Chapter 411: Remnant Division

Xiao Lin suddenly burst out of the crowd, kneeling in the mud: "Division Commander! Please, I beg you! My squad… thirteen men, only three remain! Sergeant Imamura broke his rib, Corporal Yoshida's ears are going deaf, I… I have nightmares every night! I beg you, let us rest even for a week…"

Chai Wulong walked up to Xiao Lin and squatted down. Rain fell between them. Something twitched on the old general's face.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Ten… nineteen, sir."

"My son is also nineteen," Chai Wulong whispered, only Xiao Lin could hear, "studying law at university in Tokyo. He wrote asking: Father, what does war feel like? I replied: It's doing what you must do, even if you don't want to."

He stood up, raising his voice: "All of the Third Division, hear the order! Complete preparations within one hour! All wounded stay for transport to the field hospital; those who can move, take up arms and follow me to the train station. This is an order, no room for negotiation."

At 8 a. m., the soldiers began silently sorting their gear. No one protested, no one shouted. A cold, almost numb obedience enveloped the camp.

Imamura inspected the squad's weapons. Thirteen rifles, now only five remain functional— the others either have warped barrels, broken bolts, or were simply lost in combat. Ammunition is severely lacking, averaging fewer than thirty rounds per man. Not a single grenade remains, all spent in the Verdun trench battles.

Corporal Yoshida was sharpening his bayonet. His thirty‑year model sword had several nicks and a bent blade from close combat. He polished it earnestly, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Xiao Lin was writing a farewell letter. He wrapped it in waterproof oil paper and handed it to a severely wounded soldier who was certain to survive: "If I don't make it back, please find a way to send this to my sister. The address is on the back."

The wounded man lay on a stretcher, his abdomen bound in blood‑soaked bandages. He nodded, slipping the oil paper into his coat: "I will. You too… take care."

At 10 a. m., the column set out. Over eight hundred men—the Third Regiment's remaining force—formed three lines, trudging along the muddy road toward Baledic train station twenty kilometers away. The rain continued, turning the road into a river of sludge. Soldiers' boots sank in the mud, popping out with a "pop‑pop" sound.

Chai Wulong walked at the front of the column. He rode no horse— all the horses had been lost at Verdun. His silhouette in the rain appeared stooped, the hem of his dark‑gray coat splattered with mud. The fifty‑eight‑year‑old veteran had fought in the Russo‑Japanese War, commanded siege, mountain, and plain battles, but had never felt so exhausted.

It wasn't physical fatigue, but a weariness of the soul. He knew he was leading these youths toward another hell, and he was powerless to stop it.

On the railway, a freight train was already waiting. Not a passenger car, but a livestock‑transport sealed car— a wooden box nailed together, windowless, with only a few slits letting in light. The floor still held straw and animal dung.

"Get on! Quickly!"

Soldiers squeezed into the cars. Each carriage packed fifty men, leaving almost no room to turn. The doors closed, blocked from outside with wooden plugs. Inside, the carriage fell into half‑darkness, only the slits of light illuminating floating dust.

The train started, slowly moving north through rain and mist, toward the Somme River, toward the place that would become a new meat grinder.

Imamura sat in a corner, waves of pain pulsing from his broken rib. Through the slits he watched the French countryside flash by: bombed farmhouses, barren fields, skeletal tree trunks like skull fingers reaching toward the sky.

Xiao Lin leaned against him, rifle cradled in his arms, eyes closed, yet his eyelids trembled.

Corporal Yoshida hummed a soft melody, a folk song from the Sakura Nation: "Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms, twilight of late spring the sky will dawn…"

Other soldiers in the carriage gradually joined in humming. At first only a few, then more, until the whole carriage was singing. The voices echoed in the dark, stifling space, mingling with the clatter of wheels on rails, the patter of rain on the roof, and suppressed sobs.

They sang songs of home, heading toward a foreign battlefield.

Somme River area, south of Albe, July 15, 3 p. m.

The terrain here differed completely from Verdun. Endless open fields stretched out, wheat ripe but unharvested, glowing golden under the summer sun. The Somme River and its tributaries wound through, steep banks forming natural obstacles. Small villages dotted the hills, most razed by fire, leaving only broken walls and ruins.

The Degjun Second Army Group headquarters was set in an abandoned quarry fifteen meters underground in Albe. The site had originally mined limestone, but after the war broke out it was converted into an underground command post. The rock walls were damp, dripping with water, and the air reeked of mildew and disinfectant.

Army Group commander Fritz von Bellow, a lieutenant general, was receiving a report from the chief engineer. The fifty‑three‑year‑old Prussian aristocrat wore a tidy general's uniform, but the dark circles under his eyes revealed his lack of sleep.

"General, the first defensive line is essentially complete," the chief engineer said, pointing at a massive sand table. "Three kilometers deep, three trench lines, connected by communication trenches. Four layers of barbed wire, mines laid at key points. The machine‑gun bunker uses reinforced‑concrete, able to withstand direct hits from artillery under 152 mm caliber."

"What about the artillery positions?"

"They are dispersed on the reverse slope. Three hundred positions in total, with one hundred and twenty heavy guns. Ammunition reserves… calculated at fifty rounds per gun per day, enough for twelve days."

Bellow frowned: "Only twelve days? What if the campaign lasts longer?"

"Then it depends on whether logistics can keep up, General. The railway is often bombed by the British Army's aircraft, and transport convoys suffer heavy losses."

At that moment, the Chief of Staff entered, his face grave: "General, the advance train of the Sakura Nation troops has arrived. The remnants of the Third Division, about eight thousand men, are unloading at Albe station."

"Send them to the second defensive line," Bellow said without looking up, "the works there aren't fully finished yet and need manpower to reinforce."

"But General, these units just withdrew from Verdun, they are extremely fatigued, with severe casualties…"

"I understand," Bellow finally lifted his head, "but I have no choice. British artillery may open at any moment; every pair of hands is precious. Tell their commander I give them twenty‑four hours to rest, then they must move into the positions immediately."

The Chief of Staff wanted to speak further but stopped, finally just nodding: "Yes, General."