Codegease: Air and Land Warfare 1946

……

Surrounded by guards, several generals stood on a messy platform next to the Brandenburg Gate, gazing eastward. A long, dark column of soldiers was approaching the gateposts, looking exactly like a large, soft mass of tortoise jelly, wriggling toward them—only the leading yellowish-brown and grayish-green markings indicated the uniforms of the Soviet soldiers.

"Are those enemy soldiers captured, lieutenant colonel? There seem to be too few of them," General Windsor muttered.

"Uh, yes...it seems that according to the soldiers' reports, there are indeed some enemy soldiers who have surrendered..."

"So, Lieutenant Colonel, has the count of captured soldiers and civilians been completed?"

“Of course, Your Excellency.” Eddie Hill opened the folder. “According to incomplete statistics, we have captured about 120 to 140 Soviet soldiers, which is indeed a small number compared to their massive offensive. What we have captured even more are civilians in the suburbs of Berlin and in the villages and towns further to the east. The current figure is over six thousand, and this number is still rising at a very high rate.”

"At least six thousand? Ha!" The general was delighted. "I was really worried whether the refugee camps in District 11 would have enough to hold all these animals that would be sent to do hard labor in the future."

“Well, General, please be careful.” Eddie Hill pouted. “Most of the soldiers reported that among the civilians they captured, most were women, children, and the elderly. As for the men of middle age, while there were some, many of them had quite serious injuries…”

"This..." The general's smile vanished instantly. "This is what Nazi Germany does in a war?"

……

As everyone was discussing this, the procession escorting the Soviet soldiers gradually came into view.

It was easy to see that these captured soldiers had one thing in common—not that they were wearing similar uniforms, but rather, judging from their gait and the "decorations" they wore, they were either staggering, had bandages wrapped around their faces with congealed blood, or were simply carried on boards by Britannian soldiers.

That's right! Almost all of them were wounded soldiers! The few who were not seriously injured looked like very young boys, without the sacred and inviolable faces of the wounded soldiers, or rather, the wounded and captured veterans.

"Hurry up, hurry up." On one side of the group, a black-clad sergeant was maintaining discipline, but what was particularly striking was that he was wearing a gas mask and his clothes were very unkempt, making him look like a homeless vagrant who had picked up a piece of clothing to wear.

"Hey! Soldier! Come here!" Lieutenant General Wood called him over. As he walked over, everyone could see that his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his somewhat weathered body.

"How did you manage to capture these enemies that night...?"

"Ah." The soldier was about to answer, but his shoulders slumped and he let out a long sigh.

"how?"

"It's nothing, sir. I just feel... life is still quite beautiful..."

"What kind of poetry are you reciting to me, soldier! Watch your attitude!"

"Sir... last night we fought to the death with these enemy infantrymen in this city, and we're almost driven crazy by them..." The soldier's voice was somewhat sinister.

"Under the cover of KMFs and tanks, you can't even handle these enemies? What are you good for?!"

"No... Your Excellency, you must understand that some nooks and crannies cannot be dealt with by heavy firepower. We infantrymen have to crawl through tunnels, and even engage in hand-to-hand combat with enemy infantry. So, this night, we've practically met our maker..."

As he spoke, the soldier suddenly threw his gun on the ground, took off his helmet and gas mask, and took off his shirt, revealing his scarred face and the blood-red bandages wrapped around his torso to everyone, like a rotten tree trunk!

"This is what the enemy did, sir." The soldier's voice sounded weak, but more like it was filled with terror. "We've been silently praying we'll never have to fight these guys hand-to-hand again. We're either beaten to death alive with rifle butts, fists, shovels, and knives, or we're so badly wounded we can't fight anymore. The three of us might not be able to beat one. I can still stand and talk to you now, but our company is really short-handed to maintain order, so I have to force myself to fight despite my illness..."

“Oh, Your Majesty…” Lieutenant General Wood shook his head and turned to Marendor, saying, “Major General, what kind of enemy have you been fighting these days? You’ve kept it a secret for so long, and nobody knew the enemy had such strength!”

“Uh, I…” Marendo frowned, wanting to say something, but held back.

……

After the guards who were escorting the soldiers left, it was time to take a good look at the German civilians.

The procession was tightly packed together by black-clad soldiers on both sides. The civilians, dressed in dirty, tattered clothes, were crammed onto this not-so-wide Berlin street. Some people tightly protected their children, whispering words of comfort to them; others carried rough suitcases, from which various pieces of cloth dangled like turtle legs. The procession was filled with an atmosphere of bewilderment and despair, like ropes twisted around the tattered waistbands of every civilian.

"How tragic..." Duke Sassler couldn't help but take a deep breath to catch his breath. "If one day the people of the Imperial Capital, Pendraken, were to suffer such a calamity, it would be the most heartbreaking scene ever..."

"Also, Lieutenant Colonel, I noticed some men's clothing among these civilians...it looks a bit like..."

"Like military uniforms, is that right, Your Excellency?" Eddie Hill seemed to have guessed what the Duke wanted to ask. "Indeed, our investigation revealed that many of these Germans' clothes were military uniforms from before the end of the war, or clothes they had picked up from dead soldiers, because of limited resources and for warmth. Don't worry, they are not armed."

"Alright. But Lieutenant Colonel, could you arrange something for me? I need a camera."

"how?"

"Take a few more pictures of those Soviet soldiers being escorted; I have other uses for them."

After speaking, the Duke pursed his lips and looked towards the destination of these poor souls, following the still-advancing queue—the main portal standing not far west of the Brandenburg Gate. They would be sent to the prisoner-of-war administration and the dilapidated refugee camp, respectively.

……

Not long after, on the other side of the portal, in the Tokyo Concession of Area 11.

Lieutenant Colonel Caronville obtained several color photographs and showed them to the three men in front of him who were in a dark, damp room with him.

They wore white uniforms with blue stripes, just like the captured American soldiers, and a gold metal six-pointed star on their chests. However, their faces were quite different from the Yankees.

"Look, gentlemen," the lieutenant colonel greeted them in Russian, "as we advance triumphantly, more and more of your compatriots have surrendered to our iron cavalry. Since your capture, you have been unwilling, even resistant, to cooperate with us, and even during this time, you have shown very uncooperative behavior in the English lessons I have arranged for you."

"Didn't your country teach you that you should never try to challenge a soldier's belief in defending his country with sweet words?" the Soviet soldier sitting in the middle asked. "We've seen many photos, even some from the enemy, more photos than the one in this one, but these are just the memories of the enemy of our motherland before their death."

"The past is the past, Sergeant Androv." Karonville smiled as he read the name of the defiant man. "Your country may have encountered many enemies, and I don't know how strong they were, but you must understand that your motherland—ah, what an interesting word—is facing an enemy unlike any before. As for preparations for war, I would like to ask you, and all of you, and the millions of people in your country in the past, to prepare for the bloodshed in advance."

"So this photo..." The lieutenant colonel was just about to hand it to the patriarch, wanting him to examine it carefully.

"Pah!" Androv suddenly stuck out his tongue and spat out a spittle, which landed right where the photo and Caronville's fingers intersected.

"Are you done talking? Then it's my turn, pretty boy. I wonder if my spit just now was enough to stick your finger and the photo together." Da Shi grinned maliciously. "You're the one who should keep it and take the opportunity to examine it a few more times. Perhaps in the near future, when you approach a Soviet POW camp, you should use it to hold onto your beautiful dreams and reminisce about those 'victorious' days."

Caronville shrugged helplessly after hearing this, wiped the saliva off his hands, and turned to leave.

"A worthy opponent indeed. So why not consider submitting to us instead of resorting to war?"

Chapter 100, Section 155: A Shattered History, Pieced Memories (Part 1)

The Tokyo concession in the 11th ward was unusually busy, with traffic constantly converging and branching on the streets. Only in places where the sun did not shine could one enjoy a quiet place without car horns, crowds, or machines.

Then look at the military transport planes that always fly overhead, and if you can see them, you can also see the cargo ships docked in Tokyo Bay. Under the prosperous scene of Britannia, are there maggots hiding in the dark corners?

There were indeed dark corners, but not maggots.

"Come on, guys, it's lunchtime."

In a seemingly familiar old house, a somewhat worn table was covered with simple and plain food. Clark walked to a cabinet next to it, picked up a bottle of what looked like cheap red wine, and was about to start eating it.

“Let me handle this, sir.” Among the thugs who were taking their seats, a young girl stepped forward and took the tool from Clark’s hand. “This isn’t really your thing, haha.”

"Okay, thank you. The main problem is that I haven't adjusted to military life yet..."

Clark watched as the girl struggled with the wine bottle, then lightly patted his clothes and took his seat at the head of the table. He had changed into a suit, seemingly the hand-me-downs of the "drug addict" Mr. Davis had executed earlier. Although the suit looked somewhat old and even had some loose threads, Clark's discerning eye easily recognized the great value of this hand-stitched suit.

"Alright, brothers and sisters." He sat up straight, and after the girl poured wine into his and everyone else's glasses, he picked them up and raised them high. "In this short period of time, we have successfully sold our first batch of goods, and soon our capital will become more and more abundant."

"So, in order to make the wine in our glasses more profound, the tables and chairs in front of us more elegant and luxurious, and to give all the little things in this room a fresh new look, cheers!"

"cheers!"

Clark savored the wine, which wasn't particularly flavorful, and quietly watched the young people in the room, some drinking it down in one gulp with gusto, others frowning as they drank, their emotions written all over their faces.

After submitting to him, these thugs seemed to have changed somewhat in just a few days: some of them changed out of their flashy tattered leather jackets and put on ordinary casual clothes, and they also removed their nose rings and earrings. As for their thuggishness, it was not completely eradicated, but at least it was somewhat toned down.

Even so, it will still take some time to truly bring them back to their gangster-like, aloof manner.

"Come on, let's eat."

Everyone picked up their cutlery. Clark had a knife, fork, and spoon, and some others had the same, but some used something that looked like chopsticks—before joining the army, he had been to Chinatown in his hometown and had seen this kind of wooden cutlery in Chinese restaurants, which always gave the Yankees, who were used to using knives and forks, a headache.

"How strange, why are there things from Eastern civilization here?"

As Clark chewed his food, he pondered, not even realizing that the delicious treat he was chewing was luncheon meat, the "swill bomb" that had traumatized him as an American soldier over the past year, now unexpectedly delicious after being cooked.

After chewing a few times, clearing away all the doubts on his face, he lowered his head slightly, buried his face, and quietly observed these guys he had only known for a few days, watching their "human interactions"—two girls at the next table were eating quietly and chatting in soft voices; across from a lone young man, a few rough men in the distance had already finished their wine and brought out their fill of alcoholic beverages, their faces flushed with a slightly unrestrained air.

How to put it? Clark felt that all of this was like a family dinner at home, peaceful and calm, except that the etiquette and rules of dining were obviously not very nice; and it was also like a mealtime in the mess hall of a military camp, where soldiers joked, told dirty jokes, and wiped the sweat dripping from their faces, but lacked the sense of crisis that they might not have another meal and could die at any moment.

Yes, sitting in this house in another world, I always felt something was off, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong.

Just then, two chatty thugs completely interrupted Clark's train of thought as he ate...

……

"Hey! Sean! That girl we met up with last night, do you have a crush on her?"

"Fuck your mother! So short, how could I possibly like someone like that?"

"Get lost! You yourself said you're a lolicon! I even got her story for you."

"What what what? Get out of here!"

"Oh? Come on! Please guess! Tell me which state his home is in in America?"

"Could it be that he lives in the same place as my uncle...?"

"Wait a moment!--"

The room suddenly fell silent at Clark's somewhat serious words; everyone even stopped talking and looked at their leader as if he was about to say something.

“America…” he repeated the word silently.

"Bab, you just told Sean that he and that girl both live in America?"

“Yes, yes, boss.” Babu was a little frightened. “They all have relatives in Britannia, with properties and such.”

“Britania…British…” Clark began to process it again.

"What's wrong, boss? You didn't sneak in from the mainland, did you?"

"NONONONO!" He suddenly raised his chin and smiled somewhat awkwardly. "Come on, Babu, let me see if you were drunk just now! Tell me, this place is called Area 11, right?"

"Huh? It can't be fake, boss?" Babu laughed, leading the roomful of people in a room. "Area 11 of the Britannian Empire, and this phrase appears on little kids' diapers? Did you really think I was drunk?"

"Okay, then tell me, are there any other names for Area 11?"

"Hey? Boss, this is interesting." Babu grinned again. "Area 11, huh? Oh, that name has a lot of historical flavor, Japan!"

"Sure?!"

“Oh, I’m sure! Boss! You don’t believe me? Ask Yamashita!” he said, pointing to one of the Asian men holding chopsticks. “I don’t know if he’s a little bothered by this, but anyway, he doesn’t like to call himself an honorary Britannian or an Area 11 person in private. He just says he’s Japanese, hahahahahaha…”

"Alright, alright, stop talking. You're really drunk. You're going to upset the people down there again..." Sean quietly slapped Babu to shut him up.

"Nonsense! Everyone says drunk people talk nonsense, but does Babu look like he's spouting nonsense?" Clark suddenly burst into laughter. "Alright! No matter what he does down there, no matter who you have a grudge against, Babu, listen up! At this table, no one is allowed to harm their own people, understand?"

"Uh, got it, boss!"

"Come on! One last drink! To our 'Bald Eagle' gang! Cheers!"

……

That evening, a new batch of raw materials for making drugs had just arrived, and Clark went out alone.

"Where are you going, boss?"

"The sea breeze in Area 11 is quite pleasant; I'm going to go for a walk and enjoy it."

He walked alone on the cold street, looked around at the bright street scene, and imagined the scenery of his hometown.

When I was a child, after my dad finished his work at the factory, he would always take a little time to go for a walk with me.

As he grew older, the time the father and son spent walking together became shorter and shorter.

Because this place feels so much like my hometown, so much like that international metropolis called Chicago…

But Clark had no time for sentimentality. His coat pocket was stuffed with a wad of worldly money, a few pens, and a rather thick notebook. He'd had these things tucked inside for quite some time because he had something very important to do.

"Hmm, this is about it." Before him was his destination, a large bookstore that was still open.

Once inside, Clark headed straight for the history and geography/humanities section, like a policeman raiding a casino, pulling out one book after another his chosen paper criminals from the shelves and holding them in his arms. One wasn't enough, so he grabbed another, then two or three, then four or six, each book thicker than the last, bearing all sorts of English titles and cover illustrations of varying styles—some were ordinary reading material, while others were serious historical records.

There were too many books, so Clark had to put them on a table to the side. Next to him was a book lover who was holding a book, looking at a laptop, and had even finished his drink. He was terrified by Clark's appearance.

"Hey! Hiccup... Dude, why are you doing this? Are you borrowing a book or hiccup... stealing it...?"

“You’re drunk, buddy. I didn’t take much at all.” Clark chuckled and leaned closer, pointing to something he didn’t recognize in front of the drunkard. “Come on, test me. Tell me what this is called.”

"Hey! You bald computer! Get out of here!"

"Good, good... Hmm, computers, these things are interesting." He chuckled to himself.

Clark put the books into a bag he had brought with him, then carried the heavy bag in both hands to the cashier to pay.

"Welcome, sir, you..." The cashier was taken aback. "You... your table has several broken legs..."

“Never mind that, sis.” Clark chuckled and pulled out the money. “I can do whatever I want.”

"Oh...oh okay, so the total is..."

Chapter 101, Section 156: A Shattered History, Pieced Memories (Part 2)