Chapter - III (part 2)

OCTOBER 5, UNIFIED YEAR 1926, AFTERNOON, IMPERIAL ARMY BASE

"Colonel, the battalion's return is complete. We've also sent the injured to the rear and made arrangements for the articles of the deceased."

People who were fine this morning are gone by dinner.

Major Weiss makes his report in an even voice, and Tanya responds calmly, "…It really is a horrible loss."

A full complement is forty-eight. We lost ten people. And not just ten people. They're the kind you would never treat as disposable, because they're difficult to replace— they're elites. They were elites.

They were the cream of the aerial mage crop. Setting aside their coaching ability and basing it on their skills alone, my subordinates could be employed tomorrow as

aggressors in the instructor unit, they're so capable.

Objectively speaking, my subordinates have the most impressive combat experience in the Empire.

"We essentially lost a company. That's enough to say we were partially destroyed."

They may have escaped death, but the severely injured still had to be counted as out of commission. That means a company's worth of our invaluable personnel has dropped out—a company's worth of truly matchless elites.

Just the thought of reorganizing and replenishing our numbers has me at wit's end. Replace nearly a quarter of my highly trained unit with newbies?

It's going to be hard to cooperate for a while, even if we try.

Julius Caesar hated replenishing units with new recruits and made whole new armies instead; he was right. No, I'm sure the nugget of historical knowledge that crossed my mind just now… was escapism.

"…Maybe I was arrogant. Maybe I thought… that if it was my—the battalion I trained, that if it was the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion, that amid any enemies…"

"It's not your fault, Colonel. We… took them too lightly, too. We thought if anyone could take them, we could…"

"No, Major Weiss."

The one in charge exists to take responsibility. Of course, if it's not my fault, then… I need to find the offending son of a bitch and make them pay.

But who believed the numbskulls in Intelligence? Pretty sure that was me.

Believing those freeloaders, in other words, was my mistake. It's undeniable that I was provided faulty intel. But that's only something to take into consideration. It's not a reason to exempt me.

These putzes who flee responsibility are utterly contemptuous of the fundamental modern principle of trust…

I took action according to my own judgment. So ultimately, it's my responsibility. I'd rather be deemed inept than a despicable degenerate.

"Laugh at me. Scoff. It was my mistake."

"It was the army's orders… It wasn't your fault."

"It was a mistake to try a hit-and-run with a unit that was worn out from a long- distance flight. We had been in the air for hours, and then in that exhausted state, we plunged into combat—numerically disadvantaged, at that. I'm sure any manual would tell us to avoid all that."

I know I'll be ridiculed as a classic fool. "It's not as if we accomplished nothing." "Major Weiss, it's as good as nothing."

"But we carried out the minimum requirements of the mission. We slowed them down! In the photos we took before we left, you can definitely see that we hit the engine."

I'm grateful to have someone with common sense like Weiss being kind to me.

But though I appreciate how considerate he is… we need to look at things objectively not subjectively.

Did I hang in there? Did I try hard? Did I do my best? So what?

The actions themselves have no meaning. Intentions don't matter.

Good faith, ill will—you can save your subjective truths for the judge in court. It's the results.

Results: Without them… it's all for nothing.

This is an issue between my good sense and how I should be. As a modern, rational,

free individual, for me, it's an issue of conscience, goodwill, and ego.

This is garbage. Steeping in self-satisfaction and then licking your wounds is proof of ineptitude.

"…And the report that our submarines did a marvelous job stopping the ship?" The response to my query is silence.

In reply to my vice commander's sorrowful speechlessness, I slowly ask the same question again. What I want to know is the result.

"Well, Major Weiss?"

"So…" He frowns, having difficulty answering. At this point, that's plenty. I can imagine the results with unbearable ease.

Even interpreting them through wishful thinking, it's going to be bad.

"Fine. Then Lieutenant Serebryakov, Lieutenant Grantz, I'll ask you. Did you hear that we sank the ship?"

I ask just to be sure, but I'm met with their blunt silence.

They politely feign hearing issues and look away to escape the answer. There's no way it's good news.

"So that's that, then. Our actions didn't produce results."

A half-baked attempt at consolation isn't going to do anything. It's so bad Tanya wishes she could be anywhere but here.

The truth is the truth. I have to accept it.

"I don't want to… admit that it was all for nothing, but…" She speaks dispassionately— as dispassionately as she can. "Our unit has suffered serious casualties. And after all that, the results didn't follow. The submarines didn't sink the ship."

These words are necessary in order to accept the truth.

I lost veterans of the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion. It wasn't my preference to choose war nuts. But they were essential talent for executing my duty—for waging war. They were battle-crazed golden eggs who, after passing a thorough screening, experienced all of the Empire's main lines and were forged in combat.

"I put so much into them, and now my brothers-in-arms are gone. They're gone." They were veterans, the rarest breed during wartime.

And they, of all people…

After wearing themselves out on a lengthy flight, they were forced into combat with an enemy whose numbers far surpassed ours, and I lost nearly a company.

"I feel adrift. I keep thinking, If there's anyone to do it with, it's them, so… or If they're on the job, then…"

This is a reliable group who knows their jobs inside and out, has been well trained, and above all, understands my intentions immediately. With part of that group ripped away from me, I can't possibly stay composed.

Business is all about how efficiently you can use the number of personnel at your disposal. Any action that decreases your number of optimized, most useful people is… the worst. Whether it was deliberate or an error, it mustn't be overlooked.

"I'm going to make those bastards in Intelligence and those bastards in our enemy countries pay for this." At this moment, Lieutenant Colonel Tanya von Degurechaff is furious. With her little fists clenched and her eyes burning with rage, she quietly voices her determination. "…My men died!"

She looks at the battlefield cross erected in the ruins and grieves.

Even though she ordered the battalion to leave them, no one could forsake the fallen, and they carried them back. She'll have to send their personal effects and letters to the bereaved families.

"I have to write those letters…!"

She puts out her hand. And what she reaches for is the helmet set on top of the gun to form the battlefield cross. It's warped, dented, and has a hole in it. There was no

repairing a bullet wound to the head.

"Sorry, troops, I guess I've been going around in circles a bit. We need to get back to our mission."

"Colonel?"

"May their souls be with us. My fellow soldiers, let us wish for the divine protection of the fatherland—but only after we're gone." She quietly hints at her grudge.

Tanya von Degurechaff doesn't believe in gods.

As long as that multifarious monster Being X is allowed to go free, a holy being can't possibly exist in this world.

To Tanya, that's practically axiomatic.

Therefore, thinking logically, trust should be placed in people. Believe in the power of people, and if everything falls apart, then you can try throwing the problem at God or whomever.

If you get saved, great. If not, you would be right, so that's better than the alternative. Either way, you lose nothing.

"Asking God for help just isn't our style!" "Exactly, Weiss."

"So shall we sing an old song?"

"Yeah, that's a good idea." Tanya smiles. "'We Had a Comrade,' troops. Your thick, tone- deaf voices will do, so let's sing it for them."

In hoarse, trembling voices, the soldiers sing a sorrowful song.

When she feels it's time, Tanya wails along. "You went through a forest of swords and hails of bullets, comrades. Rest in peace. Forgive us, for we cannot hold your hands. You remain in our memories. Glory to you, comrades."

Pistols drawn. Blanks fired into the sky. A three-volley salute. Then Tanya loads a

single live bullet and aims it at the White Wings Grand Iron Cross.

Stupid sectionalism, everyone holding one another back. What a damn pain it is to work with Intelligence!