

"If we fail here, the Western Front will become completely stalemated. A stalemate means a war of attrition, and Deguo… cannot out‑last Yingguo and Faguo. They have endless overseas colonial resources and covert support from the United States. We only have Europe itself, and it is blockaded."

Falkenhayn set down the binoculars and turned: "So Verdun must be won. No matter the cost. Your soldiers' sacrifice, Degjun soldiers' sacrifice, all serve to give this country a chance to survive. In that sense, their blood will not be shed in vain."

Chai Wulang said nothing. He understood these grand principles, but the crippled young bodies lying in the field hospital could not grasp them.

"Your Majesty entrusted me to deliver a message," Falkenhayn took a delicate wooden box from his aide, opened it, and revealed a first‑class Iron Cross: "'The German Empire will never forget true friends.' This is awarded personally to you, General Chai. As for unit commendations, they will be handled after the battle."

Chai Wulang took the medal. The metal was heavy, its icy touch traveling from his fingertips.

"Thank Your Majesty."

At 1:00 p. m., Falkenhayn insisted on inspecting the front‑line field hospital.

It was a clearing in a forest, dotted with dozens of tents. The air reeked of blood, disinfectant, and rot. There were too many wounded; many could only lie on stretchers exposed to the open sky. Moans, cries, and doctors' shouts blended together.

Chai Wulang escorted Falkenhayn past row after row of stretchers. They saw: a soldier whose entire leg had been blown off, the gauze‑wrapped stump still bleeding; another with a bullet in the abdomen, intestines spilling out as a military doctor tried to push them back; and a younger one, his face swathed in bandages, only his eyes visible, those eyes hollow and heartbreaking.

All the wounded wore Degjun uniforms, but their exposed black hair, yellow skin, and occasional Japanese‑language groans revealed their identity.

Falkenhayn stopped before a middle‑aged wounded man. The man had lost an arm but remained relatively conscious.

"Where are you from?" Falkenhayn asked in German.

The wounded soldier stared blankly at him. Chai Wulang translated into Japanese.

"Hiroshima, sir," the soldier answered weakly.

"Why did you enlist?"

The soldier was silent for a few seconds: "For money, sir. My family has five younger brothers and sisters to feed… they say we get twenty pounds a month…"

Falkenhayn nodded, signaling his aide to record the man's name and unit number.

They continued forward. In a relatively quiet corner, a military doctor was injecting morphine into a severely wounded soldier. The soldier looked under twenty, a bullet through the chest; each breath forced blood foam from his mouth.

"Does he have any chance of survival?" Chai Wulang asked.

The doctor shook his head: "The lung lobe is pierced, bleeding won't stop. Morphine only makes the death more comfortable."

The soldier's eyes suddenly opened. He saw the stars on Chai Wulang's shoulder, struggled to salute. Chai Wulang held his hand.

"Corps commander… Sir…," the soldier managed, "Did we… win?"

Chai Wulang squeezed his hand: "We won. You fought well."

The soldier smiled, a faint smile. Then the light in his eyes slowly faded.

Falkenhayn watched in silence the whole time. When they left the field hospital, the iron‑blooded Deguo Grand General whispered: "Sometimes I wonder… do we planners really understand the meaning behind these numbers?"

No one answered.