JULY 17, UNIFIED YEAR 1927, HEADED FOR ILDOA
Despite the fact that U-091 under Major Otto von Elm is a standard fleet submarine, it's currently sailing openly on the surface.
A submarine that voluntarily reveals itself.
That probably sends a message in and of itself. In order to reinforce the idea of innocently passing through, it proceeds at a leisurely pace toward the horizon, leaving a small wake behind as it enters Ildoan waters.
Regardless of how it would have gone at night, if a sub is not diving but confidently flying the imperial flag as it approaches in broad daylight, Ildoa has to respond whether it wants to or not.
And Ildoan Navy HQ responds promptly.
More specifically, they broadcast a call to guide the goodwill visitors over all channels. And how kind of them to send it unencrypted as well. They send it multiple times so that the friendly nation is sure to pick up the message.
After enough time passes, the Ildoan fleet sends a torpedo squadron to greet the ship that Tanya and her unit are hitching a lift on.
Thus, receiving a courteous welcome from the friendly neutral country, and even exchanging a polite gun salute, U-091, flying its imperial and military flags, glides over the Inner Sea, announcing the Empire's presence the whole way.
The accompanying Ildoan boats surround U-091, creating a ring formation with the submarine at its center. Interpreting this kindly, for them to situate a vessel that isn't even a capital ship right in the middle, they must be escorting us, wary of any interference from the Commonwealth Navy.
Then again, their cannons are pointed ever so slightly inward. I suppose that means we better not do anything funny?
Regardless, watching the majestic torpedo squadron's maneuvers is pleasant. The view from the deck is quite spectacular. It wouldn't be possible without the beautiful friendship between Ildoa and the Empire.
They're a wonderful friend. What a wonderful friend.
That's why, just in case, I have my unit lined up in ceremonial dress on the deck. If necessary, they're ready to scramble from the submarine, board the nearest destroyer, and fire three rounds of explosion formulas at any exposed flammables to set off secondary explosions. They're prepared for action in the most inoffensive way possible.
The most nerve-racking moment is when an Ildoan plane flies overhead. Looking at the silhouette, I spot a familiar cockade. How could I possibly miss the This fighter plane was made in the Commonwealth emblazoned on the plane. I'm seized by terror for an instant—until I also spot the Ildoan insignia.
A plane made in an enemy country is flying over our submarine! Seeing how nervous Elm is, his expression tense, I have to admit I understand only too well.
An enemy plane overhead is the worst situation for a submarine.
How much better I would feel if we could shoot down the wing-waving shitbirds.
"The Ildoans give intense greetings. Don't you find it impressive, Captain?"
"To be sure, Colonel. I'd like to ring the emergency dive bell out of embarrassment."
"I feel exactly the same. But we're under strict orders from the General Staff to enter port with a smile."
"Ahhh." I wince slightly. "I'm not even sure how to be friendly. I've been spending so much time deepening my friendship with the Commies out east. I don't know what else to use besides a shovel."
"A shovel?"
"Oh, maybe the navy does it differently? Soldiers on the eastern front confirm our bonds of kinship with Commies by exchanging shovel blows."
"Ah, so Rhine-style?"
"Exactly." I nod. Savagery, violence, and the abnormal have been my
ever-present companions for too long.
I've come to accept that my subordinates are warped, but come to think of it, there's no guarantee that I haven't been affected as well.
Tanya winces.
"…I guess I have to at least remember how we did things during peacetime."
Of the years she has been part of the Imperial Army, they were truly at peace for less than two. Can you really afford to be choosy when it comes to work?
Something a state at war shouldn't be able to hope for: a peaceful entry at a foreign port.
The Ildoan military band grandly performs both countries' anthems, the imperial and Ildoan flags are flying high, and—astonishingly—there are even children holding bouquets at the ready.
There are no camera-wielding reporters, and the Ildoan military's presence and intent to keep a tight rein on the whole situation can be felt here and there overall… Even so, the atmosphere is relaxed.
I'll admit that this feeling is hard to put into words. The best I can do is call it "casual." It's unbelievably cheerful compared to the imperial ports, which have transformed into military black boxes to maintain absolute secrecy when warships are coming and going.
How peaceful Ildoa is during this war compared to the Empire.
Maybe that's why? I just realized something I expected to see that is conspicuously missing from view.
There aren't any of the familiar concrete U-boat bunkers.
Even though we're arriving in a U-boat, we're docking not in a bunker but out in the open like any other boat! It's not an exaggeration to say that this is the first time in my life that I've moored at a pier in a submarine.
As I cross the gangway to shore, it's surprisingly novel that I can see the sky overhead. It's blue. Looking up at Ildoa's clear, ultramarine sky, I can't help but feel inexplicably irritated.
It must be because a Commonwealth-made fighter plane is banking to say hello. I hope that's all it does.
It's not exactly an issue of taste, but the fact that what I assume is the welcoming party from the military is wearing crisply starched uniforms bothers me.
Though the imperial side managed to do something about their appearance, they're still soldiers. Once they're on land, they all have to remember the manners they haven't needed to use since leaving the academy.
Though Elm represents the submarine in the meeting with the high-ranking officers who came for a courtesy visit, as long as I'm present at proceedings, I have to at least muster a salute.
It feels like it's been a strangely long time since I've seen such uncreased suits outside of photographs. And of course, the Ildoan military personnel are directing rude stares filled with surprise when they notice my short stature.
Be friendly? How am I supposed to manage that?
The only reason I'm not immediately crushed by the mounting strain is a change in the environment. An escape or perhaps a helping hand. When I finally make a run for it, thanks to embassy personnel and Colonel Calandro's planning, my gratitude is definitely heartfelt.
That's how Tanya and the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion part with Elm and the submariners to board a specially arranged train.
A fun railway tour of Ildoa! With your fun Ildoan pals! Is this how our General Staff–sponsored travels begin?
-x-X-x-
THE SAME DAY, AFTERNOON, THE CROSS-ILDOA RAILWAY, THE DINING CAR
Ker-clack, ker-clack. Ker-clack, ker-clack.
The sound of the swaying train car is familiar to anyone who has traveled by rail before. Yet, Tanya has been tormented by an indescribable sense of incongruity since departing from the station.
She can't seem to relax even when guided to the dining car, which is brimming with rich aromas.
The party from the embassy are smiling pleasantly and the group with
Colonel Calandro, who seem to be the welcome crew, apparently don't mind at all, but my subordinates are hesitant.
What is this strange feeling?
Maybe the gap between the front lines and the rear is just rather large— something like that?
But thinking about it doesn't help. I'll just have to dig into it later. I decide to give up for now, but when I reach for the carafe of water on the table, a thought suddenly occurs to me.
"Why is the carafe made of glass?"
It's made of glass and not securely stowed. Why would something like this be left carelessly on the table? If it were left as is and the car shook, it would break.
But inside the train swaying with its ker-clack, ker-clack, the carafe wobbled almost imperceptibly.
"Oh, I see."
Once I figured it out, turns out the reason was really quite simple. "…Well, this is just…"
It's too quiet. The swaying is so slight.
If Lieutenant Colonel Uger from the Railroad Department were here, he would surely elaborate on the minute differences, but a layperson like Tanya can only recognize discrepancies on the superficial level.
Still, there is one thing I know for sure: The Ildoans are on top of their maintenance. At the very least, they're doing a far more thorough job than the Imperial Army's rails that stretch to the eastern front.
I understand in an instant what there is to envy about Ildoa's trains. They're rolling embodiments of peace. Just the fact that the rails run straight without twisting is enough to grasp the value of peace.
And Ildoans can probably get their hands on as much glass as they want. "…I'm green with envy."
The dividends peace pays are fantastic. If possible, I'd like the Reich to profit from them even just for a day.
Having murmured that much, Tanya turns to the item she's been averting her eyes from until this moment.
Set casually in the center of the table is a beautifully woven basket. If you can believe it, inside is a mountain of bread. It's the bread of breads, made with processed white flour.
The waiter left it there saying we could help ourselves as if it were nothing.
"Help ourselves?"
In the Empire, even the classic ersatz bread, K-Brot, comes in limited supply.
Here, however, there is a dazzling array of different kinds, all the highest quality. Even if they're not freshly baked, the service people must have warmed it. The sweet fragrance in the air is a cruel assault on my sense of smell.
This scent…
How seductive. It makes me want to reach out right away.
…Aggravatingly, my lunch companion, Colonel Calandro, is late. What could possibly be keeping him from the dining car?
If he means to postpone this meal when I'm sitting right in front of it…I'm not averse to employing an unfortunate stray bullet. Well, no, I suppose that's overkill. But this is highly unpleasant.
Failing to be punctual is absolutely something I hold against people.
Right as my annoyance builds to a boil, a voice calls out to me from behind, and I straighten up.
"So sorry, Colonel Degurechaff! I seem to have kept you waiting." "Oh…! Colonel!"
Gesturing with his right hand that I can remain seated and apologizing with his left, he sits in the seat opposite of me.
"Your home country's officials are trying to pack your schedule full of parties while you're in town."
"To think we're that popular. They want to deepen our friendship so much that it would be a shame to put us out?"
"Ha-ha, very funny, Colonel." He waves her concerns off. "It took some time, but…I finally got it through the idiotic bureaucrats' heads. I guarantee you'll be able to sightsee at your leisure. Of course"—he exaggerates his expression for effect—"I'm sure you don't want to waste your time with official welcome parties, but I did arrange one simple, unofficial dinner. Once that's done, you're truly free."
Dinner as a formality with colleagues, and then we're let loose?!
"I couldn't avoid at least one. Just think of it as a courtesy call and accompany me."
The plan he so nonchalantly explains is actually quite generous, considering the circumstances. I was imagining a formal tour while under heavy surveillance, so this is unexpected.
"On behalf of my troops, thank you so much for arranging everything."
"I only did what's natural." He nods benevolently and his expression noticeably relaxes. "Now then, that's enough shoptalk. Entertaining an acquaintance who was kind to me on the eastern front is infinitely more meaningful than meeting with military bureaucrats and bashing one another over the head with stuffy decorum."
"Everything you say is so rich with implications, Colonel Calandro."
Calandro plasters on a smile to show he doesn't hate the flattery. I guess if we're going to sound each other out and still keep things pleasant, this is probably how it should go.
"But look, Colonel. This warm sunshine can make anyone a poet, an orator, or even a musician. I adore this sunny rail line."
He goes on animatedly about how Ildoa is a "world of light." He launches into a solo act, speaking at length on his feelings about the sun, history and lemons, and how wonderful blood oranges are.
Here I am, practically starving, and he's lecturing me on citrus fruits. What a guy. Just as Tanya begins having trouble keeping her cheeks from twitching, he finally brings it to a close.
"Ah." He winces, seeming to have noticed what he was doing. "Sorry, I can be a bit long-winded."
As a person with social skills, I smile vaguely and maintain my silence. It's not only pointless but actively harmful to affirm or reject monologues like this. It's much safer to smile and sip your tea.
Finally, I decide to assume an innocent expression and change the subject. "Actually, I'm surprised. I was sure we'd be put on a military train."
"I can't have you underestimating us like that, Colonel. I mean, this is supposed to be a sightseeing trip for honored guests from an allied nation."
Not unexpectedly, he gives a deflecting answer in response to her probing comment.
"This is a luxury Ildoan train ride. I wouldn't say it can compete with the grand welcome you offered me on the eastern front, but this isn't half-bad, right?"
"Dear me, how embarrassing. Please consider our sad offerings on the
eastern front a product of the unwieldy battlefield and forgive us." We exchange jabs, sounding each other out.
-x-X-x-
[Image]
-x-X-x-
That said, I don't hold anything against Calandro. The reverse is probably true as well.
Ildoa wants to maintain a delicate distance from the Empire and the other warring states. The Empire wants to tell them to make it clear they side with the Empire. As representatives of their respective nations, we are merely going back and forth according to the script, expressions only as serious as our salaries can afford.
But ultimately, there are no personal grudges here. Once we've said what needs to be said, I'm sure we'll do each other the favor of letting up.
"I wouldn't expect a full-course meal on the battlefield. It's peacetime here, though, so you might have doubts or reservations if we offered anything less. I hope our hospitality doesn't come up short."
"…No, Colonel. I'm enjoying myself very much at the moment." "Don't be too hasty. The welcome banquet hasn't even started yet!" Tanya glances away in silence.
As if she could possibly admit that she was enjoying the fragrance of the bread. It's probably a good time to change the subject.
"Could I see the menu?"
"Of course. What would you like?"
"I'm fresh off the battlefield. I'll eat anything edible." I smile awkwardly and decide to ask a question to be polite. "And I still have the habit of collecting information. May I have your recommendation, Colonel?"
"Certainly. I'm happy to recommend something." "Thank you."
"Not at all. Hmm, what do I recommend…? All the seafood is delicious. Not that the meat is bad…" After a moment, he makes his declaration. "The fish here is exquisite. My personal opinion is that very few fish are truly tasty, so you have to enjoy them when you get the chance."
"That's a strong recommendation. Is the fish really that good?"
"I'm glad you asked!" answers Calandro happily. "A train departing from a navy port is no exception. Each unit takes great care when procuring seafood. They're all really something."
"The army assists in procurement?"
"No, not like that." He lowers his voice a bit and confides in an amused tone, "On an individual level… As a soldier in the field yourself, I'm sure you know how it goes, Colonel Degurechaff."
"You mean stealing?"
The loud clap of his hands sounds. Then he puts on an ambiguous smile. "Those gluttons who run the kitchen have many friends."
"They must get along really well if they offer up fish for dinner."
"They're masters of the great game. The kitchens here always have fish as good or even better than what you can find at the port."
Fresh fish anytime.
The security of a perpetual source of desirable goods, a good connect. "How scandalous."
"Is the Empire any different?"
"Ha-ha-ha!" I laugh off the comment and finally take a look at the menu. It's true that the same kind of thing occurs in the Empire. If you personally know the person in charge, anything can be streamlined.
As someone who has mutual understanding with high-ranking officers in the General Staff such as Lieutenant Colonel Uger and Colonel Lergen and had an easier time getting supplied as a result, I'm not really in any position to talk.
"Colonel, though we serve different flags, we're both soldiers."
"The stomach and the army—two topics that can't really be rhetorical. Reality is no fun, and they conform to reality." Tanya smiles faintly at Calandro. "After all, I'd rather have three square meals than romance. It's only a matter of course that the ones with full stomachs should come out on top."
Just look at warm meals. How difficult it is to prepare nutritious ingredients, acquire the fuel to heat them, and supply them to the troops without anything going wrong!
With fresh seafood, getting it to the front lines would be an enterprise on par with sending a probe to the moon. Which is why the guys from finance in the home country tell us to make do with K-Brot.
"I guess I'll take full advantage of this rare chance and try this marinade." "Oh, an adventurous eater? You're a rare one. I've heard most people
from the Empire are fairly conservative when it comes to food."
"Enjoying the flavors of a different land is about the only fun a soldier in the field can look forward to."
"With a career like yours, I suppose that's true. You must be enjoying all the different flavors everywhere you go. And I bet you've got quite a
discerning palate."
If I were eating nice things, sure is the barbed comment I swallow in silence. No need to openly broadcast how egregious imperial logistics are.
Unless some true divine intervention occurs, the only foreign food I get to enjoy at all comes from seized canned goods.
Or provisions requisitioned locally.
Depending on the time and place, locally requisitioned provisions can be tasty, but…usually it's just the sort of thing you'd expect.
"By the way, Colonel. I'll have fish for my main, but…I'm also quite excited about the opening skirmish."
"A sharp observation, Colonel. You don't let any details slip past you." The happily smiling Ildoan begins speaking on the charms of meat. "For an appetizer, maybe a light tartare? What do you think? It's a bit different from in the Empire…but they get quality steak. I praised the fish, but the meat is also quite good."
"Is it more about making the most of the natural flavors, or is there a secret sauce?"
"Colonel, I hardly need to tell you this, but…there's the term fog of war.
You can't always get the information you want."
Calandro seems to be enjoying himself, and I honestly don't see anything wrong with going along. So Tanya nods.
"Then I guess it's time for an officer patrol." "Indeed. Your choice?"
"When in Rome, do as the Romans. I think I'll eat what the Ildoans often do, since it's not like I get the chance every day. I'll try the tartare and the marinade. Oh. Of course, you'll allow me to add that I expect it to be delicious?"
"I guarantee it, Colonel Degurechaff. For someone who isn't used to it… the flavors might be a bit strong. The fresh fish marinade is absolutely fantastic, though."
Upon taking their order, the waiter promptly serves a light potage. It's clear that this is similar to what we'd call surinagashi in Japan.
Even from this fancy first dish, the care and skill that went into the preparation is immediately apparent.
Will this be any good…? I didn't have particularly high expectations, but reality has served up a bitter truth along with the savory dish. This appetizer,
the tartare, has been served boldly with only salt and pepper to taste.
This dish is so simple that if the meat were poor quality, it would be completely inedible…but instead, I find myself impressed by its concentrated umami.
Above all, the faintly stimulating spices that bring out the sweetness of the meat! The way this heightens your appetite is nothing like poor-quality tartares that mask the raw funkiness of the meat with generous helpings of pepper.
With a tongue used to bratwurst made of odds and ends, I nearly get bowled over by the palpable taste of civilization. I'd nearly forgotten what fine dining was like, and the excellence nearly makes me drool.
It's so good.
It's good, full stop, no disclaimers.
Paired with a crisp baguette, it's perfect. This is what it means to want to eat every last drop of sauce. How pleasant it is to be able to scatter bread crumbs on the table without violating any etiquette. And even better, lightly sparkling water is served intermittently by the incredibly attentive waitstaff.
I'm used to drinking muddy water, but here I can taste the sweetness of the minerals so clearly it's almost irritating.
Ildoan meat is formidable.
Lieutenant Colonel Tanya von Degurechaff gives her honest impressions to Calandro and extends her unstinting praise to the chef.
"Colonel, if your palate is that discerning, then the main dish… Actually, no. It would be tactless to put it into words now. Please just have a taste."
As if taking Calandro's comments as a cue, the waiter brings out the white fish marinade.
I'm not certain, but it seems like sea bass? There are many ingredients I've never seen before used in this presentation-conscious dish.
Of course, by this point, I can't rule out the possibility that it looks better than it tastes.
Though I've grown accustomed to this world's standards, I'm still essentially Japanese, and I think I'm quite demanding when it comes to any type of fish dish. It looks like it's been cooked nicely through. And the way the white flesh is plated demonstrates decent skill.
But there are few sauces that go well with fish.
Even if Ildoans give it their seal of approval…
That's the arrogant thought that crosses my mind as I take a bite, but then I'm struck by amazement.
The first thing I taste is a refreshing acidity. Citrus. Probably lemon. While the flavors are complex and layered, they come together in my mouth to perform an immaculately composed concerto.
I maintain a degree of composure as I analyze that initial bite, but what's truly astounding is the sauce covering my taste buds.
Upending the preconception I held that sauces are these heavy condiments, the marinade is a delicate mix of salty and sweet, some olive oil, and a dash of vinegar that come together to create a complex, multilayered flavor. It's soaked into the fish and melts along with its fat in my mouth.
What a superb melody.
And by no means is the sauce too light. Yet, if asked whether it's heavy, I would definitely say no. It retains a freshness, something that enhances the fish's charm beyond its natural limitations.
What could it be? Putting this flavor into words seems like a silly exercise.
Certainly, for a main, it seems light on its own. But only until you put it in your mouth!
Once it's on your tongue, you have no choice but to experience the rich flavor permeating the white flesh.
Sweetness, acidity, and most important of all, umami—this dish achieves a perfect harmony.
No wonder Calandro was going on about the sun and citrus fruits earlier.
This is a flavor worthy of that monologue.
I help myself to the sparkling water and reset my palate before diving back in. The second bite of the sauce-covered white flesh is no less impressive than the first. The savory taste doesn't scatter but remains neatly bundled.
The most surprising aspect is the immaculate balance.
When saliva production increases and the tongue rebounds from the first impact, that's when the second layer of umami presents itself. The lightness of the sauce allows the flavor of the fish itself to come through beautifully as well, never overpowering it.
"Well, how is it? From where I'm sitting, you seem satisfied…"
"For the first time in my life, the word surrender crossed my mind. I am thoroughly defeated."
"It's good enough to make the Empire's Silver Wings admit defeat, hmm?" Calandro chuckles in amusement. "The chef's valorous deed will be the stuff of legend. Fascinating!"
He murmurs it casually. Though the Ildoan colonel is implying many things with that offhand comment, it's probably just to keep the conversation moving. I could let it go.
But hearing an Ildoan talk about "valorous deeds" gives Tanya pause as someone who's been covered in mud on the front lines.
"Valorous deed?"
"You fight with guns and the chef fights with his knife skills. They're not so different at the end of the day."
"…All men are equal on the receiving end of an artillery barrage, and it's not such a bad thing. You Ildoans are welcome in our trenches anytime."
Even after taking that jab, Calandro hardly reacts as he reaches for his glass of red wine.
The way he leisurely brings the glass to his lips the moment the waiter deftly tops it off can only mean he is ignoring her comment. Apparently, Ildoans are ever true to their raison d'état.
"Colonel, ultimately, that gap is what separates me and you. We live in the same world, but sadly we breathe very different air."
"You're quite right."
"That said, perhaps I went too far. I hope you'll forgive me."
"No, I'm also at fault. Perhaps I got too comfortable and let my tongue slip with you because we spent some time on the eastern front together."
A friendly apology offered as social etiquette dictates.
As long as he doesn't bear Tanya any personal ill will, it'd be preferable to get along with him. That's how I feel about the matter.
After all, it's wonderful to have a connection in a neutral country.
In wartime, that's incredibly valuable. She wants to take this rare opportunity of the sightseeing trip through Ildoa to become closer. Which is why she politely stands.
"That was delicious."
"It was perfect aside from the conversation, right?"
I hum in response and bow. "The fish was delectable. Please tell the chef
I'll be looking forward to the next meal. For now, I'd better be going."
The members of the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion who were on board the train were given exclusive access to two luxury train cars. Two first-class cars. And from the interior, you'd think they were furnished for generals.
After leaving the dining car and sitting down in her luxury compartment, Tanya heaves a sigh.
Honestly, I can't relax. This is too uncomfortable.
No, there's nothing wrong with the service. The seats are comfy; I'm being waited on hand and foot like a high-ranking officer.
Truly, I have no complaints.
What they call "post-meal service" is brought by a serving boy, and the coffee and cinnamon biscuits are high quality.
It's like they're deliciousness given shape and form.
I'm not averse to admitting they've done a great job. The rear is peaceful, civilized, and above all, rich. This is the embodiment of all that Tanya longs for.
"That's why it's so painful… How could I…?"
I'm jealous. To think I'd be overtaken by such an irrational emotion. "So now even good food is a problem?"
The delicious coffee rubs the difference between us and them in my face.
Flavors are honest. They can't be faked so easily.
"The minimum required for meals" is only slightly removed from "the minimum required for civilized meals," but the two are worlds apart. People say that you cannot live on bread alone, but…in this world, Being X probably doesn't understand that, even though it should be obvious.
There are some minimum basics to reality that are indispensable in order to have freedom of spirit.
"I guess I'm tired."
"Colonel? Is something wrong?"
When the worried voice addresses Tanya, she notices the head of her adjutant poking into her compartment.
"Oh, Lieutenant Serebryakov. It's nothing major."
"I see… Are you all right?"
Apparently, she's a bit—no, she's probably quite concerned for me. Well, I suppose it's natural to feel uneasy if your superior officer starts grumbling to herself.
"Don't worry, Lieutenant. There's really no problem."
"But lately your mood has been sort of… You seem down…"
Actually, until they were ordered to go sightseeing, I'd been extremely conscious of how others saw me. You could say Tanya managed to look the part of the ideal officer, unwavering and always brimming with confidence.
Unfortunately, the shock of this Ildoa trip is really starting to show. I thought I had a thick exterior, but it seems to be surprisingly fragile.
"No, I was just thinking to myself." I'm just human, too is left unspoken. "Away from the battlefield, I have extra time. So I have lots of time to think. Since I'm not usually at that sort of leisure…I think about different things than I usually do."
The elaborately packaged product is so elegant, it's hard to believe these are biscuits like you'd find in a simple wrapper in the Empire.
"For instance, when I think about the flavor of one of these cookies…" "Yeah, the food was really good. I heard that if you ask, you can get
chocolate, too."
"Is Ildoa being that thoughtful? Maybe I'll have some myself."
They're probably doing it to show off, but as someone who's grown accustomed to shortages, I know that it's best to grab while the grabbing's good.
"I'm also going to find a way to get ahold of tea leaves and coffee beans.
The dining car here is serving some really nice stuff."
"If possible, I'd like to bring back some white sugar. It would make a nice souvenir."
"Understood, ma'am."
I'm sure my smiling adjutant will make arrangements for everything.
That said, an imperial soldier bringing sugar as a souvenir! Even though before this total war, the Empire was totally self-sufficient with domestically produced beet sugar!
How things have changed.
One step over the border into Ildoa and you can get anything you want!
There's not enough of anything in the Empire!
Despite being right next door, this is something we can't reach; the truth is surprisingly upsetting. Tanya almost reaches for her hair to pull on it but stops with a sigh.
Is this jealousy? Resignation? I hate being so greatly affected that I can't even pin down my own emotions. It's really quite unpleasant.
Tanya shakes her head.
In the end, if I don't want to cling to the likes of Being X, my only choice is to walk my own path.
You can't change the circumstances of your birth, but you can change your fate. Or at least, I intend to.
I was born to the warring states period of the Empire and joined the army to avoid being conscripted as an orphan. I'm glad that now, having secured myself some measure of status, I can afford to take a moment and think about what comes next.
The Empire, or rather, the imperial soldier Tanya, actually has a moment to consider the future.
"…So the hourglass that was almost running out can still be flipped, huh?"
-x-X-x-
JULY 18, UNIFIED YEAR 1927, IMPERIAL ARMY SOUTHERN ARMY GROUP, FORMER REPUBLIC NAVY PORT AIN DEFENSE ZONE
"Their uniforms are neat anyhow."
Having been assigned to the harbor garrison, the first thing Captain Meybert and First Lieutenant Tospan found strange was the perfectly ordinary uniforms of their fellow soldiers.
Well-starched shirts and slacks, tidy caps, polished boots. This array of infantry looked so soldierly in their uniforms, it was as if they had stepped out of a photograph. Accustomed to the eastern front, it was hard for them to believe these were not toy soldiers but the harbor garrison.
No, they weren't the only ones. All the troops in the Lergen Kampfgruppe
had been stunned the moment they laid eyes on the port garrison.
It all started with goodwill from above.
After enduring fierce fighting on the eastern front, half the Lergen Kampfgruppe was sent to the rear as part of their leave rotation and reorganized.
At the time, the artillery and infantry were assigned to port duty. Meybert and Tospan both welcomed this vacation of ostensibly being assigned to guard duty in the rear.
Unfortunately, Captain Ahrens and the armored forces alone were…sent to a training field in the vicinity of the capital to reconstitute their unit.
The artillery and infantry erupted in cheers, while the tank operators despaired—You've gotta be kidding! The reason being, the closer proximity to their home country, the more strictly regulations were enforced.
At that point in time, the ones assigned port duty laughed that since they would be able to enjoy the bounty of the sea, they were better off than the armored troops, who would end up covered in dirt on the training grounds.
But their high spirits only lasted until they saw their colleagues.
The Lergen Kampfgruppe had made a name for themselves on the eastern front, but the sight of the port garrison gave them shivers. The fact that their gear was all outdated created a strange mix of old and young that was absolutely bizarre. There were plenty of other issues to point out as well. But there was something else that blew those minor concerns out of the water.
Properly pleated uniforms! Pants so straight they begged the question, Did they iron them?! Boots polished till they shined like mirrors! And on top of that, not a single speck of mud on any of them!
It was impossible for a foot soldier to look like that. Maybe the honor guard at a funeral but the port garrison? To the soldiers who had been fighting in the east, it was literally inconceivable.
You can't fight a war in a clean uniform.
Wars are hopelessly muddy affairs. Officers are no exception—not even generals. Yes, the outstanding high-ranking general on the eastern front, Lieutenant General Zettour himself, went around in a worn field uniform soaked with mud and sweat.
The reality was that all the mid-ranking officers on the eastern front had to worry about socks. Returning from the front and heading to occupied territory in the rear, the glimpse of the port garrison made their jaws drop. They're
swaggering around in starched uniforms?
It felt terribly removed from the real world.
But the true surprise was finding out that they were under strict orders from port command to wear their uniforms that way. The moment they moved into the port defense facility they had been posted at, the Lergen Kampfgruppe troops were forced to grapple with the unbelievable cultural gap.
Most of the remarks the deputy commander, Tospan, exchanged with Meybert were about this shock. More accurately, he was simply griping, but anyhow…
This day was no different.
"These crisp uniforms are great, but…I just can't relax." Tospan cringed as he looked down at his own clothes. What he saw was an ironed uniform worn to regulation standards.
It looked good, but that's also all it was good for. Putting in an effort to keep uniforms sanitary was one thing. This struck him as wasted energy.
With that bitter expression on his face, he grumbled to the superior officer. "Captain, how are we supposed to relax like this? We're supposed to be on vacation; this is too stiff."
"It's the rules, Lieutenant Tospan."
Seeing that the artillery captain was serious, Tospan shrank slightly. With all due respect went both ways.
"Then, Captain Meybert, please allow me to point out one thing."
"Are you saying I made a mistake?" He shook his head. "Pretty sure I didn't."
But Tospan cautiously replied, "It's…your cap. There was a notice that we're not supposed to make them crushers…"
"What?"
Tospan was pointing at the cap worn in the popular style on Meybert's head.
This trick was popular on the front lines for reducing hat maintenance time as well as its weight… That was, strictly speaking, against regulations.
"It's against the rules. They notified us not to deform our caps."
"Ngh, they did? I was just wearing it the way we all did on the eastern front…" Meybert reached for his hat with a grimace. "Dang." He had fully intended to follow the regulations to the letter. He thought he was a total
stickler, but it turned out he had deviated at some point without even realizing it.
"…I don't 'reinterpret' the regulations as I see fit like Colonel Degurechaff, but she does appear to have rubbed off on me."
Sometimes the captain struggled under their extremely utilitarian superior officer, though maybe it was more that she was too good at remaining totally unsentimental.
"I'm just complaining. Though our commander really is one of the finest superior officers you could ask for, she…"
"Yeah, there are definitely some…quirks."
They went back and forth—Right? Seriously—taking advantage of their boss's absence to talk freely.
"What is it about her…? Is it that she's too much of a patriot?" "She doesn't hesitate at all."
"That's it, Lieutenant. Everything gets filed under 'duty to the state.' It's the way she believes without a shred of doubt that necessity can justify anything…"
She catches on to everything remarkably quickly, but she's also liable to go off the rails at the drop of a hat. I guess by following her example, I've gotten a bit too creative, Meybert thought with a wince.
"That must be why living according to regulation is a pain now. In that sense, I'm really jealous of Captain Ahrens."
"Seriously. I don't mean to be rude, but…it's because the tankers are everybody's favorite."
"They may be right near the capital, but it's a maneuvering range! No one's going to make a fuss if they're out getting dirty, rolling around in their tanks."
Though they were all part of the reorganizing group, there were differences between the gunners, infantry, and tankers. It made sense that they would be sent to different places out of practical necessity. To hold ground with numbers, of course it would be the infantry. And the second-largest arm was the artillery. That was why Tospan and Meybert took charge of the Kampfgruppe while the aerial mages and tank units were operating elsewhere.
And they learned something while they were under the command of a different unit. They both agreed: It's surprising how free we were under
Colonel Degurechaff.
"At first, I was happy we'd get to work somewhere so calm it might as well be the rear."
"Yeah, I thought it sounded like a sweet setup."
But no. They both winced.
"I can't help but feel stressed when things are this different. How about you, Lieutenant?"
"So it's the same for you?"
"I mean…it's not horrible. I just can't seem to feel comfortable. I thought I was used to regulations, but my body is screaming with the effort to live on the clock." As Meybert spoke, he shrank in embarrassment. "I'm forcing myself to adjust."
"With all due respect, Captain, do you think anyone who could get used to this belongs in our Kampfgruppe?"
"…Come to think of it, you may have a point."
If Tanya had seen him laughing, she probably would have said, So you think that, too? and approached him as if she'd found a new friend.
While Tospan and Meybert chatted, they relaxed and let themselves be sloppy, but they kept their eyes peeled. Tanya once wondered if she would even be able to find a use for these two, but their deeply worried faces showed how concerned they were. It was an anxiety on a whole other level.
It was popularly known as the field gap—the result of officers of the field army paying high tuition fees to the teacher known as experience. After developing into officers who were regularly allowed some measure of discretion, the strictest application of rules became stifling.
"…Captain, the rear is…how should I put it?"
"I know what you're getting at, Lieutenant. It's a lot different from what we remembered, eh?" Meybert smiled wryly, having guessed what Tospan was saying.
"Before, this used to be where we belonged. But then all of a sudden, us returnees turned into foreigners."
Getting knocked around in combat changed people, shaped them to better fit the battlefield.
The fact that Meybert and Tospan were having trouble acclimating made them finally realize what felt off.
"Foreigners?"
"There's no other word for it."
"…I don't really get it. At least…I can't put it into words as easily as you, Captain…"
"Would you say you fit in here, Lieutenant Tospan?"
"No, it's not that. I just think 'foreign' is a bit much. That said, I do feel like the atmosphere here is strange and unfamiliar."
Tospan nodded at Meybert's remark. They had grown used to being soldiers, or perhaps simply humans, who lived and breathed on the eastern front. Of course, individual mileage may have varied.
Different intensities, individual thresholds, and perhaps the way they viewed things…
"But do you feel off like I do?"
"Well, yes, I do. Because…"—Tospan nodded—"…yeah, I can't seem to relax, either. It feels strange."
There was a gap.
And irreconcilable differences.
But Meybert and Tospan could agree completely—that they couldn't settle down.
Having acclimated to the eastern front, both of them had similar thoughts on being assigned to a port city as part of the garrison during their rotation off the front.
From the exceptional environment of the eastern front lines they had grown so used to, to a rear area near the home country…
For them, these days of calm were a parade of new surprises and embarrassments.
Even though they should have belonged in this world and indeed came from it or places just like it.
The main reason they couldn't settle in was that there were no enemy attacks. Though it was occupied territory, this former Republic port city near the home country was at "peace."
Thanks to which, simple security missions and the like were done very differently. On the eastern front, they needed to constantly keep watch for partisans, so it was a totally different world. Though they were told the main mission of the guards was to "prevent trouble" with the current residents of this comparatively friendly occupied territory, they genuinely wondered what they were supposed to do.
For example, anyone acting suspiciously in a restricted zone was immediately shot. The Lergen Kampfgruppe had soaked up to their waists in the quagmire of the east, and in the infantry missions there, security meant not letting the enemy come anywhere near—it was necessarily about elimination of any potential threats.
Those same fellows were now frantically ingesting the chapter of the security manual titled "Rules Regarding the Handling of Suspicious Civilians."
The second bewildering factor worthy of mention was the totally mundane pace of daily life here: waking up to the bugle call in the morning, eating breakfast in the barracks, grabbing lunch at the appointed hour, then the evening meal, and finally lights out.
In other words, the barracks life of moving according to the clock.
There would never be an order to Take a nap! here. In this orderly world, fit to a mold, commands ruled over time itself. As Meybert and Tospan complained to each other that they would never get used to this, the clock's hands chased them through the barracks.
But having too much free time wouldn't make you a good officer.
They always had enough time and energy to observe what was going on around them. And naturally, if they were observing, they would come up with ways to improve things. And there was no point in leaving soldiers idle.
If they were going to be made to waste time, it would be better to have them do something.
Even if there was no reason for it, they'd rather be digging a foxhole or something than twiddling their thumbs standing around. That was what Meybert had been thinking when he had the idea of building up their position. "Lieutenant Tospan, today I'd like the infantry to lend me a hand." Meybert made the request to his Kampfgruppe mate matter-of-factly. "The defenses around the guns have been bothering me. We probably can't fortify
them with béton, but I'd like to do what we can." "We're at your service."
"Great. I'd like to have your infantry company pile up sandbags." Tospan nodded. "That's enough?"
Meybert laughed. "Better than what we have now."
To both of them, it was really just a little job. Rather than leaving the soldiers idle for the day, why not put them to work? is what they thought.
If Tanya was there to see them, she probably would have chuckled at how Keynesian it was.
The nonlaughing matter was how different the person in charge was. The port garrison was managed by the imperial bureaucracy—a gathering of people who did the stupidest things with the straightest faces.
For better or worse, Meybert and Tospan were completely used to having a superior officer who deviated from the norm. Unfortunately, they ended up butting heads with the much more vertically structured bureaucracy.
The first clash came while they were having their troops carry out Meybert's plan.
The work was simple: Fill the bags they had procured with dirt and pile them up. There was no other way to interpret what was going on.
But a navy administrative official who happened to pass by asked in confusion, "Captain Meybert? Excuse me, but, uh, what are you doing?"
"This?"
"Yes, that."
Anyone can tell just by looking, so why is he going to the trouble of asking? Cocking his head, Meybert nevertheless gave the man a polite explanation. They were simply building up their position ever so slightly, he explained concisely.
And upon hearing that, the uniformed prefect frowned. Meybert didn't understand what the issue was, and the navy administrative officer sighed at him.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but is there a problem?"
"Captain, you ask if there is a problem. Well, yes, there's a major problem."
"I'm very sorry, sir, but I truly have no idea what it is. Can you explain?" "You really don't know? …This guy." Another ostentatious sigh. After his
exaggerated lament, he thrust his hand into his bag and pulled out a booklet. "Please read the rule book. It clearly states that to modify defensive facilities like this, you need to apply for permission in writing."
"…I don't believe I've received that booklet…"
"So the General Staff made an administrative error?" Cocking his head slightly, the administrative officer continued fussing with a sour look on his face. "Either way, we can't have you ignoring the rules simply because you didn't know they existed."
"You mean we need permission even just to put up some sandbags? We can't report it afterward?"
"This isn't the battlefield. We aren't in a position that requires deviating from regulations. Captain, sorry, but I'll say this for your benefit. Please follow procedure."
After handing over the rule book or whatever it was and delivering the parting remark of "Thanks for your cooperation," the navy administrative officer left. Watching him go, Meybert heaved a sigh.
Right, this is a navy garrison. It made sense that they would want to be informed. It was also true that Meybert hadn't been informed about the rule book or whatever it was.
And maybe systematically, it made sense for him to be scolded for his rule violation.
But something about it didn't sit right with him.
Paperwork is higher priority than anything else, and work on the ground can only begin after receiving written permission? That was unthinkable on the eastern front. Before the necessary paperwork could be delivered, they would have been overrun by Communists.
Or the bureaucracy's papers would be prioritized above necessities and put a strain on the supply network. Horrifyingly, a bureaucrat might actually choose the latter.
So the front and the rear are this different?
Meybert reluctantly raised his voice to call the lower-ranking officer. "Lieutenant Tospan! Come here!"
As the first lieutenant trotted over, there was a look of puzzlement on his face. Of course there was. There was no way Tospan could predict why he was being summoned.
"Hold off on the fortification work. Gather up the infantry and put them on standby."
"Did something happen?"
"I'll say." He scrunched his shoulders up.
"Apparently, we're not allowed to build any fieldworks without paperwork… The navy's way of doing things is so confusing."
"Huh?"
"I've been told that we're not allowed to modify the position without written permission."
Tospan was cocking his head as though he didn't understand. "We're just piling up sandbags. We need permission for that?"
"That's right, Lieutenant."
Tospan recoiled in disbelief, and he shook his head. "…We have to get permission for every little thing? Seriously? I can't believe that."
"Well, the administrative officers here can. Their common sense is just different. Until the papers come together, you can have the troops go back and rest in the barracks."
"Understood," Tospan acknowledged and started withdrawing the troops.
Meanwhile, Meybert set about gathering the necessary paperwork. I'll just get it over with. I want the troops to start work again as soon as possible… He confronted the task enthusiastically, but he was met with an unfortunate truth.
Bureaucracy was an enemy every bit as powerful as the Federation Army. The applications needed to be formatted with exacting detail. The ones Meybert was filling out had spaces to write the general outline of the work
and required a list of running expenses, materials, and so on.
They weren't building a concrete fortification, or setting up a sophisticated multiline position, or laying land mines.
All they had planned to do was pile up sandbags. The only materials involved were the cloth bags. Then it was just a matter of filling them with whatever dirt was nearby and stacking them together. The soldiers already had their own shovels.
That could fit on a single notepad page.
Strangely, though, when filling out official paperwork, what should have fit on a single notepad page required ten different forms that each had to be filled out according to their own specifications.
Even filling sandbags with dirt was "formal" in the rear.
"…Source of the dirt? Confirmation of ownership, existing defense plan, multiple checks of the construction plans?"
The byzantine formalities were dizzying. Maybe it would be faster to fill the bags with these papers than the dirt! The procedures made him want to mutiny.
Before he knew it, more time than expected had passed, and the work was even further behind than anticipated.
Perhaps concerned about his progress, Tospan showed up. "It's
Lieutenant Tospan, Captain. How's the paperwork coming along?" "It's not. I'm this close to giving up."
"Shall I help? Not that I'm great at paperwork…"
"I'm not, either." Recalling an officer who seemed to fly through tasks of this sort, Meybert smiled awkwardly. "Lieutenant Serebryakov has been an adjutant for a long time. I bet she would have been able to sort this out pretty quick. No wonder Colonel Degurechaff values her so highly."
He had originally thought she was just an outstanding mage, but she was actually far more than that. She was always making arrangements with astonishing efficiency. If he was being honest, he had assumed those tasks were little things anyone could do…
"I guess even minor tasks become a tactical threat when they pile up. All right, Lieutenant Tospan, can you work on that one?"
"Understood."
They grumbled, but they had no choice but to keep working.
If you're going to fire on the enemy, you can't be defeated by the weight of the shells you're trying to load. He may have been a captain, but he was an artilleryman. Meybert was plenty capable of loading and shelling.
A pen, on the other hand, is light. It was so light, yet he couldn't seem to make any progress. To think that simply being unaccustomed to something could slow a person down this much.
For a while, he sat at his desk in the command post facing the sea.
Drawing up a regulation work plan and committing it in writing on all the various forms to be turned in for review was taxing enough to exhaust him.
"Agh, this nitpicky rule book is such a pain. You need all this just for a construction proposal?"
He murmured, but he kept his hands moving.
To Meybert, the biggest threat was the classification system. According to regulations, there were twelve different types of sandbags, and the form demanded he specify exactly which type would be used.
"…My head hurts. I thought I would get killed in action, but it seems like this paperwork might get me first."
Meybert and Tospan were used to the higher-ups demanding too much. On the eastern front, they often received horrible orders like Defend your position to the death.
But being told to dig in and hold position no matter what happened didn't
seem so bad after filling out countless papers with detailed notes according to rule such and such from some book.
"On the eastern front, aside from a single written order, even holding out at all costs was at the discretion of those in the field. Having to do all this busy work for every little thing is just… It's crazy."
Shaking his head, Meybert reached for the carafe of water to take a break. They could have as much fresh water as they wanted. Only in a garrison was such luxury possible. Hooray for running water.
Cold water really does wonders for a weary mind. "Lieutenant Tospan, how's it going on your end?"
The equally tired-looking lieutenant answered that he wasn't making much progress. Meybert offered him the carafe, and they both helped themselves to some water.
"I thought I knew how field engineer stuff worked…" But everything here is different. Tospan sighed, staring at the handbook. Meybert felt the same way.
"However body movements go, at least the way pens move here is something else. I mean, if I'm laying land mines, of course I'll make a map, but…"
Everything was so time-consuming; he just couldn't get used to it.
After spinning the gears in his head so much, he thought he would look out to sea for a change, but when he did, he noticed something strange on the horizon.
"Hey, what's that?"
A couple of specks were floating on the water.
He grabbed his trusty binoculars and jumped up, calling over to an orderly as he raced to the window.
"Hey! Is there a convoy registered to come at this time? Check the list!" "One moment, sir. I'll—"
"On the double!"
Though he was shouting and hurrying his subordinate…it wasn't as if he was that worried. It was simply a conditioned response to keep his mind stimulated and alert—at this stage anyway.
After all, the units of the Lergen Kampfgruppe were outsiders. Unless there was a notice from port command to man their battle stations, it didn't make much sense to get flustered on their own.
Still…even if he had simply misremembered, it was strange that he couldn't recall any scheduled arrivals at all.
And it bothered him even more because he had just been criticized for his lack of attention to details. Was this a failure of communication, or was this something that had completely slipped his mind? If the latter, it was nothing more than his personal mistake, but if it was the former, it was a major issue.
Either way, to prevent the problem from recurring, he needed to get to the bottom of it.
"Captain, apologies for the delay. It says here on the list that—" "Thanks, what ships are expected to dock?"
"It's strange. The list from command only shows a few submarines…" "Give it here." He snatched the document from the orderly, and upon
glancing over it himself, he snapped, "I'm pretty damn sure those aren't submarines."
The only unit expecting to enter the port was a group of submarines. And there was a note that said they might come in the event of an emergency. If it were an emergency, he could imagine the case where the submarines would sail across the surface.
But this was clearly something else. "Any signal?"
"Nothing on the wireless. Should we hail them?"
"…That's HQ's job. Observing is enough. Have the unit ready to move if need be."
With a salute, his man got to work. After seeing him off, Meybert suddenly thought of something. There was no reason he would mix up submarines and some other type of ship.
Visibility was good. There was no chance that he misidentified their silhouettes. More than anything, submarines weren't that big. If they were signaling to identify themselves, it would be easier to tell, but without that…
"They have to be something else. Transport ships? Damn it, I'm no good at telling navy vessels apart…" Peering through his binoculars, he spotted something that appeared to be a mast but sighed with the effort it took to perform the decidedly unfamiliar task. "Looks like there are transport ships in the rear, too. And it does look like a regular convoy. But…a convoy? Now?"
"Oh, I know. The colonel and the others were being sent to the southern
continent, right? Maybe it's a convoy withdrawing from there…" Tospan suggested one possibility from where he was watching from the side.
"A convoy withdrawing from the southern continent?"
"Yes, Captain. If they are friendly ships, then couldn't that be a possibility?"
The lower-ranking officer offered an explanation, but Meybert shook his head; he didn't see any reason to be optimistic.
"With no forewarning? That's bizarre, Lieutenant." "Well, we're outsiders…"
"But this is a garrison. It should be normal to get in touch."
Hmm. After a little while thinking, his hand on his chin, he made his decision. If he didn't understand the situation, he needed to proceed with maximum caution.
In other words, they had to prepare for war.
"Lieutenant Tospan, sorry, but mobilize the infantry as well. Have them get to their stations."
"Right away, Captain Meybert." "Thanks. I'll leave that up to you, then."
A ready response. Objections and doubts swallowed, he knew that he needed to carry out his duty. Assured of this basic truth, Meybert was able to confidently fulfill his role.
Gathering up the noncommissioned officers who rushed into his office just as Tospan was leaving, he began handling the situation with the possibility of combat in mind.
"No word from HQ? Check again. Make sure to try the off-duty personnel as well. No, wait. We don't have time. Let me see the document."
"Here you go."
"…So there really is nothing."
He couldn't see anything missing from the list of vessels. There was still a chance that this could be chalked up to a misplaced document or some failure to receive a message on the Kampfgruppe's part, however remote.
That said, there were no combat veterans unaware of how important communication was. Degurechaff had pounded how critical it was to always report in during their time on the eastern front. Would the artillery unit that fought so hard at Soldim 528 screw up in this simpler situation?
Meybert's feeling of foreboding worsened.
If there was no plan to receive these ships, it meant they were unknowns that they hadn't been informed of. That alone was more than enough for Meybert to want to order the troops to their stations.
So why?
"Why? Why isn't the alarm going off? How are our allies positioned?"
The questions slipped out quietly before he caught himself. Envisioning the worst-case scenario and groping for a way to prevent it was the most basic, fundamental rule of war.
When there's no reason to be optimistic, the only thing an optimistic superior officer manages to do is get his subordinates killed because of his laziness.
The fact that what should have been a given wasn't made him extremely uneasy. He soon found himself criticizing people.
"It seems the navy and other guards here don't have enough combat experience."
"I guess the routine of port defense made them inflexible."
Meybert shook his head in response to the noncommissioned officer's reply to his complaint. "It's the brass that's the problem. If they were properly scared of their superiors, no one would be slacking, even in the rear. Take Colonel Degurechaff; are there any heroes brave enough to be lazy under her watch?"
The polite smiles the NCOs shared as they chuckled were all the answer anyone needed. Even for veterans, that little girl—or rather, little commander
—was a person to fear. She would never be the kind of boss who would be taken lightly or underestimated.
"She's blunt as hell, but she knows what she's doing. I'm not convinced these guys could say the same."
"Captain, that's a bit… Well, I don't disagree, but…"
"Right? To be perfectly honest…I miss the colonel shouting orders at us." "You don't mind a candid comment, right, Captain? Because I'm pretty
sure that's a mental disorder!"
"Ha-ha-ha." Once a riot of laughter had warmed up the atmosphere, it was time to exchange info.
Though they weren't used to actual battles, HQ was still HQ. Taking the receiver into his hand, Meybert dialed up command. If they weren't used to this situation, they were probably feeling confused.
If necessary, I might need to send a runner or go over there myself to establish contact.
But the captain's calculations were off from the start. "This is port command."
They picked up on the first ring. Oh? The response was so prompt that Meybert was almost relieved. Between that and the steadiness of the voice, he didn't detect any sign of chaos.
"This is Captain Meybert of the Lergen Kampfgruppe. It's an emergency.
Requesting the highest priority. Please connect me to the duty officer." "A-an emergency? What's going on, Captain?"
Maybe I was underestimating them. If I was passing judgment unfairly…was what Meybert was thinking until he heard the signaler's confused tone of voice.
Could it be…that they haven't noticed?
"The duty officer! Now!"
"P-please wait a moment. I'll go check…" "It's an emergency! Hurry up!"
Irritated, Meybert was forced to wait a few seconds. Or was it a few minutes?
Either way, it felt unbelievably long. The wait was incredibly nerve grating. It's not as if communications with HQ are cut off or saturated, so what's with this holdup?!
He couldn't believe it was taking so long to reach the duty officer. "Captain Meybert, this is Lieutenant Colonel Paul. An emergency of
highest priority? Sounds like you're really worked up. What's going on?" "The unscheduled convoy approaching port."
"Oh, that? Probably just a communications lapse." Lieutenant Colonel Paul's comments were extremely lax. "We'll have them confirm their affiliation, but I'm guessing they're either the convoy that went to recover the Southern Continent Expeditionary Corps or one of our transport convoys seeking safe harbor."
His tone said he had deemed there to be no issue and brimmed with unwavering confidence. It nearly made Meybert wonder if his panic was for nothing.
"You have confirmation?"
"Confirmation? We're working on it. I'm sure we'll have it soon."
It was hard to not blurt out, You don't yet?! This completely unfounded optimism sounded like a foreign language. If they weren't speaking over the phone, Meybert would have been openly staring at the lieutenant colonel's face.
"Excuse me, Colonel, but they're already this close, and you're still confirming?"
"It's pretty common to have issues with the wireless. And you know what they say about the 'fog of war.' You're a frontline commander, so I would think you'd be used to it."
He would have liked to agree, but every capable subordinate has a duty to dissent. And more than anything, Meybert knew that it was his personal nature to do so when the time called for it.
"I've been given the code of the convoy recovering the Southern Continent Expeditionary Corps! And we haven't received that signal from these ships!"
"I'm pretty sure I just said this, but…have you forgotten that there could be wireless issues?"
"With all due respect, Colonel Paul, the code includes signal flags. We've been monitoring with binoculars but haven't seen anything that could be an identification code."
There was only so much he could do to keep from raising his voice. He took a deep breath and cooled his head.
"Captain, a number of unidentified ships are on course for the port."
Nodding at the NCO's report, Meybert glanced out the window. They were definitely on approach. He had no doubt they would arrive soon. Why don't these guys understand that every second counts in this situation?
In full crisis mode, he pressed HQ. "…Command, have you gotten confirmation yet? We can't allow unidentified ships to come any closer. Requesting permission to fire warning shots."
"No."
Concise and firm.
The hand Meybert was using to hold the receiver tensed at Paul's response. What a time for an idiotic conversation like this.
"…I advise again. Please authorize warning shots and order the garrison to battle stations."
An unspoken Don't you know anything?! was implicit.
It wasn't even that much to ask for, but not saying anything would have conflicted with the principles of logic and reason. This was a trial that took Meybert's mental strength to its limits.
"Please let me open fire."
"Captain Meybert! Why are you being so stubborn?! Wait until the ships have been ID'd! What would you do if you ended up firing on friendly ships?!"
He meant it to be his final confirmation, but the answer he received gave him nothing. Damn it all to hell. It was all very unfortunate.
"…I can see this conversation is going nowhere." "What? Captain, what are you talking about?"
"You don't know if they're friend or foe?" Who's being stubborn?! Shit, why can't you understand something so simple? "For fuck's sake! That means they're foe. How clueless can you be?" Meybert told Command in the direct language of a soldier, his expression warping. There was no more time to waste.
I'm done with words. Time to act.
"Excuse me."
He slammed the receiver down and looked around at his people.
From the way they snapped their heels together with a silent yes, sir, he knew exactly what they were thinking. This was true understanding.
If the ships couldn't prove they were friends, it meant they couldn't complain if they were fired on. And if they couldn't answer attempts to hail them…it would be stranger not to shoot.
It was a principle so simple and clear that even the rawest recruit could understand.
To the captain, the situation they were in was utterly bizarre. This truth is so self-evident. Why should I have to argue with HQ over it?
The battlefield is a place filled with incomprehensible things. It always tests the limits of a person's imagination.
"Captain, are we deciding it's the enemy?"
"Yes." He replied to the formality of the NCO's inquiry concisely. "Treat them as enemies."
Even as he said it, it's not as if he didn't think, What if I'm wrong…? What if there were some circumstances, some discrepancy, and they really were friendly ships?
…I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
"They couldn't prove they were friends. So they're the bad guys."
If they're not allies, they're enemies. It was there that Meybert struck his hand with a fist in realization. There's no way our troops out there tearing it up on the southern continent wouldn't know such a basic rule!
It would be way too idiotic to die in a barrage of friendly fire moments before returning home. If they actually were friendly troops, they would have tried everything they could think of to get in contact.
"…I just don't see that happening. In fact, we should interpret it as them trying to fool us."
They really are the enemy. No need to hesitate, then.
"Ready!" The orders came smoothly. "Aim!"
If there was a screeching of the gears, it was at that moment. Just as he was about to command them to fire, a shrill telephone ring filled the command post.
"Captain, it's headquarters."
He nodded at the NCO with a frown. "Give it here. Don't worry about us and keep aiming."
Taking the phone with an exasperated expression, the remote idea that it might be news that would make him feel better…didn't seem likely. He had given up on HQ's sense of urgency from the beginning.
He had intended to be prepared for the worst. But he was still ever so slightly optimistic.
That is, his worst-case scenario came with the reservation that No matter how stupid they are, they couldn't be that stupid.
Unconsciously, he envisioned the bare minimum standards he had come to expect and then braced himself for reality.
"Captain Meybert! What is the meaning of this! Hanging up like that! What are you trying to do?!"
Shouted complaints over the phone—during an emergency!
Still in disbelief, he found himself closing his eyes. Dear Lord, is this a test?
"…Though I realize it's presumptuous, I finally understand the colonel's thought process."
"You understand, Captain?"
"Yes, the thoughts of my direct superior."
"What?"
How infuriating it was to converse with this man who understood nothing. Was this why Degurechaff was always hounded by a reputation for acting on her own discretion too often?
Talking to these idiots was a waste of all-too-precious time.
What would she say at a time like this? he thought for a moment, and it came to him.
Yes, that's right. There's a line that's perfect for this situation.
"I'm acting on my own discretion. If you'll excuse me…"
Meybert slammed the receiver down and shook his head. During his short career, there had been times he'd been required to make his own decisions.
But this was a first for him.
Saying I'm acting on my own discretion was Degurechaff's forte, not his, and yet…
"Of course a superior like her would be a bad influence." "Is everything all right?"
"I just have an opinion or two." Meybert smirked at his subordinate. "As you advance, you'll grow to understand your superior's feelings—and hate it. It's most likely because you're starting to see things from different viewpoints."
Having to show stubborn determination in his voice in response to other people's opinions… Meybert found personally being in that position extremely frustrating.
"…Captain, may we fire?"
"Are you implying we should silence our guns in the face of the enemy? That's out of the question." He was about to gesture with his chin for them to go ahead when—Oh—he had a thought. He nearly forgot to add one last thing.
Orders had to be given properly.
"If anything goes wrong, I'll take responsibility."
It was a beginner's imitation of a superior officer, but he felt the need to say it clearly for his troops.
He was taking things into his own hands and getting his subordinates involved in the process. He believed what he was doing was necessary, but if he went this far and it did end up being a mistake, he'd be shit out of luck.
There was no one above him who would take responsibility, so he had to
fulfill his duty as the highest-ranking officer.
"Any objections? If not, then begin." He glanced around the room, but there were no protests. "Good." He gave a small, satisfied nod. "Notice to all batteries. Aim as closely as possible but absolutely do not hit them."
"Warning shots, sir?"
"I'd swear to God they're the enemy, but military laws insist. Do your best not to hit them directly. Make it an intense warning volley, though. It'll be a good chance to observe their reactions, too, so let's just give 'em a scare."
Then he took a breath. He felt uncomfortably nervous, different from how it felt giving orders to fire on the eastern front. But he had made his decision. It was time to act.
"Batteries, open fire!"
He had told them everything that needed to be said. For a precision war machine, his order was more than enough. Everything proceeded smoothly.
"Yes, sir! Begin firing!"
The Lergen Kampfgruppe—that is, the Salamander Kampfgruppe—had been thoroughly trained. These troops could be considered elite; whenever they executed an order, they shifted into a different mode. That is, any hesitation they may have had even moments before was burned up as fuel.
If their superior had judged the vessels to be enemies, then there was no rational reason for them to harbor any doubts. When promptly carrying out orders, hesitation would only get in the way, so it was completely discarded.
The job of these gunners baptized in a trial of iron on the eastern front was extremely simple and clear.
They were told to fire. So they fired.
As quickly as possible and with unparalleled accuracy.
For these artillerists who had reached the epitome of gunnery, any further thought was utterly meaningless.
If there was anything that threatened to delay their movements, it was either speed or accuracy. But there was no rule that said they couldn't be greedy.
Meybert demanded the dogged pursuit of both from his subordinates as a given. And his subordinates treated the demand as a given.
Thus, with a prayer that all would go as it should, artillery cannon fire
echoed across the port.
A roar of steel.
The lingering vibrations that shook the air following the deafening sound
—that's what gunners are truly after.
And they could be proud of their results.
Their dazzling skill with the coastal guns produced a near miss on the first shot.
A huge splash went up right next to the approaching ships. Too close to say they had missed but too far to say they had connected; the balance there was delicate.
It was practically perfect, considering they had fired immediately.
If they had been familiar with the guns' idiosyncrasies, the splash would have erupted a bit closer and really would've gotten the suspicious ships shaking.
"Calibration shot looks fine. Good, continue monitoring and prepare to fire for effe— Ah, wait, this is coastal artillery. Hold your fire. Just keep a close eye on the unidentified ships."
They've done a great job. Meybert was proud of his team as he picked up his binoculars.
All that's left is to wait for the outcome. How will they react if they're enemies? No, on the off chance they're friendlies, will we get a furious telegram? Or an emergency general broadcast? Signal flags?
The phone rang abruptly.
He looked up with a start and a doubt in his mind. It was too soon to be a reaction to the volley.
"Yes, this is Captain Meybert with the artillery."
"Captain Meybert! Do you have any idea what you're doing?! Stop this immediately! Can you hear me?!"
It was Lieutenant Colonel Paul screaming at the top of his lungs. He must have been awfully stressed. The aura of calm and confidence he had maintained up until a moment ago had vanished completely.
"Yes, Colonel. I can hear you clearly." "Cease-fire right now! Stop it!"
There was a part of Meybert's mind that wondered. But there was also the reassuring whisper of reason telling him that he didn't have to obey baseless shouting.
"Sorry, but I can't do that."
"…What?" There was a brief pause after Paul's confused reply, and then he flew into a rage. "Do you not realize what you're doing?! Have you forgotten your duties and obligations, you imbecile?!"
"…I understand my job very well, Colonel." There he smirked. "I very much doubt this is the case, but is it possible you've received a complaint from friendly forces? If so, I'll cease-fire at once, but…"
"Answer me! Why are you firing without any confirmation?!" "Ohhh, I see—so they didn't call you."
That was exactly why it was necessary to fire.
It was shockingly self-evident. It was as sure as the fact that the planets revolved around the sun.
Why am I stuck arguing with HQ about something comparable to deciding whether the solar system is geocentric or heliocentric?
I'm only doing what must be done, he was about to continue, when the reports of multiple cannons firing on the water captured his attention.
It wasn't the sound of his own guns. Anyone in the artillery teams would know that much.
So there was only one other place it could be coming from. The enemy. It was an enemy attack.
"They're shooting at us!"
The NCO's shout steeled his resolve.
"Return fire. Open up with everything we have." With the receiver in one hand, Meybert barked from his lower belly, "Fire, fire, fire like mad. You're standing on land! Don't you dare lose to a bunch of ships!"
Thankfully, they were in the ideal position as a coastal artillery battery firing on naval vessels.
On the eastern front, they would have had to deal with a shortage of shells and maintenance issues, but though this was also occupied territory, as a port near the home country with dependable infrastructure, it had a supremely ample stockpile.
His subordinates confirmed their orders, carried out their duty thoroughly even while under suspicion by their allies, and displayed the true value of their constant training.
The continued cannon reports were a wordless declaration that each gun had begun to return fire. Soldiers who know what to do without being told
every step of the way are wonderful.
"The situation is as you've heard. I'm going to take command of the defensive engagement. If you have any other defense-related orders, please get in touch."
He slammed the receiver down again and turned his field of vision to the sea, where he found the convoy attempting to enter the port speeding up and deploying a white smoke screen as it began to trade fire with them.
There was no way this was the reaction of a friendly unit that was accidentally fired on. Regardless of how it would go in a land battle, in this case charging instead of evading eliminated any chance of mistaken identity.
This was the enemy. The enemy was charging at them.
Which meant that what he needed to do was clear. Picking up the field telephone next to the one he had just hung up, Meybert called up the troops who were no doubt on standby.
"It's Meybert. You can hear me, right, Lieutenant Tospan?"
"Of course," came the affirmative. Thankfully, the telephone line hadn't been cut. "They've shown their true colors, huh?"
"Right, Lieutenant Tospan. This is what happens when our friends are too used to peace."
Entirely too predictable, thought Meybert with a slight smirk, looking toward the water with sober eyes. It was hard to imagine them succeeding— and simple to imagine a reason they would fail.
He didn't even have to look through his binoculars.
The other garrison troops had reacted far too late. From the way they finally got moving after their initial panic, all he could say was that they had discipline problems.
"We're moving awfully slow." "Can't be helped."
"Are you sure? At this rate, they'll reach the dock and submarine pen." "Your fears are well-founded, but we're not HQ. It's not our job." "Shall we go on a field trip to observe?"
"While that sounds like fun, no. Thankfully, there's no lack of ammo. Let's just do what we can."
Being able to fire without a care is always something to be happy about. Compared to his days of keeping a close count of expended shells and watching the remaining balance uneasily as they fought the Federation Army
day in and day out, this was much less stressful.